Gathering Wives with a System

Isaac woke to a dull, swimming lightheadedness. Concentration slipped through his fingers like water.

He was sitting upright, naked, wrists locked behind the chair, a strip of black cloth sealing his eyes. The air hung thick and sweet, heavy with something that made every inch of his skin burn and prickle. Strength refused to answer him; it was as if he had been stripped back to an ordinary human body, only far more sensitive, far hotter.

This had to be a dream. Something Catherine had woven. The thought formed slowly through the haze.

"Isaac, how do you like this?"

The voice purred directly against his ear from behind. Heat flooded him. His shaft was already rigid, straining upward in the open air.

Aphrodisiacs. Catherine’s work. He was certain of it now.

"What are you doing?" His own voice came out rough.

He remembered nothing of dinner, nothing of who should have been sharing his bed. Catherine had clearly scrambled more than just the room.

"Didn’t I promise I would treat you to something nice?"

The same voice again, only now it rose from between his spread thighs. Hot breath ghosted over the head of his shaft. Soft hands settled on his thighs. Two of her, then. One at his back, one kneeling in front. A clone, most likely.

"Isaac?" the front voice spoke again, and Isaac’s blood iced even as his cock twitched harder. It was not Catherine’s voice.

It was Eleanor’s.

"Are... you... crazy?" The words dragged out of him.

"Why?" Eleanor’s voice asked, breath still washing over his shaft. Small, soft fingers closed around him and gave an experimental stroke.

The touch felt different from any of his wives’. Whether that was the drug clouding his senses or something real, he could not tell. A low grunt escaped him as the hand began to move in earnest.

"Stop..."

"Why?" she asked again, stroking more confidently. Impure pleasure coiled low in his gut. He tried to crush it.

This was a dream. Catherine could wear any face, any voice, so long as the gap in Spirit stat was wide enough. The woman between his legs was not their master. It could not be. Yet it brought a dark, depraved, wrong feeling all the same.

"I’ve never seen you this big. Are you really that excited to fuck Eleanor?"

Celia’s voice this time, wrapping around him from behind, arms sliding over his shoulders and locking around his neck.

"She is our master. Show her some respect," Isaac forced out.

"Those words don’t sound very convincing when you are hard as stone," Celia giggled against his ear.

Eleanor’s hesitant voice floated up from below. "It’s okay. I don’t mind. I’ve been doing... things... while watching you every night. Just consider this payment."

Every word sent another warm gust of breath across his shaft. Her hand never stopped pumping. His hips jerked once despite himself.

"Stop this. I know you are not Master," he said.

"Are you sure? Check for yourself," Celia replied, nibbling his ear.

Celia’s fingers tugged the blindfold free. It fluttered away. Isaac kept his eyes clenched shut. His heart hammered against his ribs. Logic insisted the woman kneeling between his legs was still Catherine wearing a stolen voice. But what if the face waiting for him belonged to Eleanor? What was he supposed to do then? Refuse? Eleanor herself had used him as material night after night. Was it truly so wrong to take the same liberty once?

He did not notice how muddled the reasoning had become. Fear of what he might see kept his lids sealed. Catherine was devoted to the Sword Empress; she would never use that appearance for something like this. Almost certainly the woman stroking him still wore Catherine’s own face and had only borrowed the voice.

But what if it really was Eleanor?

What if, instead of anger or disgust, the sight of her kneeling there only made him harder?

The forbidden thought alone made his shaft pulse violently in her grip.

She kept working him, slow and steady. He was already close. A soft metallic click sounded behind him. The locks on his wrists sprang open. Celia caught his freed hands and guided them forward, settling them on the head of the woman between his legs.

"Just do whatever you want, Isaac. No one will blame you. Besides, the Sword Empress has been doing the same, hasn’t she? Peeking into your intimate moments every night," Celia tempted.

His fingers sank into soft hair, brushed over smoother skin, felt the shape of lips, the wet flicker of a tongue, and the warmth of her mouth. Even with direct contact the features refused to resolve into a clear picture. Catherine had made certain he would learn nothing until he opened his eyes.

"Isaac? What do you want me to do?" Eleanor’s voice asked, breath once more bathing the swollen head of his shaft.

So close. He wanted that mouth.

One hand tightened in her hair of its own accord, gathering the strands and pulling them back into a rough ponytail, holding her steady.

Isaac gulped, mind still a swirling mess of heat and half-formed images.

"Isaac?" Eleanor’s voice came again, closer this time. The side of his shaft brushed against soft cheek. Warm breaths spilled over the sensitive skin in steady waves. His grip in her hair tightened of its own accord. The mental picture of Eleanor—kneeling, eyes upturned, lips parted—flashed unbidden.

No.

He refused it. Every buff-type skill roared at once. Mana erupted from his core like a detonation. Stats surged in an avalanche. Evolved Aura wrapped around his two strongest support skills and pushed them past their limits. He poured everything into tearing the dream apart.

The abruptness caught Catherine off-guard. The fabricated world shattered.

Isaac sucked in a sharp breath and woke on his own bed. Celia lay naked on his left, Catherine on his right. He killed the skills instantly before the huge amount of mana could interfere with the spatial domain. His chest rose and fell hard. Memory returned in a clean rush: dinner, returning to the room with Catherine, her quietly inviting Celia in. He had allowed it, knowing Catherine wanted to spoil the girl after the Trial.

Instead the two of them had flooded the air with every aphrodisiac ability they possessed. Celia’s power had grown vicious after her soul evolution; Catherine’s recent leap in strength had only made hers worse. Then they had dragged him into that dream.

A low chuckle left him, empty of humor. Celia wanted payback for what he had done to her inside a dream of his own. Catherine had simply decided to play along.

"Isaac?" Celia mumbled, stirring. Her naked body was soft and inviting in the dim light. Catherine’s eyes were already opening.

Isaac smiled.

Celia’s eyes snapped fully open the moment she registered the expression. She felt chills. Before either woman could move, he activated King of Desire Transformation skill. His skin flushed a deep, living blood-red, hair bled pure white, height increased a fraction; and his muscles first swelled then compressed into dense, cable-taut lines. Charm spiked to a suffocating degree. Celestial Kitsune pheromones rolled off him in invisible waves while Crown Devil’s innate allure layered on top. Golden light flooded his irises as another Celestial Kitsune trait locked into place.

"Don’t move," he ordered.

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