Beneath the towering shadow of the Empire's imposing citadel, Zulu, once the indomitable chieftain of the Black Beast Tribe, now languished as a slave. His sculpted, muscular frame, a testament to raw power, quivered under the weight of a thunderous rebuke.
"Straighten your back, you filthy, lowborn swine!"
A brutal kick landed on his spine, the impact rippling through his chiseled muscles, eliciting a low, pained grunt. Yet Zulu stood resolute, his broad shoulders unyielding as a mountain. The tattered beast-hide loincloth did little to conceal the magnificent bulge between his thighs--a thick, obsidian shaft that stood defiant, drawing a mix of curious and scornful glances from the surrounding slaves.
Once a fearless leader who commanded his tribe with unmatched valor, Zulu's rebellion against the colonial forces had ended in tragedy. The conquerors, their motives as inscrutable as they were cruel, spared his life--not out of mercy, but to degrade him. Shipped like livestock to the distant Land of Wa, he was stripped of his title and reduced to a lowly slave.
Today marked the humiliating audience with the sovereign of Wa. Even as a slave, he was forced into the land's traditional garb. The soldiers tasked with dressing him eyed his imposing physique with malicious curiosity. Their rough hands brazenly toyed with the massive, ebony column hanging heavily between his legs, a primal force of untamed virility that seemed to pulse with raw, animalistic power.
Their vulgar taunts, laced with lewd laughter, echoed around him, amplifying the indignity of his plight.
"All show and no substance, huh? Just a brainless savage, with every ounce of strength drained into that monstrous cock!"
The soldiers' jeers grew cruder, their words dripping with contempt.
Zulu's dark eyes flickered restlessly, a fleeting, unreadable expression crossing his rugged face--not submission, but a spark of primal defiance. His features were far from refined beauty, yet they exuded a raw, masculine intensity: thick, brooding brows like a predator lying in wait, a chiseled nose as unyielding as a cliff, and a prominent Adam's apple that hinted at barely restrained power. A dense mat of body hair spread like wildfire across his broad chest, down to his iron-hewn thighs, their corded muscles flexing with every movement. The sheer size of his manhood, straining against its confines, was breathtaking, a symbol of his untamed potency.
The guards struggled to bind his prodigious endowment with layers of cloth, their efforts futile against the sheer mass of his arousal. The fabric barely contained the bulging outline, a provocative testament to his virility. Fearing the sight of such a crude, potent organ might offend the lofty sovereign, they resorted to draping him in loose, flowing hakama trousers. Yet no garment could fully mask the savage, primal energy that radiated from him--a heady mix of barbaric allure and unapologetic masculinity.
General Yagyu Takeo's brows furrowed, his piercing gaze, sharp as a blade, sweeping over the slave before him. In the prime of his life, Takeo's towering, battle-hardened physique was a marvel--muscles forged in countless wars, adorned with a tapestry of scars, both fresh and faded, that proclaimed his valor. His broad chest and sinewy arms rippled with power, yet even this seasoned warrior found himself subtly overshadowed by Zulu's raw, imposing presence.
Takeo had arrived early to inspect the preparations for the imperial audience, only to be met with an outrageous sight: a lowly slave draped in the sacred garb of a noble samurai.
Fury erupted within him, a blaze scorching his chest. His voice thundered with righteous indignation:
"How dare you let this black swine defile the sanctity of bushido! Strip that disgraceful garb from him--now!"
The guards, as if granted reprieve, sprang into action, tearing the offending samurai attire from Zulu's body with ruthless efficiency. Takeo waved a dismissive hand, his expression twisted with disgust, ordering the tainted fabric to be burned. Flames devoured the cloth in moments, leaving Zulu clad only in a stark white fundoshi, the pristine fabric a striking contrast against his deep, ebony skin, accentuating the sculpted contours of his muscular frame.
Takeo's gaze lingered, still laced with contempt, as if the very sight of Zulu sullied his vision.
Unfazed, Zulu stepped forward, his halting command of the Wa tongue carrying a fawning smile that oozed servility. "General, I've prepared a special gift for you. Please, accept it."
"Get back!" Takeo snarled, his revulsion palpable. "Keep your filthy trinkets away from me!"
Zulu's obsequious offering--a vial of fragrant oil--was met with a swift, deliberate strike from Takeo's cold sword sheath.
*Crack!* The delicate porcelain shattered, thick, viscous oil splattering across the floor in a chaotic mess. A heavy, exotic aroma filled the air, pungent and invasive. Takeo recoiled, covering his nose as he coughed, as though the scent itself were a poison tainting his lungs. His eyes, blazing with fury, locked onto Zulu's ingratiating grin.
"When you stand before His Majesty, you'd better do nothing but obey," Takeo warned, his voice icy and venomous. "Do you understand?"
His glare, sharp as a poisoned blade, bore into Zulu's simpering face, dripping with unmasked disdain. To Takeo, this spineless, uncivilized barbarian was the epitome of stupidity--groveling, debasing himself as a slave just to cling to a wretched existence.
Were it not for the fact that Zulu was a "gift" from a foreign land, Takeo would have long since drawn his blade and reduced this black beast to a pile of flesh, all to uphold the honor of Wa's samurai.
The smoke of chaos had cleared, and the Warring States era drew to a close. The Land of Yamato, under the iron-fisted rule of Jinsuke Yamato, had finally achieved unification.
Jinsuke's fearsome military might cast a shadow over neighboring lands, compelling envoys from far and wide to offer tributes in exchange for peace along their borders. Among the dazzling array of gifts were rare enchanted artifacts, coveted in a world where the power of faith fueled magic. Only a select few, blessed with extraordinary gifts, could wield such forces, making enchanted items exceedingly precious.
One by one, the envoys presented their offerings. At last, it was Zulu's turn.
"This is the chieftain of a savage tribe, his body as robust as a beast, with strength to uproot mountains. We offer him as a slave to Your Exalted Majesty!"
The envoy's voice, though deferential, carried a faint undercurrent of disdain as he presented Zulu.
Led into the resplendent, golden-hued hall, Zulu knelt without hesitation, performing the most subservient of bows, his forehead pressed to the cold stone floor. In that fleeting moment, he dared to lift his head, stealing a glance at the figure enthroned above.
Jinsuke Yamato, sovereign of the Land of Yamato, commanded the room. A faint scar traced the corner of his left eye, yet it did nothing to diminish his rugged handsomeness. Instead, it lent an air of untamed charisma. Beneath his loose robes, the contours of his broad, muscular frame were unmistakable--shoulders that exuded raw power, a chiseled torso brimming with explosive strength. He lounged on the throne, legs spread wide like a lion at rest, his deep, inquisitive gaze studying the prostrate Zulu with a spark of intrigue.
"Insolence!"
Yagyu Takeo, resplendent in ornate armor, a crescent-adorned helmet crowning his head and a vivid crimson war-sash cinched at his waist, drew his katana with a deafening roar. "How dare you gaze upon the sovereign! I'll carve out your wretched eyes!"
Yet Jinsuke, perched high on his throne, merely raised a hand, quelling the general's fury.
"No need. Let him rise."
Zulu stood, and instantly, the hall's countless eyes converged upon him, raking over his bare, sculpted torso and the scant fundoshi clinging to his hips. To the reserved Yamato people, such minimal covering was tantamount to nudity--a shameful display.
But Zulu seemed oblivious to their scrutiny, standing tall with unshakable poise. His obsidian-hewn physique gleamed under the hall's light, radiating a primal, untamed allure that captivated and unsettled in equal measure.
Ignoring the warning glint in Yagyu Takeo's eyes, Zulu boldly stepped forward, presenting a vial of sacred tribal oil, a treasure of his homeland, to the sovereign.
"I-I bring a gift from my people, for you, great lord," he said, his voice thick with reverence.
A guard clad in sleek black, moving with the silent grace of a ninja, swiftly took the oil. He sniffed it cautiously, ensuring it bore no poison, before respectfully handing it to Jinsuke. Zulu, with animated gestures and broken Wa tongue, eagerly explained the oil's exotic benefits for massage, his comical accent drawing a hearty laugh from Jinsuke on his throne.
Jinsuke, far from offended by such overt flattery, found it amusing. The oil was a trifling gift, but a lack of gesture would have seemed stiff and dull.
"Entertaining! Truly entertaining!" Jinsuke said, chuckling as he toyed with the vial, his gaze drifting back to Zulu's mountainous, muscular form, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "A man as intriguing as you is wasted as a slave. With a body so robust, why not serve under Takeo as a samurai?"
"A black swine in *my* ranks?"
The words struck Takeo like a tidal wave, an affront to his pride. Yet, as a vassal, the sovereign's command was an unshakable mountain.
"My lord, this…" Takeo's voice was strained, his reluctance palpable.
From the sidelines, the revered Lord Monk Iwayama offered a measured suggestion: "Why not settle this with a contest? If this man proves exceptional, he may earn a place as a samurai. If he's merely bluster, his unworthiness for the warrior's path will be clear."
"Well said, Lord Iwayama! A fine solution!"
Takeo's tense features softened, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. He shot a glance at his personal guard, signaling them to prepare for the trial.
Amid the mounting tension, Zulu's gaze wandered like an untamed stallion, lingering on the chiseled forms of the men around him, oblivious to the looming challenge. Takeo, even in heavy armor, couldn't conceal the taut, powerful muscles beneath--his warrior's hips firm and resilient from years of training.
The monk, clad in a tight-fitting robe, was equally striking. His slender waist contrasted with the full, rounded curve of his hips, a provocative arc that quickened the pulse. Though lean, the monk's exposed forearms bulged with sinew, and the faint outline of thick, muscular thighs beneath his loose hakama hinted at formidable strength.
Finally, Zulu's eyes settled on the throne, on Jinsuke himself. The sovereign's handsome, commanding presence was magnetic--his tall, sculpted frame exuding raw power. Zulu's mind wandered, imagining the regal authority of Jinsuke's firm, majestic form, the hidden depths between those powerful hips radiating a commanding allure that demanded submission.
Fearing Zulu might not grasp the stakes, the envoy patiently reiterated the rules of the impending wrestling match. But Zulu's mind was elsewhere, lost in a haze of lustful reverie, fixated on the sculpted, muscular figures filling the hall.
The rules were straightforward: a bare-handed wrestling match, no weapons allowed, ensuring a test of pure strength.
A cold, predatory smirk curled Yagyu Takeo's lips as he deliberately selected a renowned colossus from his ranks. This wasn't fear of the dark-skinned barbarian, but a calculated move to humiliate him--to make this insolent slave comprehend the vast chasm between the refined might of Yamato and the crude savagery of his kind.
Yoshiaki Hattori, the lithe ninja leader clad in sleek black, caught the glint of Takeo's intent. He recognized the opponent chosen for Zulu: a hulking warrior famed for his brute strength. Gliding silently to Jinsuke's side, Hattori whispered, "General Yagyu means to make this slave a laughingstock, stripped of all dignity."
Jinsuke's lips twitched with a cryptic smile. "Precisely why I'm eager to see this ‘savage' defy expectations and win," he murmured back.
Hattori's eyes flickered with intrigue. Leaning closer, he asked softly, "Shall I intervene discreetly, my lord?"
Jinsuke raised a hand, silencing him. His piercing gaze fixed on the arena, voice low and deliberate. "Let's see how this unfolds first."
The crowd, including the foreign envoys, scoffed at Zulu's chances, their jeers and mockery swelling like a tide, as if the match's outcome were already sealed.
Zulu's opponent was a behemoth, a two-hundred-pound titan with muscles like carved stone. Yet a fleeting, enigmatic spark flashed in Zulu's obsidian eyes.
The two stepped into the center, striking their stances. In a heartbeat, the unthinkable unfolded--the vaunted strongman was hurled back several meters by a surge of Zulu's unstoppable force!
The giant, realizing his grave miscalculation, steadied himself, legs rooted wide, adopting a disciplined defensive posture. With a mutual roar, their hands locked like iron vices, muscles bulging, veins throbbing as they grappled with ferocious intensity.
But the strongman's resistance was futile. Against Zulu's primal, beast-like power, he faltered, retreating step by step until he was mercilessly pinned to the ground, limbs immobilized under Zulu's unrelenting grip.
Zulu had won.
In an instant, the raucous hall fell into a stunned silence, so profound that a pin's fall could be heard. The crowd stood frozen, mouths agape, reeling from the unthinkable outcome.
"Well done! That's the spirit!"
Jinsuke Yamato, perched high on his throne, shattered the stillness with enthusiastic applause, his booming claps echoing through the hall like thunder.
Reluctantly, the onlookers followed suit, their half-hearted applause sparse and perfunctory, betraying their disbelief. Among them, Yagyu Takeo's face darkened like a storm cloud, his lips pressed into a thin line. His venomous glare fixed on Zulu, who stood in the arena's center, arms raised in a primal roar of victory.
Takeo had never imagined his carefully orchestrated humiliation would backfire so spectacularly, with this black beast not only thwarting his plans but emerging triumphant. To let such a barbarian gloat under his nose--how could he, Yagyu Takeo, ever hold his head high again?
Jinsuke's keen eyes caught the flicker of fury on Takeo's face, and a sly smile curved his lips. "What's this, Takeo? Why the sour expression?" he teased, his tone laced with amusement.
Takeo's heart jolted, realizing his lapse. He bowed hastily, masking his true feelings with practiced deference. "I only fear my failure to discipline him might tarnish the samurai's honor, my lord," he said stiffly.
Jinsuke waved off the concern with a dismissive gesture, his voice carrying unshakable authority. "No need to trouble yourself over that."
Yoshiaki Hattori, standing nearby, fixed Takeo with a razor-sharp gaze, his low voice heavy with warning. "The sovereign's will is absolute, Yagyu. Your response?"
The combined weight of Jinsuke's command and Hattori's scrutiny crushed Takeo's resistance. Swallowing his rage, he dropped to one knee, his voice taut. "I… obey, my lord."
Later, with a face like iron, Takeo ordered his guards to escort Zulu to the barracks. For two days, he vanished, shirking his duties and leaving recruit training to his deputy. The thought of coexisting with that barbarian gnawed at him, fueling his agitation. To vent his frustration, he resolved to lose himself in the pleasures of the flower district.
Takeo's marriage, a cold alliance of clans, was devoid of passion. His wife, lifeless and unresponsive in their bed, left him unfulfilled. At the peak of his vigor, Takeo's desires burned fiercely, often requiring the company of two or more courtesans to quell the restless heat coursing through his robust, battle-hardened body.
The air in the hot spring inn shimmered with curling tendrils of steam.
The attendant, recognizing the familiar guest, bowed deeply. "The master isn't here today, Lord Yagyu. Shall we prepare the Yagyu Suite as usual?"
"Mm," Takeo grunted, his stride unbroken as he headed deeper into the inn.
Nestled mere steps from the flower district, this hot spring inn was a haven for indulgence and release. Takeo was a regular, so well-known that an exclusive suite--the Yagyu Suite--was reserved solely for him. Tucked away with its own private courtyard and secluded hot spring pool, it promised absolute discretion. Rumor had it that even Sovereign Jinsuke Yamato had once bathed there, praising its serene elegance as "uniquely charming."
Takeo didn't immediately summon the courtesans. Instead, he eased into the steaming pool, the warm waters soothing his battle-worn muscles, coaxing a rare sigh of relief from his lips. Only then did he notice a small, circular hole in the wooden partition separating his suite from the next. He'd overlooked it before, assuming it was merely a conduit for water pipes.
At first, the hole seemed trivial. But when faint, peculiar sounds drifted from the neighboring room, his curiosity stirred.
He approached the wall cautiously, breath held, and pressed his ear to the unassuming aperture. Peering through, he was struck dumb, his pulse racing at the sight unfolding before him.
Through the narrow hole, Takeo glimpsed a scene so lascivious it set his blood ablaze. The inn's proprietor--a refined, middle-aged man known for his polished demeanor--was unrecognizable. His face contorted in a wild grimace, caught between agony and ecstasy. His eyes rolled back, exposing stark whites, his tongue lolling like a serpent's as broken moans and lewd cries spilled from his lips.
"Oh--! Big-dicked black daddy! Harder… harder… ahh!"
The man, roughly Takeo's age and similarly robust, had always seemed a paragon of decorum in their frequent dealings. Yet here, in this hidden sanctum, he surrendered to unbridled debauchery, his wanton abandon shattering Takeo's assumptions.
Among samurai, intimacy between men was not unheard of, but this raw, unrestrained display of carnal lust struck a primal chord deep within Takeo, igniting a smoldering fire of desire.
Mesmerized, he watched the frenzied coupling, the air thick with salacious gasps and the rhythmic slap of flesh. His hand, unbidden, slipped beneath his fundoshi, grasping his throbbing, engorged shaft, stroking urgently in time with the sounds.
Who was this virile warrior, locked in such a fervent, passionate tryst with the innkeeper?
Constrained by the narrow peephole, Yagyu Takeo's view was maddeningly limited, the tantalizing glimpse fueling both his curiosity and desire to a fever pitch, like oil sizzling on an open flame.
His hand worked faster, rough and urgent, his swollen arousal straining to its limit. The bulbous tip, slick with glistening precum, soaked his fingers, betraying his mounting need. The steaming mist of the hot spring, once soothing, now frustrated his vision, cloaking the scene in a hazy veil that only deepened his torment.
The sounds from the adjacent room grew fiercer--lewd, rhythmic collisions that pounded against Takeo's eardrums like war drums. Through the small hole, he caught fractured glimpses: the innkeeper's wrists seized and hoisted high by the figure behind him, his body swaying helplessly like a leaf in a storm. His eyes rolled back, foam flecking his lips, his hoarse, debauched cries spiraling into near-madness.
"Black daddy! Oh… your huge cock… it's killing me… your son can't take it…!"
The man behind him, his arms corded with bulging muscle, effortlessly lifted the innkeeper off the ground, pinning him like a powerless courtesan. One hand clamped the innkeeper's head, forcing it down, while the other guided a monstrous, unrelenting shaft that thrust with savage ferocity.
*Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!*
The deafening sound of flesh against flesh reverberated, sending a jolt of raw, electric thrill through Takeo's core. And then, clarity struck--the innkeeper's frenzied cries of "big-dicked black daddy" revealed the truth.
That inky, obsidian skin and the unmistakable, colossal rod dominating the scene could belong to none other than Zulu, the black-skinned slave newly arrived.
Takeo, proud of his own eighteen-centimeter endowment--impressive by Yamato standards--felt a pang of inadequacy. Compared to the behemoth he now witnessed, his pride seemed diminished.
Of course, a barbarian obsessed with mating would channel all vitality to such development. It was only logical.
Yet, the sheer size… it was staggering.
Since reaching manhood, Yagyu Takeo had rarely felt such a rush of flushed cheeks and pounding heart. His eyes were glued to the torrid, unrestrained spectacle unfolding in the next room, a wild thought flickering through his mind:
If Zulu's colossal manhood were to ravage a woman's delicate folds, she'd surely be shattered, left unconscious by such a tempestuous assault.
No--such vile seed must never taint the noble blood of Yamato!
Far better, far purer, to indulge in the pleasures of men--controlled, contained.
"You big-assed slut! You Yamato men were born to be fucked by a black daddy like me!"
Zulu's voice, raw and commanding, roared through the relentless rhythm of flesh slamming against flesh, his wicked laughter dripping with untamed dominance.
"Yes… yes, Daddy! We Yamato men exist to serve big-dicked black daddies… to sate your desires!"
The innkeeper's voice cracked, broken by ecstasy, yet he strained to echo Zulu's degrading taunts, his tone saturated with a near-deranged craving and submission.
"I'll fuck you to death, you filthy whore! Always on your knees, begging for my cock in your slutty hole!"
Zulu's bellows grew more savage, each thrust threatening to rend his partner asunder.
"Black Daddy… please, big-dicked Daddy… fill your son's ass… ahh… ohhh! I'm a brainless… beast… please, Daddy, fuck me harder! Ohhh!"
The innkeeper's moans dissolved into incoherent fragments, desperate pleas spilling from his throat as he sank fully into the abyss of carnal surrender.
What… what depravity was this?!
How could a man--a proud seven-foot warrior, a defender of bushido--utter such… such self-abasing, dignity-crushing words that spat on Yamato's honor?!
Takeo's brows knit tightly, his mind recoiling at Zulu's crude vulgarity. Yet his body betrayed him, his iron-hard arousal unrelenting, slick with precum that dribbled freely.
He stroked himself fiercely, eyes rolling slightly, resolve hardening in his mind: he would discipline this black beast, teach him that true strength wasn't measured by the barbaric might of his loins. A man's worth transcended the size of his organ!
Lost in the throes of voyeuristic fervor, Takeo was jolted as the pair in the next room shifted closer to the wall, their silhouettes looming near the peephole.
Zulu's sharp eyes caught the small, unassuming hole in the wooden partition. His voice, coarse and gravelly, rumbled with curiosity. "What's on the other side?"
Panting heavily, the innkeeper replied, "That's… a private hot spring pool… reserved for General Yagyu."
Zulu's tone turned rougher, laced with raw envy and disdain. "For Yagyu? Fuck, what makes that slut deserve his own private pool?"
Takeo bristled at the crude insult, his pride stung. He dismissed it as Zulu's lust-fueled bluster, unworthy of serious concern. But what he didn't anticipate--what sent a shock through his core--was Zulu's next move. Without warning, he thrust the thick, bulbous head of his massive shaft directly into the hole in the wall.
Caught off guard, Takeo froze, face-to-face with the steaming, obsidian rod mere inches away. He held his breath, heart pounding, terrified that any sound might betray his presence to the pair beyond the partition.
The glistening, monstrous cock loomed before him, longer than his face, its surface slick with the residue of their coupling. The air grew heavy with the pungent, musky scent of their raw intimacy--a revolting yet primal allure that stirred something deep within him.
"Watch me piss in his fancy pool, give it a little extra flavor!" Zulu growled, his voice dripping with malicious amusement.
"Don't be ridiculous!" the innkeeper chided, though a trace of laughter softened his tone.
But Takeo's mind reeled, his pulse hammering like a war drum. The hot spring's waters were regularly refreshed, but the lingering stench of such an act would be unbearable. Worse, this was the Yagyu Suite, a sanctum once graced by the sovereign himself. To let this barbarian defile it was unthinkable!
Driven by duty to protect his lord's honor and the sanctity of this revered place, Takeo made a choice few could fathom. In that split second, he knelt slightly, chest puffed out, and parted his mature, chiseled lips. Aligning his mouth with the gaping hole, he positioned himself to intercept the impending flood, using his own body as a vessel to shield the sacred pool.
*Shhhrr--*
A scalding, acrid torrent erupted, a deluge of foul, yellow liquid gushing forth like a broken dam. It flooded Takeo's mouth, overwhelming his tongue with its bitter, musky tang, assaulting his senses. Yet he didn't flinch, swallowing every drop with grim determination, ensuring not a single bead tainted the hallowed waters beyond.
"Pfft… gulp… ngh… ah…"
Swallowing the pungent flood of acrid urine, Yagyu Takeo felt a strange, molten heat surge through his veins, as though he'd ingested a potent aphrodisiac. His stoic, chiseled face flushed crimson, desire painting his handsome features with a feverish glow. The scars crisscrossing his muscular frame began to burn and itch, a maddening sensation that begged for release.
His sculpted pecs, taut nipples, and the hidden depths of his tight rear pulsed with searing heat, as if swarmed by a thousand crawling ants. He yearned for a warm, teasing tongue to soothe the torment, to quell the sudden, raging inferno of lust consuming him.
"No sound of water?" Zulu muttered, puzzled, withdrawing his thick shaft from the hole. The dense, white steam of the hot spring obscured the view beyond, cloaking Takeo's presence.
"Did I miss? Or is some slut back there, eagerly drinking my piss?" Zulu's voice dripped with contempt, tinged with cruel amusement.
The innkeeper, lost in a haze of lust, gazed worshipfully at Zulu's massive, ebony cock. Kneeling like a devout pilgrim, he rasped, his voice thick with submissive longing, "Daddy… your dog son wants… wants to taste your holy water too!"
"Fucking hell!" Zulu spat, his tone growing harsher, brimming with disdain and raw dominance. "You Yamato men are only good for drinking my piss. Your pathetic dicks are useless--unfit for women. Your asses are just toys for me to fuck!"
"Yes… yes, Daddy!"
The innkeeper, like a scolded cur, grew even more frenzied, his slurred affirmations dripping with perverse excitement.
Takeo, now wholly consumed by the volcanic eruption of desire within, gripped his rock-hard shaft, panting heavily. Zulu's degrading taunts echoed in his ears, each word stoking the flames. His trembling hand pinched a rigid nipple, twisting and kneading with desperate fervor.
Humiliation and pleasure intertwined, a molten crucible that ignited his senses. Unable to contain the torrent any longer, Takeo succumbed. With a shuddering gasp, thick ropes of creamy seed erupted uncontrollably, splattering the rough wooden wall, leaving slick, lascivious streaks in their wake.
The lascivious symphony from the neighboring room surged like an unrelenting tide, echoing through the night. Yagyu Takeo's desire, scorched by an insatiable fire, burned without respite.
He summoned no courtesans. Instead, he spent the night alone, a shadowed specter curled in the corner of his suite, enthralled by the soul-rending, debauched cries seeping through the wall. Time and again, he gripped his iron-hard shaft, spilling countless torrents of seed in a frenzy of self-indulgence.
The air was thick with increasingly vile insults: yellow pig, filthy bitch, rutting swine, cum-drenched toy… Each degrading word stoked his arousal, his cock throbbing harder with every slur. Yet, deep within, he rejected these slights against Yamato's honor, his silent fury countering each taunt with fiercer, more punishing strokes to vent his pent-up rage and lust.
As a samurai, his pride was rooted in martial valor--the cornerstone of his identity as an elite of Yamato. But that proud warrior's spirit was tethered to a body now hypersensitive, ignited by the foul urine he'd consumed, every nerve alight with treacherous desire.
Takeo's tongue flicked out, instinctively tasting the lingering, acrid residue on his fingertips. The revolting stench morphed into an intoxicating, primal flavor, haunting his senses. His mind, unbidden, conjured Zulu's massive, obsidian shaft thrusting with relentless dominance. Worse, he began to imagine himself defeated, humiliated--ravaged and bred by that monstrous black cock in a scene of utter degradation.
The mere thought sent shivers through him, a toxic blend of shame and exhilaration eroding his resolve like venom.
To be vanquished by such a base, barbaric race, to be conquered by so crude an organ…
It was an unforgivable affront to the spirit of bushido!
No! Takeo clenched his jaw, a primal growl roaring within. He would not let these perverse fantasies fester!
A true man could not abide such dishonor!
He would--*must*--make that black beast pay the price.
He would show that savage who the truly dominant, superior male of this land was.