The celebration continued.
It pulsed like a massive heart, beating with the deep drums and the shrill flutes that pierced the air. Scarlet lanterns hung from the arches, diffusing a shifting, almost liquid light that reflected on the black marble and the braze-veined columns. Wine flowed without pause, dark and thick, into cups that servants passed from hand to hand. The sll of musk, sweat, and crushed fruit already saturated my lungs.
At the center, there was no longer any distinction between dance and lust. The demonesses weren’t pretending: their bodies were the offering. So had dropped every veil, and their breasts bounced with each step, heavy, gleaming with oil. Their nipples pointed straight upward, swollen, hard, as if already demanding mouths. They arched their backs, hands in their hair, and their asses lifted then fell with a wet slap against their thighs. With each twist, their pussy appeared, bare, dripping from the strain of the dance and the thrill of feeling dozens of gazes hooked on their movents. Torchlight made that wetness glisten, as if even their desire itself had beco spectacle.
Others had kept a few veils, but that was even worse. The sheer fabric clung to their skin, revealing more than it concealed. The curves of their asses were outlined clearly, their intimate lips marked by the tension of the cloth, so visible it beca indecent. When they spun on themselves, the panels lifted, and everything was revealed: the sway of their butts, the involuntary spread of their thighs, the wet gleam between their legs. So did it on purpose, squatting down slowly, knees spread to let the sweat trail along their sex, then rising again in a ripple of their belly that tore sighs from the audience.
The whispers around left no doubt:
— "Look at her ass, it begs for a hand."— "Her pussy’s dripping, do you see it?"— "That one’s just waiting for an order to be taken in front of everyone."
I swallowed hard. This wasn’t my world, not my codes, but I wasn’t blind. These demonesses weren’t just dancing. They were offering themselves, completely. And the won watching them — nobles or courtesans — chose their favorites the way one picks a rare piece at a market. The whole hall vibrated with this logic: show, designate, take.
, the only man there, I felt like every drop of sweat on their breasts, every shiver of their wet pussy, was aid at . As if this millennial ritual, codified for these won, suddenly took as a witness.
Fuck. Their lust was becoming politics. And I was caught in it.
But it wasn’t just a spectacle. It was a custom. A well-oiled social chanism. The won of the palace — nobles, rich heiresses, war captains — chose among the dancers the ones they would take for the night. It all happened in low voices, sotis in bursts of laughter, sotis with a simple hand gesture. And imdiately, the chosen dancer would kneel, then vanish into the shadows of the alcoves, guided by the hand of her new mistress.
I watched them do it. It was strange. Slightly troubling, yes, but above all revealing.
These demonesses didn’t need to assert themselves with brute strength: they exercised their power in choosing, in the privilege of designating who would spend the night under their caresses. A form of soft but relentless domination, nothing trivial about it. Here, desire was codified, ritualized. One didn’t take: one selected. One displayed social position by choosing the most beautiful, the most supple, the most coveted.
Murmurs rolled around :
— "Look, the matriarch of the Arches clan took two dancers at once..."— "The Golden One has a taste for marked bodies, see? She only takes those with tattoos."— "Velithra, she always chooses the palest ones. As if searching for a reflection of herself."
I studied this chanic, and part of wondered why it fascinated so much. Maybe because I was the intruder, the only man in this hall saturated with feminine desire. Maybe also because I felt, behind every choice, every laugh, every embrace drawn in the shadows, sothing more than simple lust.
It was a hierarchy expressing itself. A rivalry masked in pleasure.
I took a sip of wine. It was too thick, almost tallic, and its taste lingered on my palate longer than I wanted.
Around , the dances resud. The marble vibrated to the rhythm of the drums, and the veils spun like white flas around the dancers’ hips.
I knew this wasn’t just a celebration. It was a demonstration of power.
Then Sahryne rose first. Her silhouette imposed itself in the crowd like a coal bursting into fla, and I imdiately felt the gazes converge on her. Her voice rolled, deep and warm, covering the music for an instant.
— "The warmth of bodies is worth more than the coldness of intrigues," she declared, amused.
Sahryne raised her cup, red wine dripping down her fingers, and with a broad gesture she pointed to a dark-skinned dancer who had just spun on herself. Her wide hips still rolled to the rhythm of the drums, and at each step her ass bounced, heavy, offered. Sweat glead between her thighs, already marking the wet slit that the sheer veils could no longer hide.
Sahryne didn’t just choose. She beckoned the dancer forward, and when the young woman stood before her, head bowed, Sahryne set her cup aside. Her fingers first traced up the bare shoulder, slid down the extended arm, then in one movent descended along her flank until they reached the heat between her thighs.
The dancer jolted, her breath breaking. Her eyes widened, and already her cheeks flushed with burning red. The veil clinging to her skin offered no resistance: Sahryne’s hand slipped under it naturally, parting the fabric as if it had never existed. Her fingers instantly found the young woman’s wet pussy, soaked with sweat and desire she had tried to hide.
A faint moan rose from her throat, muffled, but everyone heard it. The music, the drums, the laughter couldn’t cover that fragile, almost guilty sound.
Sahryne leaned in then, her body pressing against the dancer’s, and she captured her lips in a frank kiss, too direct to be just a caress. The Golden One’s tongue claid hers without delay, and the dancer moaned again, breath trembling, her legs instinctively tightening around the hand that touched her.
I saw her blush, her eyelids fluttering, her body swaying between sha and rapture. But Sahryne kept the pace, her mouth mastering hers, her fingers caressing without pause the wet slit that now glistened brighter under the lanterns.
Around us, the murmurs swelled again.
— "Always the desert’s heat... she never leaves anything untouched."— "Even when choosing, she conquers."— "She shows everyone that her pleasure is power."
I clenched my jaw. This was no longer a simple ritual choice. It was a demonstration. A way for Sahryne to remind the hall — and especially — that here, nothing was innocent: even intimacy was political, and every moan torn was a displayed victory.
Whispers darted through the hall.
— "Always the bodies marked by the sun..."— "She wants her choices to be seen as extensions of herself."
I caught myself smiling inwardly. Yes. That was exactly it. Her gifts, her jabs, even her caresses were never free. Every gesture from Sahryne was a speech.
Velithra rose without a word. The Ice-Cold One didn’t need to speak. Her re stride silenced laughter, even the drums seed to slow. Her white dress slid over the marble like a trail of snow, and her silver hair spilled over her shoulders in a cascade, reflecting the red lanterns like shards of ice.
She stopped before a dancer who looked tiny in comparison. Pale skin, almost translucent, eyes hesitant like an animal unsure whether to flee or submit to touch. A discreet, fragile beauty... but it was precisely toward her that Velithra reached out her hand.
Her slender fingers seized the young woman’s chin and lifted it. The gesture wasn’t tender: it was a cutting softness, leaving no escape. The dancer blushed instantly, her lips trembling with a breath she couldn’t hold back.
Velithra lowered her face slightly, close enough for their breaths to mingle. Her lips brushed the dancer’s, then kissed her. Not a violent kiss like Sahryne’s, no. A slow kiss, cold, but so deep the young woman shuddered violently, her knees nearly buckling under the restrained force.
And Velithra’s hand didn’t stay still. While her lips claid the dancer’s, her fingers slid unhesitatingly down her throat, then onto her small chest. She pinched a hardened nipple through the damp veil, and the dancer moaned, surprised at her own voice. Velithra continued her descent, slow, relentless, until she reached the lower belly.
A murmur swept the crowd as her hand slipped between the dancer’s frail thighs. The veil was re formality: her fingers slipped in, and in one move they found the already dripping pussy. The young woman gasped, her back arching, her trembling hands seeking support on Velithra’s icy hips.
She didn’t resist. She couldn’t. Velithra held her chin with the other hand, forcing her gaze to remain locked in her steel eyes, while her fingers explored without pause the wet intimacy. The dancer moaned against her mouth, red with sha, but unable to close her thighs.
I saw her face burning, her thighs shivering, her lips reddened as they sought air. Velithra, she didn’t flinch. Her expression remained frozen, impassive, as if every sigh she drew out was just more proof that her will reigned down to others’ marrow.
When at last she broke the kiss, she slowly withdrew her hand, her fingers glistening with the wetness she had just stolen. She watched them a second, then brought them to her lips, brushing them with her tongue as if to taste.
The dancer remained standing as best she could, cheeks flushed, breath ragged, thighs still trembling.
Around, murmurs rose again, hushed but eager:
— "She never chooses by chance..."— "Even in pleasure, she dominates."— "She makes a caress into a command."
I felt my throat dry. This wasn’t just an embrace, it was a demonstration. Velithra had just reminded everyone that even in voluptuousness, her authority was absolute.
I then understood what this ritual truly said: it wasn’t so much the choice of bodies as the affirmation of an identity. Sahryne laughed to defy, Velithra imposed to dominate. And I watched them, a willing prisoner of this silent duel.
Behind them, other nobles imitated their gestures, but without the sa intensity. So designated two dancers at once, others let themselves be surrounded by three young won with oiled skin. Laughter grew louder, more wine was drunk, and the hall slowly turned into an exclusive harem where everything, even desire, beca hierarchy.
Sahryne finally detached herself from the crowd. She was still laughing, that deep, warm laugh that rolled like distant thunder, and yet every step of hers carried a weight that made heads turn. The golden bracelets chid at her ankles, the sandy silk slid over her wide hips, and I felt the entire hall follow her with their eyes as she cut through the crowd to co toward .
She needed no permission. The Golden One simply sat by my side, as if my place had always been hers. Her scent of musk and resin seized my throat, heavy, intoxicating, and I understood that even her sll was a weapon.
She turned toward , her golden eyes narrowed with a mocking smile.— "So? None tempt you? Perhaps you prefer the heat of the desert..."
Her hand rested on my arm. Light at first, almost companionable, then it slowly slid toward my chest, tracing a line that forced to hold my breath. Her whole body told : I know what you ca here to seek, and it isn’t only alliances.
I let her do it for a mont, my thoughts colliding. The hall behind her still buzzed with laughter, drums, whispers. But I was locked in this bubble, in this contact, in this smile. I knew what she wanted: to test my limits, expose , force to define myself.
I shook my head, more for myself than for her.— "Tonight, I’ll pass."
My voice ca out firm, polite but without appeal. I think I needed to hear that sentence myself in order not to give in.— "I have sothing more important to do."
A silence slipped between us, barely a second. I expected to see her smile harden, to feel her hand retreat with that contempt so many won here wielded like a blade. But no. Her eyes glimred with a different spark, sharper, almost curious.
She did pull her hand back, yes, but laughing. A laugh that no longer truly mocked, a laugh that said: You’re not like the others.
— "Interesting..." she whispered, her tone lower. "That’s a change from all those males who just open their mouths when a fruit is thrown at them."
Her laugh faded, but her eyes stayed fixed on , as if she had seen a crack she wanted to explore. I then understood that in her eyes, I was no longer just the intruding man at this banquet. I had beco an enigma.
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