Evil MC's NTR Harem

Jane met Ross that night at the same luxurious suite where it all began.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, reality seemed to shift.

He didn't speak—not at first. He only stared at her, his eyes burning with hunger.

Jane stood frozen, breath shallow, her heart pounding with anticipation.

She knew she shouldn't be here. She knew what she was risking.

And yet, none of that mattered.

All that mattered was him.

Ross crossed the room in two long strides and seized her lips with his, kissing her deeply, hungrily, as if the days apart had been unbearable torment.

Their clothes disappeared in a blur of movement, urgency overtaking restraint, and within moments, he had her pinned beneath him once more.

What followed could hardly be called lovemaking—it was worship and domination intertwined.

Ross fucked her like a man on a mission, pushing her body past its limits again and again.

Jane moaned and screamed, clawing at the sheets, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist as wave after wave of climax tore through her.

Her pussy gushed like a fountain with each powerful thrust, soaking the bed beneath them as her body surrendered completely to his mastery.

She came until her voice was hoarse, her limbs weak, and still Ross didn't stop.

His stamina was inhuman, his hunger endless, and he brought her to places she didn't know existed—depths of pleasure so intense she cried and laughed and begged all at once.

When he finally came, it was with a roar that echoed like thunder through the room.

He filled her to overflowing, spilling deep inside her like a king reclaiming his throne.

And yet... that wasn't the end.

It never was.

Their affair didn't fade with dawn or guilt. It deepened. Expanded. Intensified.

Ross claimed Jane as his mistress—not in the open, but in the shadows of a world he alone controlled.

No one knew. No one could know. And that was by design.

Ross wasn't a normal man. He wielded reality like a sculptor wields clay.

With a thought, he could erase text messages, cloud surveillance footage, bend time to stretch hours into whole nights just for the two of them.

When Jane left his presence, no trace remained—no scent on her skin, no mark on her soul visible to others.

Even her phone would show she had never left home.

To the outside world, Jane remained the loyal wife, supporting her husband through hard times, quietly adjusting to a modest life.

But beneath the mask of her mundane reality, she lived a second life—a life of sin, indulgence, and secret ecstasy.

Ross would summon her with a single message, and she would come every time, legs trembling, heart racing, dripping with need before they even touched.

Their encounters became routine, yet never lost their fire.

She was his whenever he wanted—on balconies under moonlight, in penthouse pools, on silk sheets soaked with her pleasure.

Every part of her belonged to him now.

And Ross?

He lived like a god.

There were no limits. No rules. No consequences. With his reality-bending powers, he shaped the world around his desires.

Business meetings bent to his will. Enemies forgot they existed.

And Jane—sweet, submissive Jane—became the living symbol of his ultimate control.

To Ross, this was perfection: unlimited pleasure, unquestioned dominance, and a beautiful woman helplessly addicted to him.

He had it all.

And he wasn't giving it up.

Not ever.

***

While Ross Oakley indulged in a life of decadence, pleasure, and unchecked power, the world beyond his carefully shaped domain was still watching—more intently than ever.

Far from the public eye, in an undisclosed location buried beneath a mountain range, a high-level intelligence briefing was underway.

The room was cold and silent, the air humming with tension.

Men and women in tailored suits sat around a sleek, oval table illuminated only by the glow of digital projectors.

On the center screen, a paused image of Ross—smiling, shirtless in a pool, one arm around a laughing woman—was frozen in time.

A man in his forties stood near the front, clearly frustrated.

"I'm sorry, sir," he began, glancing toward the head of the table. "Our agents couldn't even make it off the tarmac. The moment they landed on U.S. soil, they were flagged. All of them. No charges. No interrogation. Just quietly deported within the hour."

He swallowed hard before adding, "It's as if the system itself rejected them."

A tense silence followed.

The man at the head of the table, an older gentleman with snow-white hair and a face carved by experience, leaned back slowly.

He was dressed in a dark suit, impeccably pressed, his silver cufflinks catching the light as he steepled his fingers in thought.

"Curious," he said softly. "Very curious. It would appear Ross Oakley's influence has surpassed our expectations." He tapped one finger against his chin.

"We have vastly underestimated his influence." He looked around the table, eyes sharp.

"We thought him too small but this... this is systemic. This is national."

One of the analysts spoke up nervously, "Sir, are you suggesting that… the United States is protecting him? That he's managed to manipulate entire branches of government?"

"Not just manipulate," the old man said coldly. "He may have embedded himself in the very DNA of their institutions. Legal frameworks. Surveillance algorithms. Decision-making protocols."

The room went utterly quiet.

Then the old man stood up.

"For all intents and purposes, it's as if America itself is shielding Ross Oakley from our reach. That's no longer just a concern." He walked slowly toward the screen, staring at the image of Ross. "That's a threat."

One of the younger operatives frowned. "But why, sir? Why hide in plain sight? If he has this level of power, why not simply dominate everything openly?"

The old man turned, his gaze icy. "Because smart monsters don't roar. They whisper."

Another pause.

Then the order came, sharp and decisive.

"Keep pushing. Get creative. Send in proxies—mercenaries, civilians, influencers. Set bait. Use corrupted nodes, off-grid channels. I don't care what it takes. Leak controlled misinformation, spread digital honeytraps, find pressure points. Buy off his lovers. Follow his patterns. Find a crack."

His voice dropped lower, more dangerous.

"I want eyes and ears on Ross Oakley. No matter the cost."

"Copy that, sir." The reporting officer gave a quick nod and turned to leave.