The Hundred Heirs
Copyright© 2026 by Victoria Kane
Chapter 6: Final Night
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 6: Final Night - 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 sixth day ended with Number 97 withdrawing, his load adding to the dense flood already leaking from her. Victoria lay in the OBGYN chair: blindfolded, strapped wide, body trembling from the week’s relentless assault. Ninety-seven men had bred her raw. The collection tray beneath her brimmed once more: a creamy white lake from the day’s final dozen. Her pussy remained permanently open; swollen, glistening, warmth dripped in a steady stream that cooled on contact with the chilled steel below. The internal camera captured every detail in unsparing 4K: her cervix coated with viscous release, pulsing faintly with each aftershock. The gallery watched in absolute silence. Ninety-seven masked figures barely breathed.
Only three men remained.
The door opened for the penultimate time.
“Number 98, enter. Twenty minutes.”
Number 98 – The Right Honourable Sir Edward Langley, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom
The scent of bespoke Savile Row wool and old-money cologne preceded him. Tall, broad-shouldered, voice modulator unable to fully mask the clipped Etonian vowels.
Victoria’s briefing flashed:
Sir Edward Langley. 58. Publicly three children. Privately zero biological heirs — all donor-conceived. Sponsors natalist bills to “save the British birth rate.” Imperial breeding fetish.
She smiled slow.
“Prime Minister,” she purred. “The man who begs British women to breed for King and Country ... yet couldn’t give his own wife a single true heir.”
He froze. Then growled low.
She continued, voice soft and venomous.
“All those speeches. Tax breaks for mothers, ‘rebuild the bloodline,’ ‘Empire 2.0.’ And here you are, reduced to fucking a bound colonial subject like the old days. Do it properly, Edward. Fuck me for Britain. Plant the flag deep.”
His hands gripped her thighs hard enough to bruise: possessive, imperial. Skin hot against her cooler flesh. Breath ragged against her neck. The faint tremor of a man who had commanded nations now reduced to raw need.
“And while you’re at it, remember your anti-immigration rants. Closing borders, sending boats back. Yet here you are, balls-deep in foreign territory, desperate to seed it. Hypocrite much? Breed the immigrant you’d deport, Prime Minister. Make me swell with your unwanted English legacy.”
He entered her in one brutal push. Groaned at the slick heat of ninety-seven loads. The wet sound of entry filled the quiet hall. Her body yielded with a soft, obscene squelch. Heat enveloped him completely.
“That’s it, sir. Colonise me. Show the Empire what English seed can do when it’s not watered down by donors.”
Langley’s rhythm turned savage. Hips snapped with military precision. Each thrust a conquest. Sweat beaded on his aristocratic brow; dripped onto her skin. The air thickened with overpowering closeness.
“Take it ... take British steel ... rebuild the fucking bloodline...” he snarled through the modulator.
Victoria’s taunts sharpened.
“Harder, Prime Minister. Your Parliament wives aren’t watching now. Give me what you deny your nation. Real volume, real potency. Or admit the great British virility is just another myth.”
He roared, pace turning frenzied.
“For King ... for Country ... breed the vessel ... breed her full...”
He came with a guttural bellow: enveloping, endless surges deep inside, body rigid as he held himself buried to the hilt.
But he stayed hard.
Ten minutes in, he began again: grinding, claiming. Skin slick against hers. Breath hot and ragged. The wet sounds of renewed thrusting filled the hall.
“Empire ... endures...” he chanted between thrusts.
Second release even heavier, overflowing immediately into the tray.
Victoria orgasmed around him, milking every drop.
“Good boy. That’s how you save the birth rate.”
The buzzer sounded.
He withdrew with reluctance, his seed gushing into the tray.
“Number 99, enter.”
Number 99 – Lucas Brandt, German Tech Billionaire
The door opened to the faint whir of a high-end smartwatch and the crisp scent of minimalist cologne. Lean, precise movements; like a machine calibrating.
Briefing:
Lucas Brandt. 49. AI-healthcare pioneer. Funds reproductive rights NGOs. Secretly impregnates elite women via hacked fertility data. 30+ unacknowledged heirs.
Victoria’s voice was hoarse silk.
“The ethical innovator. Mr. Data Privacy himself. Preaching consent while hacking women’s cycles to seed them in secret.”
He paused. Then chuckled low, controlled, calculating.
He approached the internal camera first. Adjusted it slightly for a better angle on her flooded centre.
Then he freed himself: already hard, veined, efficient.
He entered her precisely: one measured thrust that hit her cervix dead-on.
Victoria arched. Moaned.
“All those TED Talks: ‘AI for good,’ ‘protecting user data.’ Yet here you are: treating my womb like your personal server. Upload it all, Lucas. Optimise me with your loads.”
His rhythm was clinical at first. Deep, timed strokes. Eyes fixed on the camera feed.
“Scanning ... fertility peak confirmed ... conception odds: ninety-nine point seven percent...” he murmured. Voice modulator added a robotic edge.
She mocked louder.
“Harder, genius. Hack my body like you hack those apps. Track every surge. Every drop. Flood the system with your superior code. Or admit your ethics are just venture capital bullshit.”
Control fractured.
He thrust faster. Hands on her hips like anchoring a device.
“Uploading ... batch one ... elite sequences integrating...” he growled.
First climax at seven minutes: precise, voluminous surges in calculated bursts.
He kept going.
“Recalibrating ... deeper penetration required...”
Second release heavier; timed to her clench.
Victoria convulsed in orgasm.
“Yes ... drown the data ... make me your perfect project...”
He gripped the chair arms. Leaned in.
“Batch three ... full saturation...”
Third climax at sixteen minutes. Body shuddered as he overloaded her. Semen spilled everywhere.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.