The morning sun streamed through the bay window of the dining hall, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Jaerius sat at the head of the polished oak table, a place he had never dared to occupy before. He was eating a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon with a calm, deliberate focus, his movements economical and sure. The borrowed shirt from his uncle's closet strained across his newly broad shoulders and chest, the fabric tight over the sculpted muscle beneath. His long, dark hair was tied back in a loose knot, revealing a face that had lost all its boyish softness, replaced by sharp, masculine planes and a chillingly direct gaze.
The sounds of groaning and stumbling came from the hallway. Borin and Marcus shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and pale, clutching their throbbing heads. They gulped water directly from the tap, their movements sluggish and pathetic.
It was then that Tara entered. She wore a silk robe, tied loosely at the waist, and there was a flush to her cheeks and a luminous, almost girlish light in her eyes that had been absent for decades. She moved with a new, fluid grace, a subtle sway in her hips that spoke of a deep, physical satisfaction. Without a hint of her usual disdain, she glided into the dining room and slid into the chair right beside Jaerius, her knee brushing against his thigh under the table. She smiled at him, a genuine, warm smile that was utterly alien on her face.
Borin blinked, wiping water from his chin. Marcus stared, his hungover brain struggling to process the scene.
"What the hell is this?" Borin grumbled, his voice gravelly. "Tara? Why are you sitting with… him?"
Marcus, fueled by residual alcohol and a lifetime of bullying entitlement, strode over. "Get away from my mother, you freak," he snarled, reaching out and grabbing a handful of Jaerius's long, dark hair.
Jaerius didn't flinch. He didn't even stop chewing. He simply continued to eat his eggs, as if a fly had landed on him.
Marcus yanked, expecting to jerk the scrawny boy out of his chair. Nothing happened. It was like trying to pull up a tree by its leaves. He pulled harder, his face reddening with the strain. Jaerius remained immovable, a statue of casual indifference.
"Marcus, stop it! Leave him alone!" Tara said, her voice firm, laced with a protective edge that made both her husband and son gape.
"Shut up, Mom!" Marcus yelled, turning his fury on her. "What's wrong with you? Look at him! When the fuck did he get so… big? And all this hair?"
That's when Jaerius decided he was finished with his breakfast. He placed his fork down with a soft, precise click. He stood, unfolding to his full, impressive height, now a clear two inches taller than Marcus. He turned, and his eyes, cold and flecked with gold, locked onto his cousin's.
"You touched me," Jaerius said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
Before Marcus could form a retort, Jaerius's hand shot out, faster than a snake strike, and seized him by the collar of his t-shirt. With terrifying ease, he hauled the larger, muscular man onto his toes.
Then the slapping began.
It wasn't the wild, frantic swinging of a brawl. It was methodical, judicial punishment. SMACK! His open palm connected with Marcus's left cheek with a sound like a gunshot, snapping his head to the side. SMACK! The right cheek. Back and forth. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! There was no rage in Jaerius's expression, only a cold, detached focus. He was an artist, and Marcus's face was his canvas, being painted a brutal, blotchy red. Marcus whimpered, his eyes watering, his bravado utterly shattered. He was a child being disciplined by an angry god.
"Jaerius, that's enough, please," Tara pleaded, her voice trembling not with fear for her son, but with a strange, excited anxiety.
Jaerius stopped instantly, his hand hovering in the air. He turned his head slowly and looked at Tara, his gaze penetrating.
"I'll stop," he said, his voice dropping to an intimate, conspiratorial tone that silenced the room. "But only if you give me what I want. Right here. Right now. In front of them. You spread your legs for me on this table, and I'll let your pathetic boy live. Do we have an understanding?"
Borin sputtered, his face purpling. "How dare you! Tara, I forbid—"
But Tara wasn't looking at her husband. Her eyes were locked on Jaerius, wide and dark with a mixture of shock and a deep, undeniable thrill. The memory of the night before, of being utterly dominated and used, flooded back with intoxicating force. Her husband's outrage was a distant, meaningless noise. She bit her lower lip, and a slow, wicked smile spread across her face.
"Yes," she breathed, her voice husky. "Yes, Jaerius."
A strangled sound came from Borin. A whimper escaped from Marcus, still held by his collar.
With a flick of his will, Jaerius sent Marcus stumbling back into his father, the two of them collapsing into a heap against the kitchen doorway. He never broke eye contact with Tara as he began to undress. He pulled the tight t-shirt over his head, revealing the bronzed, powerfully built torso that seemed to suck the air from the room. He unbuttoned his jeans, shoved them down his hips, and kicked them away, standing fully naked and magnificently erect in the streaming morning light.
Tara stood, her hands trembling as she untied the belt of her robe. It fell open, then slipped from her shoulders to pool on the floor. She was naked beneath, her body still marked with the faint red impressions of his grip from the night before. She hoisted herself up onto the polished surface of the dining table, scattering the breakfast dishes, and lay back, opening her legs for him in a gesture of complete and total submission.
Jaerius moved between her thighs, his hard cock pressing against her entrance. He didn't hesitate. He drove into her with a single, deep thrust that made her cry out, a sharp, pleasure-pained sound that echoed in the silent house.
And as he began to move over her, establishing a slow, powerful, possessive rhythm, something astonishing happened. Borin and Marcus, from their heap on the floor, did not leap to her defense. They did not roar in anger. They watched, transfixed. Borin's jaw was slack, his eyes wide. A distinct bulge tented the front of his pajama pants. Marcus, nursing his stinging, reddened face, was similarly affected, his own arousal evident. The humiliation, the degradation, the sheer violation of witnessing the matriarch of their family being publicly taken by the boy they had tormented… it was the most potent aphrodisiac they had ever known. They were cucks, pure and simple, and the sight of Tara's ecstatic, writhing body and Jaerius's powerful, driving form was their deepest, most secret fantasy made devastatingly real.
Tara's moans grew louder, more abandoned. "Oh, gods! Yes! Right there! Don't stop!"
It was at this precise moment, as the room filled with the sounds of rough, passionate fucking and the silent, shameful arousal of the two spectators, that the front window shimmered. A parchment scroll, sealed with crimson wax imprinted with a complex, arcane symbol, phased through the solid glass as if it were mist. It flew with unerring accuracy across the hall, dodging the chandelier, and slapped neatly into Jaerius's waiting, outstretched palm, without him even breaking his rhythm.