My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 546 - 546: Back to the Maxton Mansion

The call came while Cassiopeia was still deliciously impaled on Phei’s cock like a human shish kebab at a particularly enthusiastic barbarian feast.

The universe clearly right now ran on sitcom logic, and Phei was the eternal punchline in a cosmic joke written by exhausted writers mainlining caffeine at 2 a.m.

Melissa’s name flashed across the screen. Phei answered with one hand, the other staying firmly locked on Cassiopeia’s hip. She was bent over the edge of the bed, with her hair plastered to her sweat-slicked back, thighs trembling like overworked jelly after ninety straight minutes of being thoroughly ravished across every conceivable surface in the room.

The bed. The desk. And suspicious ottoman lurking near the window whose actual purpose remained a mystery. They had been so thorough that even Eira had wept with pride for her master and this shameless aunt.

“Emergency meeting,” Melissa barked, zero preamble, zero pleasantries. “Maxton Mansion.”

“Now?” Phei echoed, genuinely incredulous.

“Now, Phei.” Melissa’s tone left no room for negotiation, interpretation, or any lingering orgasmic afterglow.

He snapped the call shut and let out a heavy sigh, the sound of a man cruelly interrupted mid-symphony. He glanced down at the woman still skewered on him. Cassiopeia twisted her head to look back over her shoulder, eyes blazing with a silent threat that roughly translated to: If you withdraw even one millimeter right now, I will castrate you with my teeth and feed the remains to the manor’s raccoons.

Fine! I’ll finish with you first.

Three minutes later, her own phone had started shrilling.

She answered it face-down on the mattress, cheek mashed into expensive silk, her voice utterly destroyed — raw, wrecked, the vocal equivalent of stepping on LEGO barefoot after a marathon. The phone rested on speaker because her arms had officially checked out around orgasm number four of those same three minutes as the Fiery Cock burned pleasure and produced orgasms as ashes and she showed zero signs of returning to duty.

Her father’s voice cut through the post-coital haze, tight and controlled, the tone reserved for hostage situations or imminent avalanches.

“Come home. Now. Stop whatever you’re doing to get the boy. Something’s arrived that takes priority over our little project.”

Little project. Oh, the delicious irony~ That’s what they call the soul-binding-me scheme — a phrase so devastatingly bland it made Phei want to laugh until he cried.

A little project. As if she’d been assembling IKEA furniture instead of trying to hollow out a dragon and wear its still-beating heart like a grotesque, power-hungry accessory.

How adorably dismissive they are of my existence.

“Something more important has come up,” her father continued, blissfully oblivious to the sexual archaeology still unfolding on his silk sheets. “Something we don’t get to meddle with. You’ll understand when you’re here.”

Click. Dial tone.

They stared at each other — two naked, panting, sweat-drenched specimens who had just completed an Olympic-level sexual decathlon.

Cassiopeia’s pussy still throbbed with delicious aftershocks, her thighs glazed with the evidence of their exertions, the golden mark between her brows pulsing faintly like an embarrassed firefly.

Phei’s cock remained buried deep inside her, still rock-hard, still slick with ninety minutes of mutual decadence and terrible life choices.

With the inevitability of a toddler reaching for forbidden candy, Phei thrust once more.

Deep and harder.

He came inside her with a quiet grunt that sounded suspiciously like surrender.

Cassiopeia let out a noise that wasn’t quite a word, might have been his name, might have been an invocation to some forgotten fertility deity, and definitely shouldn’t have been heard by any sane priest, parent, or passing nun.

They stumbled to the bathroom like two drunk sailors abandoning a sinking ship. Shower. Water. Soap. The profoundly unsexy, deeply mechanical ballet exactly like two people who had just fucked with apocalyptic fervor and now had to towel off and pretend they were functioning adults capable of basic social interaction.

It lasted approximately four minutes — about the time it took to rinse sheer desperation from their hair — before gravity, biology, and the cruel joke of human anatomy betrayed them again.

Look, they tried. They genuinely attempted civic responsibility. But Cassiopeia was a slippery, eager slide of warm invitation, and Phei was a monument to stubborn virility, and that sunken pool in the master suite was right there, glimmering temptingly and whispering promises of buoyancy and leisurely oral indulgence.

And sometimes we come to realize that “self-control” is just a fairy tale people tell in therapy to feel better about their complete lack of impulse control.

The sunken pool won and their desire to have each other won with the pool.

Cassiopeia knelt on the submerged floor, water lapping at her ribs, green hair fanning out like luminous kelp around her shoulders, head tilted back in blissful surrender. Phei stood triumphantly on the pool’s edge, taking full, unfair advantage of his height.

His hips rolled at a lazy, decadent pace before long his cock was sliding past her lips from above, while the obscene, wet sounds she made bounced off the marble walls with an echo that would have sent shame running for cover.

Spoiler: They had none left. Zero. Zilch. The shame well had run dry sometime around the ottoman incident.

When they were actually finished — truly, properly, with her exhaustively done, with zero surfaces, water features, or imaginative positions left unexplored — they finally dressed, and had left for the Maxton Mansion like two impeccably civilized adults who most definitely had not, twenty minutes earlier, treated a decorative water feature like a personal pleasure dome and left it biblically shaken.

The Maxton Mansion greeted Phei and his entourage like a disappointed god surveying the aftermath of a divine tantrum.

And yeah, that is partly my fault.

Mostly my fault.

It was Entirely his fault, actually, if one wanted to get annoyingly technical about it — which Phei, stubborn as he was, did not.

He tugged his shirt into place as he strode through the shattered front doors, attempting — and failing miserably—not to radiate smug satisfaction at the vista before him.

The mansion was still a glorious wreck from the night he had demolished it with Harold. Walls spiderwebbed with cracks, fixtures torn violently from their mounts, the grand staircase missing an entire banister on one side like a prize fighter after a brutal knockout.

Darkness stains marred the once-pristine marble, testament to a blaze of Void itself, nobody had bothered to scrub away. It was less a stately home now and more an expensive year-round Halloween attraction — a crumbling monument to the exact moment the charity case lost his shit and decided to redecorate it with structural integrity as an afterthought.

Nobody had cleaned it. Nobody had called contractors. Everyone had simply… left it. To rot. To fester and to stand as a perpetual reminder of the night the black sheep discovered his inner demolition expert.

“So what’s this about?” Phei asked Melissa, who walked beside him through the gutted, echoing foyer like a tour guide through the ruins of a fallen empire.

“You’ll see.”

“That’s not an answer.” Phei tried for plaintive. It came out more like long-suffering martyr.

“It’s the only one you’re getting right now, Love. All that I have too.” Melissa’s smile was all sharp edges and zero warmth and promised impending doom wrapped in silk.

Cassiopeia had told him why nobody bothered fixing the place. The Maxtons were moving. Not to another mansion in Paradise — to their real ancestral home. Turns out the Maxton Mansion, for all its size and expense, was just the current patriarch’s residence.

Like some kind of branch office. Every generation before Harold became o acting leader had lived somewhere else — the old house, the one where the portraits on the walls went back further than anyone alive could remember.

Ten years. Ten years Phei had lived in this building thinking it was the center of the Maxton universe.

Turns out it was the B-team location.

Harold loved it because it was closer to his business interests and further from his daddy’s judgment.

Funny how you could grow up somewhere and not know shit about it.

From behind him came the unmistakable sound of footsteps — Sienna, Victoria, and Delilah trailing him through the wreckage of their childhood home like a grimly curious parade.

They stepped over shattered plaster and ancient dust with expressions that ranged from Victoria’s jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, to Sienna’s classic “I’d rather be anywhere else, preferably napping” stare, to Delilah’s desperate attempt at subtlety as she kept flicking glances at Phei’s spine every four seconds like she was trying to solve a particularly annoying Sudoku puzzle with her eyes.

They reached the long dining room — a cavern of faded grandeur where the Maxtons waited, gathered like vultures around a particularly stubborn carcass.

Harold occupied one side of the table, his face still proudly wearing the colorful aftermath of Phei’s earlier enthusiasm.

The bruises had mellowed into that special sickly yellow-green reserved for truly dedicated ass-kickings, but the swelling around his left eye clung stubbornly to life, and his jaw sat at a weird angle that whispered “reset by a well-meaning intern who definitely should’ve referred this to a specialist.”

Harold regarded Phei with the weary of a man who’d just been hit by a truck… and knew, deep in his bones, that said truck lacked both conscience and reverse gear and could do it again right now!

****

A/N:Why do you think we’re here for?