Jiang Chen's Great Talent
Wang Jian, reveling in this warped victory, reveled in their transformation. He saw it not as their submission but as their acceptance of his power, their validation of his dominance. He moved from one woman to another, his touch a brand of ownership, his commands absolute.
The once-proud hall echoed with the sounds of forced pleasure and guttural grunts, a cacophony of degradation that chilled the very air. The music, initially a backdrop to their forced dance, now became an unsettling melody, a haunting reminder of their lost innocence.
By the time dawn painted the horizon with a faint blush of pink, exhaustion had finally claimed Wang Jian. He lay sprawled across the floor, a grotesque parody of a conqueror. The women, their movements sluggish and eyes devoid of any spark, slumped in exhausted heaps around him.