The Hundred Heirs
Copyright© 2026 by Victoria Kane
Chapter 3: The First Twenty
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3: The First Twenty - One woman. One week. One hundred masked men. The Institute demands heirs from the world’s most powerful bloodlines. Victoria Kane is the Vessel they chose. She has other plans. Raw group ritual. Power reversal. Legacy mindfuck. No escape. No mercy.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction FemaleDom Humiliation Group Sex Orgy Interracial Black Male White Male White Female Oriental Male Hispanic Male Indian Male Cream Pie Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Pregnancy Voyeurism
The chamber door sealed behind Number 1 with a soft, final click.
Victoria lay strapped to the OBGYN chair: legs locked wide in the stirrups, wrists and ankles secured, black silk blindfold absolute. The internal camera hummed gently inside her; its thin lens fed live 4K footage to the massive screen in the viewing gallery. There the remaining ninety-nine masked men waited in perfect silence. A shallow stainless-steel tray gleamed beneath her, already chilled, ready to catch every drop that escaped.
Inside her blindfold, the briefing display flashed:
Number 1
Lord Archibald Harrington. 62. British banking dynasty. Married 40 years, four daughters, desperate for a male heir. Secret breeding fetish: pays escorts extra to go raw. Cock: 6.8 inches, heavy foreskin, always leaks pre-cum copiously.
Victoria smiled beneath the silk.
“Number 1,” she purred. Her voice echoed through the chamber’s speakers into the gallery, calm and intimate. “Don’t be shy. I’ve been waiting.”
Harrington approached. His breathing came ragged behind the modulator. He freed himself: thick, veiny, foreskin peeled back to reveal a glistening head already weeping. He entered her in one firm entry, groaning at the slick heat that welcomed him without resistance.
Victoria clenched deliberately.
“That’s it, Archie,” she whispered, loud enough for the gallery to hear every syllable. “Your wife thinks you’re at a board meeting in London. Imagine her face when this heir calls me Mother.”
He faltered for a heartbeat then thrust harder.
Victoria laughed softly.
“Four daughters and no son. All that money. All that legacy. And you still need me to give you what she couldn’t.”
His rhythm turned desperate. Hips snapped forward; foreskin slid with wet, obscene sounds. Pre-cum mixed with her arousal in long strings that dripped into the tray below.
She narrated for the camera and the watchers.
“Feel how wet I am already, Lord Harrington? That’s the anticipation of one hundred loads. Yours is just the first.”
He came fast. Thick, copious surges pulsed deep; his body shook as he emptied everything he had saved for decades. Victoria milked him through it, inner walls rippling with deliberate control.
“Good boy. Leave it all inside.”
He pulled out slowly, warmth already leaked in lazy white trails toward the tray.
“Time’s up, Number 1.”
He left, spent, shoulders hunched beneath the robe.
“Number 2, enter.”
The pace was relentless.
Number 2 — a Silicon Valley venture capitalist, forty-eight, three ex-wives, serial seed donor to surrogates — lasted eight minutes under her taunts about his current trophy wife’s plastic surgery. Victoria described the wife’s augmented breasts in clinical detail while he thrust; he finished with a choked curse and collapsed forward.
Number 3, a Saudi prince in his late fifties, came in four minutes flat, humiliated by her soft mockery of his harem: “So many wives, so few sons. Perhaps your blood prefers foreign soil.”
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