The air in the Room of Mirrors was thick with the scent of them. Their mingled sweat, her sweet milk, the raw, animal musk of his seed and her virgin blood. It was a perfume of completion, of a covenant sealed not just in spirit but in the deepest, most primitive flesh. Amber lay beneath Kabir, crushed by his wonderful weight, her body a symphony of exquisite aches. The deep, internal throbbing where his cock still rested, semi-hard and possessive, was a rhythmic pulse of ownership. The stretching burn in her ass from the rose gold plug was a constant, grounding reminder of his total dominion. Her breasts, slick with the remnants of his feast, were exquisitely tender, the nipples still hard and pebbled against the coarse hair of his chest.

She felt hollowed out and yet impossibly full. Every cell in her body had been rewritten in the last hour. She was no longer Amber. She was his creation, his wife, his vessel. The memory of her virgin cunt spasming around his thick, invading length, the sharp, fleeting sting of his entry dissolving into that cataclysmic wave of pleasure, replayed in a loop behind her closed eyelids.