The New World
Copyright© 2024 by Dark Apostle
Chapter 19: Pivot
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 19: Pivot - The story follows James Smith, a man who dies and finds himself in a surreal afterlife courtroom, where his life is judged as "zero sum"—neither good nor evil, just utterly average. Dissatisfied with being consigned to eternal mediocrity, he manipulates the cosmic bureaucracy into granting him a second chance in a new world, where he is reincarnated as a child with his memories intact and perks... - edited by my lovely Steven.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Mult Coercion NonConsensual Reluctant Slavery Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fan Fiction Farming High Fantasy Rags To Riches Restart Alternate History DoOver Extra Sensory Perception Body Swap Furry Magic Incest Mother Sister Politics Royalty Violence AI Generated
James sat perched on the brothel’s roof, legs dangling over the edge, watching the sun rise slow and red over Castletown. The air was cold, but his skin still carried the heat of the night—crusted with dried sweat, cum, and cunt juices. He sighed, a long, heavy sound that tasted of satisfaction and something quieter underneath.
Death had kept the bargain. Christine—his mother from that old life—lay downstairs, tits bruised, hairy cunt wrecked and leaking. He’d run the macro for fifty relentless minutes in the lounge, cock pistoning until her screams turned to sobs and piss arced across the floor while half the town stopped to listen. Jacky, Suki, Rachael—all of them now part of his harem, bodies claimed the way he’d fantasized in shameful silence as a teenager. Every woman who’d ever made his cock ache was his to use, marked deep.
It had been intense. Savage. Exactly what he’d needed after years on the wheel.
Contentment settled over him, thick and warm. The brothel was thriving—coin flowing steadily, tables packed every night. Fel lounged outside like a living warning, six hundred pounds of silver fur and fang. Customers knew they were safe here; no one fucked with a place guarded by a Fenrir. Word spread fast: good drink, hot food, willing holes, and absolute protection.
He rolled his shoulders, scars pulling tight. Revenge tasted sweet, power sweeter. He had built something solid out of nothing—out of chains, pain, and the ashes of a boy stolen from his family.
But now the question lingered, quiet but inexorable: what next?
The town was small. The brothel profitable, but limited. He could expand—buy the building next door, add rooms, bring in more girls. Or push farther: trade routes, land, influence. Turn this safe haven into something bigger. An empire that no slaver, no sheriff, no one could touch.
He watched the light crawl across the rooftops, cock twitching idly at the thought of who waited downstairs. For the first time in years, the future felt open.
James supposed the wheel had changed him—changed his perspective on the world, hardened his reality, and his way of thinking.
Sure, he had degraded his own mother in ways she could never have conceived, but it was better than the alternatives: starvation, murder, or sacrificed to some nameless god. He twitched. The gods—their very existence pissed him off. The thought of being labelled a zero sum again tore at his insides. Well, let’s see the bastards look at him now.
“Hello,” James looked down, seeing Maddoc standing, waving.
“Hi?”
“James, I have some of your new clothing ready.”
James nodded. With moves that would make Ezio jealous, he made his way off the top of the roof and landed with a thud. The man jumped back.
Maddoc’s eyes widened at the scarred, half-naked giant dropping from the sky like some vengeful god. James didn’t bother covering himself; his cock hung heavy between his thighs, still half-stiff from morning thoughts. Let the man stare. Let the whole town stare.
He was done hiding. The wheel had forged him into something unbreakable, and Castletown would learn to kneel—or at least step aside.
James took the bundled clothes, nodded once, and turned back toward the brothel. There was more to build. More to claim. The gods could watch all they wanted.
He wasn’t zero anymore.
They walked into the brothel. Christine stood near the bar, naked, thighs still glistening from the morning’s use. The tailor paused in the doorway, eyes widening. James inclined his head.
“This is my slave, Christine.”
“Hello,” she said softly, waving without quite meeting anyone’s gaze.
Maddoc’s stare dropped openly to the swollen, sticky pussy lips framed by her dark, unkempt bush. “She’s got nice tits.”
“Indeed, she does.” James stepped forward and cupped one heavy breast, bouncing it in his palm. The flesh jiggled, nipple stiffening under the cool air and his touch. Christine sighed, shoulders relaxing into the casual handling. The obedience rune branded on her chest glowed faintly; she had no choice but to accept her son’s degradation without hesitation. James kneaded the soft weight for a long moment, thumb brushing the nipple until she shifted her stance.
Anna walked in from the back, hips swaying, studying the group with sharp eyes before turning to the tailor.
“You have the clothing?”
“Yes,” the man nodded at the bundle in James’s hand, gaze still locked on Christine’s exposed pussy. “But it was slightly difficult. His body is ... unique.”
“That it is,” Anna agreed, a faint smile playing at her lips.
“I had to work around the sheer amount of muscle,” he continued. “Being stealthy for him is going to be complicated.”
James released his mother’s tit and shrugged. “I can be stealthy. A lot of it isn’t just about body—it’s form.”
Maddoc laughed, shaking his head. “True enough. Where would you like to try on your clothing?”
“Here”, James replied, already reaching for the bundled garments. Christine remained where she was, thighs parted just enough to keep herself on display, the faint scent of sex still clinging to her skin. Maddoc’s eyes flicked back to her one last time before he turned to unpack the pieces.
James slipped into the new garments with practiced ease, Maddoc stood nearby, ready to adjust seams.
First came the fitted black tunic, tailored close to emphasize rather than hide his hulking frame—thick cords of muscle shifting beneath fine wool, broad chest and shoulders straining the fabric just enough to hint at the power underneath. Dark leather bracers buckled over his massive forearms, etched with subtle reinforcement runes for added strength and protection. A heavy cloak of midnight wool draped his back, falling in clean lines to his calves, its deep hood casting dramatic shadow over his scarred face when pulled forward.
Trousers of reinforced doeskin hugged tree-trunk thighs, tucked into high black boots polished to a discreet gleam. At his groin, a molded steel codpiece—practical protection disguised as formal accent—curved protectively over his heavy cock and balls, giving an imposing, almost regal bulge beneath the cloak’s fall.
The overall effect was striking: no longer a bare-chested barbarian, but a towering lord of shadow and muscle. The clothes refined his bulk without diminishing it; every movement rippled with controlled menace, the cloak swirling like dark wings.
Christine watched from the side, a small, involuntary smile softening her bruised lips at the sight of her son transformed into something commanding yet elegant. Anna circled slowly, eyes sharp, cooing approval as she traced the cloak’s hem and tested the bracers’ fit. Her fingers lingered on the codpiece’s edge, noting how it protected without awkwardness.
“You know she doesn’t look happy.”
Despite James’ years of training, even now his heightened senses were razor sharp; he never got used to Subotai sneaking up on him. The thief materialised from the shadows near the hearth like smoke, silent boots on the worn floorboards.
“Sub.”
“James,” the thief said as people filtered out, the last lingering customers shuffling through the door, casting wary glances back at the scene they’d witnessed.
“What do you mean?”
“The way you fucked her,” he shook his head, eyes flicking toward Christine. She sat slumped on the bench, thighs pressed tightly together, trying to hide the glistening mess between them. Fresh bruises darkened her heavy tits; her nipples were still swollen and red from rough handling. A faint sheen of sweat cooled on her skin, and the sharp scent of piss and cum hung around her like a cloud. “I know she means something to you, something you couldn’t either get, or wanted and she didn’t know. But you’re acting like an asshole.”
“Am not.”
“Are too,” Subotai grabbed a tankard from the bar, filled it from the half-empty ale barrel, and took a long swig, foam clinging to his moustache. “All of them, you fucked Suki blind.”
“She liked it.”
“Maybe,” Subotai wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “but sex, even with slaves, is a repeat business. Even if they are slaves, it’s still nicer when they want it.”
James nodded slowly, gaze drifting back to Christine. Her shoulders were hunched, eyes fixed on the floorboards, lips pressed thin. “True, but an asshole?”
Subotai cackled, the sound sharp in the quieting lounge. “James, we’ve known each other a long time now, so trust me when I say, ‘asshole.’”
He sighed.
“Fine,” he said, folding his arms. The new black wool stretched tight across his chest and shoulders, seams whispering under the strain of his bulk. “How?”
“You’re brutal to all of them,” Sub said, shrugging, leaning back against the bar like he owned it. “These aren’t some random cunts thrown into your cage after killing some guy. These are women you’re going to own.”
“Own.”
Sub corrected himself without missing a beat. “Already own. You want her to suck your dick?”
“Of course.”
“Daily. But do you want her to willingly suck your dick?”
“Of course,” James threw his hands up, exasperation cracking his voice like a sulky boy denied a toy. The cloak flared with the motion, dark fabric snapping before settling again around his massive frame.
Subotai inclined his head casually, utterly unfazed by the flash of temper. He was perhaps one of the few men who could speak to James with such brutal honesty without fearing reprisal. Subotai knew the truth: James might be many things—brutal, vengeful, half-feral from the wheel—but loyal he was, completely. James would never lay a hand on him. Never.
Sub took another slow pull from his tankard, letting the silence stretch just long enough for James to stew.
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