Night of Nights

Good evening, my dear!

Though whether it's good or not will only be clear by morning. But it will be unique, unforgettable, and fateful in any case, for tonight is the night of triumph for young Jane, the Night of Nights. She, Jane, was chosen by the High Council of Priests from a thousand contenders to offer her virginity as a sacrifice to the Supreme Lord. On the annual night of the great offering—the night of nights.

cloak... An untamable bull with curved horns, or a giant octopus that entwines the chosen maiden of the year with dozens of thick tentacles, inserting them into every conceivable orifice of the victim, its suckers clinging to her breast nipples, earlobes, and other delicate parts of the fragile maiden's body. And once, they say, He appeared to the Maiden of the Year in the form of a woman, slender and supple as a snake—but with enormous breasts and a huge male member protruding right above the entrance to the gates of pleasure. With which He, now She, shattered the unfortunate innocent victim...

But why guess about it in vain?! Very soon, the girl will learn it firsthand and accept her fate obediently and joyfully, as she has accepted everything that has already happened to her. For to become the chosen maiden of the year is the greatest honor. Her parents have already received from the treasury such a sum in gold that it will be enough for both to live comfortably until their very end. And Jane herself... Everything now depends only on her. If she fails to please the Lord—she will be sent to a monastery for seven years by morning. But if she succeeds...

The maiden who pleased, who satisfied the king, would become his queen and co-ruler for a year. She could herself execute and pardon, reward and elevate those close to her... And for such an occasion, one can make an effort. Especially since young Jenny's virginity was genuine, not hastily stitched up by the nearest healer, as had happened now and then over the long years of the royal custom.

And now she stood, holding her breath, in the chambers specially intended for this ceremony, and impatiently awaited the first stroke of the clock.

Just moments ago, the priestesses had spent nearly an hour and a half preparing the Bride of the Year for her moment of triumph. They washed her in seven fragrant waters, anointed her, styled her hair—and then dressed her. And now she wore the traditional attire, shrouded in centuries-old custom. Snow-white lace panties hid nothing, only embellishing the lips visible through them and the virginally pure pubis, the down above which even an eagle could not discern, and only a thief trained to crack safes could feel with a hand. The same was true of the lace bra, gently embracing her ample, yet very firm and high-set breasts.

On her legs—lace silk stockings, also white, pulled up almost to her very thighs by elegant garters the color of sparkling mountain ice. Modest, ivory-colored shoes with a small heel, thankfully the Creator had not shortchanged the girl in height. And over everything—a long, sleeveless white dress, matching lace gloves up to the elbows, and... Not quite a veil, not quite a cape, but a thin, transparent veil covering the face of the Lord's Bride. A pale pink, pearlescent shade of lipstick completed this image of Innocence being offered as a sacrifice.

And only a single detail contrasted with this appearance and from the very beginning marked her belonging to the ruler: a golden pendant with a huge black diamond, which the high priestess had fastened on her belt. On her bare body, beneath all these garments. And now this amulet was already emitting an invisible heat, sensing the approach of its master and filling Jenny's body with new, unfamiliar, and incomprehensible sensations. Is this what it feels like to want a man?

And so you stand frozen now before the door to an unknown future, which is about to swing open before you in a moment. Timid and proud, fearful and fearless, innocent and yet filled with the most sinful thoughts imaginable. Meanwhile, the clock has already begun its intricate chime, heralding the arrival of midnight. And as the last clear bell rings out, you freeze in tense anticipation...

Boom!

With the first strike, the door swings open as if swept away by an explosion. specially for .org A sharp gust of wind sweeps the veil from Jane, and she clearly sees her lord as he wished to appear before her today: a man of middle age and barely average height... But nothing else about the Black Lord is average. Curly, jet-black hair falls to his shoulders in large locks. A black leather suit tightly hugs his muscular body, revealing considerable physical strength. And his piercing brown eyes—considerable spiritual, mental strength. Such a man can enchant, bewitch, subjugate with a single movement of his little finger...

Boom!

The king makes this movement simultaneously with the second strike of the clock. And obeying this magical gesture, the richly adorned bride's dress opens and falls at her feet, leaving the embarrassed girl in nothing but her underwear—so innocent and so sinful at the same time. And is she truly embarrassed, or is it merely the husk of "proper," in quotes, upbringing received from her parents?

Boom!

With the third strike, Jane understands that this is indeed the case: along with the outer coverings, under the magic of the Black Lord—today her and only her lawful lord—the inner coverings also dissolve. The coverings of shame, fear, self-doubt...

Boom!

With the fourth strike of the clock, the beautiful shoes of tonight's princess also vanish into oblivion. Jane now feels a pleasant tickling in her soles, touching now the oak parquet, now the heavy, plush carpet, as the girl uncertainly shifts from foot to foot, awaiting the next strike of the clock and the next wonders. And somewhere deep between her legs and slightly above, a new, unfamiliar, but very exciting feeling begins to sprout.

Boom!

Now the snow-white stockings slide off Jenny's legs, bestowing a final caress of gentle sliding along her thighs. The smoldering little flame between them begins to slowly ignite. And Jane only just has time to think that of all her clothing, only her panties and bra remain on her, when...

Boom!

With the sixth strike of the clock, they too fly off the girl, leaving Jenny in her pristine beauty, only the amulet with the black diamond hanging on her belt, preserving the feeling of belonging to the Black Lord and connection to him. And he, who had been standing before her at a distance of three steps and silently observing the results of his sorcery... The man clad in black leather, with one gliding leap, is next to Jane and, confidently taking her shoulders in his hands, sinks his full, sensual lips into her own, maidenly and unawakened.

From the touch of the leather suit, in which her astral spouse for tonight is clad, to her own bare skin, everything inside the girl turns over. And the man, the master and ruler, freezes for an infinitely long second in the kiss, then steps back again three paces.

— The princess's time is up, it's time to become a queen, my dear Jane!

Boom!

With the seventh strike of the clock bell, white decisively gives way to black. Up the legs of the bewildered but utterly intrigued girl fly black fishnet tights with a neatly crafted opening between the legs. "A delight for the eyes and hands beyond measure, but nothing will hinder the impending penetrations!" — Jane understands to herself, because physical innocence is no obstacle to mental depravity, and the girl had been clever and well-read beyond her years since childhood.

Boom!

After the eighth strike, little Jenny, who is far from little anyway, becomes about six centimeters taller. Becomes in the literal sense—that is the height of the heels of the elegant black sandals now on her feet. And again, and again: the Bride of the Black Lord seems dressed, in black, but this clothing is almost entirely composed of holes and openings.

Boom!

The ninth strike? Oh Almighty, already the ninth... The girl finds herself already packaged in a corset, or a bodysuit... In short, a black lace something, embracing Jane's slender, firm torso and slightly digging its straps into her shoulders, but flaring out from the hips. Sometimes this is also called a baby-doll. But this garment merely outlines Jenny's ample breasts from the outside in a circle, allowing them to spill forward and opening them to male caresses.

Some new, unexplored, and unbridled desires sprout in Jane and burst to get out, still tightly sealed by the taut membrane of virginity.

— But it won't be for long, — she thinks hopefully. Only three more strikes!

Boom!

The tenth strike of the clock does not keep itself waiting. Jane is already fully attired for her enthronement and anointing to reign. She even suspects with what, with what chrism she will be anointed, and is already all moist in anticipation of that enchanting moment lasting an eternity.

Her lord is beside her, he delicately turns Jane with her back to him and places her on her knees. The girl's nipples, open to the whole universe, rub against the furry bearskin, desire becomes frantic...

Boom!

The penultimate, eleventh strike of the bell... The palms of the Black Lord, her spouse for tonight, rest on the girl's tightly sheathed buttocks in the tights and part the lower lips—succulent, hot, swollen. Both are wound up to the limit; if anything remained anywhere on the man's leather suit, it certainly isn't here and now. She feels how enormous and tense his armor-piercing battering ram is, preparing to shatter the gates of her fortress. And he knows that this fortress is not just ready, but simply dreams of surrendering to the mercy of the victor. Only the last step, the last strike remains. But now finally...

Boom!

With the twelfth strike of the clock, two furious cries—male and female—merge into one, and the fragile membrane of innocence bursts under the onslaught of the man to whom both this right and she herself belong. Both climax almost immediately and simultaneously, choking on frantic pleasure. For the first time, Jane experiences within herself both the firmness of the male member filling her and the tight, life-giving stream of seed. And she likes it! Damn, how she likes it. So much that she almost loses consciousness, fading in the paroxysms of orgasm.

And only with the edge of her mind does she manage to hear the man's voice, hoarse with pleasure. Her man. Her Black Lord. A voice that whispers in her ear:

— Michael. Call me Michael.