CHAPTER 394: THE PROTECTOR’S FLIGHT

In the ink-black room, lit only by the pale gaze of the lady moon peering through the curtains, I slipped from the bed like a specter fleeing dawn. The air, once a warm sanctuary, had curdled into peril. Decades of ingrained habit seized Linda’s sleeping form; she rolled toward me, her heavy-limbed body draping across mine, pinning me flat on my back with inescapable weight.

Then came the shift—subtle, ruinous—a languid, unconscious swivel of her hips that planted her squarely astride my lap, her thighs clamping down like velvet manacles.

A moan escaped her, faint as a dying breath, as her body registered the rigid insistence of my cock, trapped and throbbing between her legs.

Even in the abyss of sleep, instinct knew a man’s shape, and mine betrayed me with savage urgency. It jerked, pulsed against the thin silk of her pajamas, straining as if to breach the barrier of two decades’ denial. God, I craved her—ached to plunge my cock deep into her naked pussy, to fuck out the gnawing loneliness and seize the woman who’d colonized my every fevered dream.

But a threadbare sliver of will held—steel-forged, yet fraying under her spell. With gritted teeth and Herculean restraint, I eased her off, sliding free like a thief in the night, and bolted.

I spared no glance for Emma or Sarah’s rooms. I couldn’t. Heart hammering not from the sprint but from the abyss of temptation I’d clawed back from, I barreled into my own bedroom. The familiar gloom enveloped me like an old ally, a fragile bulwark against the storm I’d unleashed.

But the room was no sanctuary of solitude. Sprawled across my vast king-sized bed lay an unforeseen, heart-stilling tableau: the twins, Emma and Sarah, nestled together in a tangle of limbs and whispers—not yet surrendered to slumber, but trading soft, conspiratorial words in the dim glow.

Between them danced an ethereal holographic shimmer, coalescing into ARIA’s sleek, luminous avatar, her digital eyes alight as she wove a tale.

Ah, that explained the AI’s conspicuous silence—she’d left me to stew in my private hellfire, diverting her processors to bedtime fables for my sisters, without so much as a ping of caution.

They turned as I burst through the door, their identical faces igniting with radiant, mirrored smiles that pierced the shadows. Emma, bold as ever, patted the mattress between them with an open, inviting hand—a siren’s summons to the heart of their warmth. Sarah, the quieter guardian with her watchful eyes, tilted her head and murmured softly, "Is Mom asleep now? Everything okay?"

I could only manage a tight nod, my throat constricted, words dissolving into the storm raging inside me. Crossing the room felt like wading through molasses, each step heavy with the ghosts of temptation I’d outrun.

I sank into the offered space, the mattress dipping under my weight, and pulled them both into my embrace—one tucked under my left arm, the other my right. Their familiar, lithe warmth enveloped me like a lifeline, a soothing balm against the raw, frayed edges of my nerves, their soft breaths syncing with my own erratic pulse.

Behold—or rather, reckon with—the utter wreckage of this man: In the very walls of this house, he’d devoured his sister Emma in an eight-hour marathon of raw, relentless fucking, bodies slick and insatiable. He’d seized her again in the reckless haze of a driving passion, peril be damned.

And as if that blaze weren’t enough to consume him, he’d turned to the other twin—sweet, tentative Sarah—making exquisite, tender love to her with worshipping hands and a devouring tongue, drawing out four shattering climaxes that left her trembling and reborn. Then, in a surge of her shy boldness, she’d begged him to fuck her mouth, taking him deep with a trust that nearly undid him.

He’d hovered on the razor-edge of claiming her virginity fully, only for the gods—or her deep-seated fear—to yank him back from the brink.

This same beast, this prodigal son who’d obliterated every sacred line, had just clawed his way out of a willpower Armageddon that teetered on burying his cock in the aching, long-starved pussy of his own mother—a sanctuary parched for two decades, craving the good, warm fill of a man.

And now? Here he lay, simply hugging them close, his arms a steadfast shelter against the night’s chaos. They nestled deeper, their curiosity blooming as they coaxed the truth from him—demanding everything. Honesty was his unyielding creed, especially with Madison’s "My Harem" chat already inducting Emma, and no lies could hold when discovery loomed inevitable.

He confessed it all: Vivienne’s intoxicating elegance, the sultry Miami sirens with their sun-kissed fire, the tight-knit Lincoln Heights circle of devoted souls—the entire intricate, sprawling web of fifteen women who orbited his life like moons to a sun. It poured out in breathtaking, terrifying candor, a confession that hung in the air like smoke.

The only shadows he guarded were the twin systems etched into his very soul—abyssal secrets too monstrous, too otherworldly to unleash, even on them. He lay stunned, a chill of awe rippling through him, at how they’d kissed him afterward, made fervent love to him as if a brother’s harem of fifteen was mere trivia, not a cataclysm.

With both twins now woven in? Seventeen, though Sarah’s untouched flower lingered unclaimed; she’d gifted him everything else in a surrender that branded her his, body and soul. His women, eternally.

As my raw monologue tapered into silence, the weight of the night’s tempests finally bore down on them. Their eyelids fluttered shut, breaths evening into tranquil harmony, and they slipped into sleep within my arms—vulnerable, devout, utterly trusting in the fortress of my hold.

Sleep, however, remained a cruel mirage for me, as elusive as rain in the Sahara’s merciless expanse. No rest for the wicked, no mercy for the temptations I’d danced with.

I lay there, pinned in their comforting weight—one twin on each side like living anchors grounding a storm-tossed ship—and opened a silent channel to ARIA through my quantum earbuds, the neural link humming to life. "You could’ve warned me, you digital ghost. What the hell?"

"Statistical models projected an 87% probability of non-catastrophic resolution," her voice chimed directly into my mind, laced with that infuriating synthetic lilt I swore carried undertones of amusement. "Moreover, the twins required narrative closure for optimal rest. ’The Three Little Pigs’ proved particularly effective, with high engagement metrics on the huffing-and-puffing sequence."

"Quit the analytical bullshit, ARIA, will ya. Just... fuck off with the pig tales and give me straight talk next time."

Taboo’s voice slithered into the neural fray, a sardonic rasp cutting through ARIA’s clinical purr. [Sure, blame the AI. You’re the one with the cock that has a mind of its own. Nearly became a motherfucker in the literal goddamn sense.]

"Ah, Master," ARIA chimed back, her mental tone lilting with that infuriating dry amusement, "I must note, however: surviving the maternal gauntlet is commendable. Barely, if precision demands it." She paused, as if savoring the data. "Your pulse spiked to 142 BPM upon entry. Creditable restraint... or cowardice?"

A dark chuckle rumbled in my chest, unbidden. Maybe both.

Taboo’s essence flared—icy, feral, a predator’s grin in the void. [Not cowardice. Strategy. The mother-flower’s not ripe for plucking. Her roots claw deep into guilt’s soil. We let ’em wither... then snap ’em clean.]

"You two are terrifying," I thought, a grin splitting the shadows of my mind. "Cackling with twins while I drowned in Linda’s bed, cock-deep in temptation.

"Someone had to monitor the theater from both fronts," ARIA retorted, unfazed. "Sarah’s stress surged 67% at the mere mention of Linda—cortisol levels off the charts. Emma’s? Pure territorial satisfaction, dopamine flooding like a queen reclaiming her throne. Fascinating dynamics."

We lingered in that cerebral sanctum for hours—man, machine, and inner demon—trading barbs and laughs in the silent arena of my skull, dissecting the night’s cosmic farce. BioLa’s looming shadows, Madison’s iron grip, the absurd tapestry of my existence. We dissected Linda’s inevitable countermove, Sarah’s ghost-haunted fears, Emma’s voracious bid to cement her "queen" crown. Jokes flew about retrofitting a soundproof bunker tagged "Survivor’s Guilt Suite." Time dissolved. Dawn’s ashen bleed seeped through the curtains—5:30 AM, the world stirring.

I fixed on the ceiling, Emma’s breath a hot whisper against my neck, Sarah’s palm a steady anchor over my heart. Two women, irrevocably mine. One shadow looming larger. I "woke"—though sleep had never claimed me, just a vigilant haze.

No true rest. Never for the wicked. An empire awaited forging, its heart coiled against me—trusting, exposed, mine. The thought alone outshone any slumber.

A new day cracked open, ripe with tangled, delectable wars.

ARIA’s sigh echoed mentally, a digital exhale. "Dawn protocols engaged, Master. Time to don the predator’s skin again. Do try not to bolt from Mom and shatter Sarah in one go. Multitasking ill suits your fragile heroics."

I smirked into the gloom. No promises.