The postcard arrived on a Monday that tasted like salt and old blood. Thick cream stock, gold border, no return address. Front: a photograph of our nursery taken from the smoke detector angle, Victor Jr. and Ruby standing in their cribs at 3:17 a.m., tiny hands raised in perfect salute. Back: three words in Victor's spidery script. "See you soon."
Isabella read it first, milk still beading on her nipples from Steel's dawn feed. She passed it to me without a word. Lila took it last, fingers trembling over the photo, green eyes wide. Emerald gurgled in her high chair, smearing banana across the tray like war paint.
We did not panic. Panic was for people who still believed in endings.
We traced the postcard. Paper from a stationer in Monaco. Postmark: Santorini. The yacht, renamed Ghost, had been spotted drifting in the Aegean for years, crew paid in cryptocurrency, captain changed monthly. Victor lived aboard like a king in exile, reputation shredded but pockets still deep from offshore shells we had missed.
He was coming home.
We prepared the only way we knew.
The dungeon became a war room and a wedding chapel in one. Walls lined with new toys: electrified cuffs, remote plugs, a fucking machine synced to stock tickers. The breeding bench was upgraded with restraints for three adults and two toddlers if the night ran long. Monitors in every corner now broadcast to our private cloud, red lights blinking proudly.
That night we celebrated survival. Babies down early, nannies tripled and armed. We locked the playroom door and descended.
Isabella wore white lace, crotchless, breasts bound in silk rope that forced milk to bead and drip. Lila in red latex, catsuit cut open at pussy and ass, bump of her fourth pregnancy just visible. I wore nothing but the gold watch and a leather harness that framed my cock like a threat.
We chained Lila to the cross first. Arms high, legs spread. Isabella circled with the violet wand, sparks dancing over nipples until Lila sobbed and squirted down her thighs. I knelt, mouth on her clit, tongue flicking in time with the shocks. She came screaming, milk spraying from untended breasts though she had weaned Emerald months ago. Body remembered.
Isabella took the bench next, legs in stirrups, pussy glistening. I entered slowly, hands on her rope-bound breasts, squeezing milk in arcs across Lila's body, still twitching on the cross. Lila watched, eyes hungry, fingers straining against cuffs. I fucked Isabella deep, whispering wedding vows renewed. "Till death parts us, and not even then."
She came clenching, walls milking, begging for seed. I gave it, flooding her, then pulled out and painted Lila's face from across the room, ropes of come landing perfectly on her open mouth.
We released Lila. She dropped to her knees, licked Isabella clean while I pegged her from behind, thick strap slick with both of them. Isabella fingered Lila's ass alongside the toy, stretching, preparing. When Lila came again, shaking apart, we switched. I took Isabella's ass while Lila wore the strap, double penetration slow and reverent, bodies rocking in ancient rhythm.
Hours blurred. Positions shifted like a tide. Swing for three, rotating slowly under red lights. I sat centred, cock in Isabella, strap in Lila, mouths on breasts, milk flowing. Came inside Isabella while Lila ground deep, her own climax muffled against my neck.
Aftercare in the big bed, sheets already soaked. We lie tangled, sweat and milk and come cooling, whispering strategy.
"He wants the children," Isabella said, voice steady. "He'll try the nursery first."
Lila traced the watch on my wrist. "We give him the nursery. But not empty."
We rigged it like a trap. Cribs wired with pressure sensors. Mobiles laced with tranquilliser darts. Smoke detectors loaded with knockout gas. Monitors set to livestream his entry to every board member, every rival, every tabloid that still feared us.
He came at 3:17 a.m. exactly, because Victor always loved symbolism.
Ghost yacht docked at a private pier in Red Hook, tender rowed silently to the service entrance. He climbed the freight elevator alone, arrogance or desperation. Wore black tactical, face aged ten years in five, eyes wild with bourbon and revenge.
The nursery door opened softly. He stepped inside, gun low, whispering names like prayers. "Victor… Ruby…"
Lights snapped on. Red flood.
He froze.
The cribs were occupied, but not by children.
Isabella sat in one, legs over the rail, white lace nightgown hiked, pussy bare. Lila in the other, red latex peeled to waist, breasts leaking. I stood between, naked, cock hard, gold watch catching the light.
"Welcome home, Victor."
He raised the gun. Clicked empty. We had unloaded it hours ago through the captain we still paid better.
Isabella smiled slowly. "Missed us?"
He lunged. I met him halfway. Fists again, older now, slower, but hate timeless. We crashed into the rocking chair, wood splintering. Lila vaulted the crib, tackled from behind, knees in his back. Isabella followed, needle in hand, the sedative we used on unruly subs.
He went down heavy, eyes rolling.
We dragged him to the dungeon. Chained spread-eagled to the cross he once threatened us from in fantasy. Stripped him bare. Body softer, scars from the warehouse night faded but there.
He woke to the violet wand on his balls.
"Remember this?" Isabella asked, sparks dancing.
Lila held the camera, red light steady. "Smile for the archive."
We worked him slowly. Ice on nipples. Hot wax on cock. Isabella rode his face while I flogged his thighs, her juices smothering screams. When he broke, sobbing apologies, begging for the children he never deserved, we gave him mercy of a kind.
I entered Isabella on the breeding bench, slow and deep, eyes locked on Victor's. Lila pegged him beside us, strap thick, thrusts punishing. He came untouched, shame flooding his face with tears and spend.
We recorded everything. Sent the feed to his remaining allies with a simple message: Hale-Voss Holdings thanks you for your cooperation.
Dawn found him on the yacht again, tender waiting, the captain paid triple to sail nowhere forever. A final gift: a tablet loaded with live feeds of the nursery, the dungeon, our bed. He would watch, but never touch.
We made love in the wreckage of the nursery, cribs pushed aside, bodies slick with milk and victory. Isabella on her back, legs wide, taking me deep while Lila nursed from her, then switched, my mouth on Lila's breast, cock in Isabella's ass. Came inside both, sealing the night.
The children woke to breakfast as if nothing had happened. Victor Jr. asked for pancakes shaped like yachts. Ruby demanded red syrup.
The empire stood taller. Stock hit an all-time high on rumours of a "hostile takeover resolved."
Sex became a celebration. Daily. Hourly. In boardrooms, on yachts of our own, in the nursery after lights out, quiet and reverent, milk flowed while babies dreamed.
Victor watched from his floating prison, tablet chained to his wrist, red light blinking eternal punishment.
The family is unbreakable.
Two queens. Four children. One king.
And the yacht that never sinks, carrying its ghost forever.