A Completely Different Day in the X-Harem [pt. I]

The vanity mirror gave Rogue the whole cruel truth in one gold-lit piece.

Bare belly. Bare hips. Bare legs. Bare shoulders. Bare TITS. She was naked, save for a tiny green-and-gold g-string pulled high on her hips. It was the latest design from the palace tailors, who seemed to have a demented hobby of branding each of them with their own names in glittering, tacky lettering. The front was a laughably small triangle of glossy fabric trimmed in gold, with ROGUE written across it in yellow, right where no decent Southern girl would ever put her name. Rogue had spent the last five minutes adjusting it until it sat perfect.

She turned to check the curve of her ass. It was round and heavy, framed by the thong like Markanda had built a shrine and put a velvet rope around it.

"Well," she murmured, "if Ah'm gonna be state property, Ah might as well be a damn landmark."

Rogue had always been built, possessing Southern excess in human form with a narrow waist, wide hips, and heavy, dramatic breasts that demanded attention.

They weren't sweaty now, but she remembered how it felt in her old, skin- tight suit. That armor had been stifling. hot, and perpetually damp. She'd worn it because if she couldn't be touched, she could at least be appreciated. She'd thrived on those ogling male eyes back then, knowing they were weak as kittens compared to her, and their wandering gazes were effectively hitting a brick wall.

Now, every other day, Zola and Nala, two soft-handed Markandan maids, treated her breasts like sacred artifacts. They slathered her in oil and kneaded the pale, heavy flesh until she was slick and perfectly conditioned. Rogue gave her tits a testing bounce. They responded with a weight that felt both sinful and entirely her own.

She rolled her shoulders back and let them hang heavy, fully exposed. The maids kept her baby- smooth, but they couldn't shave away her magnitude. Somewhere out there, millions were watching her inspect her own tits like a showgirl checking stage lighting.

A couple of weeks ago, that thought would have curdled her stomach. Now, a slick certainty slid through her mind: If they're gonna broadcast me, Ah'm damn well gonna give 'em somethin' worth watchin.

It was pride.

Southern pride. Showmanship. Stubbornness with lipstick on. You did not invite an audience over and serve them leftovers, and Rogue had never been the kind of woman to shuffle onto any stage looking half-done. If Markanda wanted to turn her into a spectacle, then fine. She would make sure the spectacle had standards.

She turned before the mirror again, checking the green-and-gold strip at her hips, her huge bare tits hanging heavy above it, and the way the tiny fabric did absolutely nothing except frame the parts of her body Mark wanted everyone staring at.

“Too much?” she asked her reflection.

Her reflection looked back and smiled.

“Nah.”

She stepped closer to the mirror for one last bit of fussing. Not primping, exactly. Rogue did not primp. She prepared. She made sure the face looking back at her still belonged to Anna Marie under all the palace filth and gold-thread humiliation.

A thumb smoothed the edge of her makeup beneath one green eye. Her lips pressed together, then relaxed into a sly curve. Then she lifted both hands into her hair, fluffing the big brunette mane until it had the right storm-cloud volume. The white streaks had to fall just so: bold, bright, untamable, framing her face like lightning refusing to apologize for striking.

That was still hers.

The body in the mirror had been displayed. Dressed. Watched. Pushed into rituals and palace games.

But the hair? The attitude?

Still Rogue.

She gave her reflection one last look, chin tilted, eyes sharp.

“Maybe not enough.”

Satisfied, Rogue turned from the mirror and padded barefoot into the main lounge.

They were all gathered there, because there were only so many places to go.

Hank had been gone for days, supposedly “assigned” somewhere else, and the empty space where his blue-furred bulk usually sat made the room feel wrong.

Rogue crossed the room and sank onto the crescent couch, one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out. Her inhibitor necklace sat cool at her throat, a slim Markandan band of gold metal that should have made her furious every time she remembered it was there.

Should have.

Instead, she kept touching it like a charm.

That was the nastiest kindness Wakanda had done her. Markanda, she corrected silently, because the old name had started feeling less sturdy by the day. The inhibitor suppressed her skin enough that she could touch. Really touch. No gloves. No careful angles. No panic if someone’s hand lingered too long.

She could be kissed.

She could be held.

She could be fucked.

And Lord help her, she appreciated that.

She appreciated it enough that sometimes she hated herself for appreciating it, which was very on-brand for her, if she was being honest.

Across the room, Kitty had Gambit on his back on a low divan, one hand planted on his chest and the other gripping the edge of the cushion as she rode him with a bored, sweaty persistence that had started as a telepathic nudge about twenty minutes ago and settled into plain old fun. Remy’s purple g-string had been pushed down one thigh. Kitty’s blue-and-gold strip was looped around one ankle. Neither of them looked especially shocked by this state of affairs.

That was how far things had gone.

“Careful, chère,” Gambit murmured, trying to sound lazy while his hips kept jumping up to meet her. “You keep that rhythm, you might actually make me sweat.”

Kitty rolled her eyes, flushed and grinning. “Just lie there and look pretty, Remy. The talking ruins the illusion.”

“Speak for yourself,” Bobby said from the floor, where he had built an ice chess set and then lost interest halfway through. “I've hated him since Tuesday.”

Jubilee, sprawled upside down in a chair with her legs over the back, pointed a piece of fruit at him. “That's just 'cause he pulls off a g-string better than you, Drake.”

“I'm just saying, I've seen what he considers hygienic. It's a low bar.”

Rogue laughed before she could stop herself.

It came out warmer than she meant it to. Maybe because Kitty looked good bouncing on Remy. Maybe because Remy looked good pretending he wasn’t watching Rogue watch him. Maybe because part of her had started finding the whole mess funny in a way that would have horrified her a month ago.

She had fucked every dick in this room.

The thought popped up bright and absurd.

Logan. Remy. Bobby, who had spent the whole time looking like a deer in headlights, still half-terrified her skin was going to put him in a coma despite the collar. Piotr, blushing like a farm boy despite being built like a Soviet tank. She had never been the type to keep a scorecard, but Markanda had a way of whittling a girl down to her basest instincts.

And the wild thing was, she didn't even have to choose anymore.

She could keep Remy, tease Remy, love Remy, needle Remy until he looked like he wanted to either kiss her senseless or throw himself into the sea. And she could still ride Logan, because monogamy had become one more old-world rule that Markanda had slipped under the door and quietly set on fire.

She knew her own mind well enough to feel the slippery edges where her real thoughts ended and the palace's nudges began. The sudden thrill she got from flaunting Logan in front of Remy? The dark little spike of pleasure in her chest when that proud Cajun mouth went tight watching another man's hands on her? It didn't feel entirely like her. Or maybe it was her, just scraped raw and magnified by whatever the telepaths were feeding into the air vents.

Whatever it was, the hook was in deep. And Lord help her, she couldn't stop pulling on it.

A sharp, theatrical moan dragged her attention to the center of the room.

Amara was in the midst of an episode, dancing to the tune of whichever telepath was at the helm today.

Magma frog-squatted over a massive black-and-gold dildo suctioned to the floor, her red-and-yellow g-string pulled completely aside and caught in the sweat-slicked crease of one mocha-toned hip. The toy was ridiculous, fifteen inches if it was one, thick enough that the whole room had clocked it as Mark-sized the moment it appeared from whatever hidden drawer, tray, or pervert cabinet had supplied it. She held herself low over it, her thighs spread impossibly wide to accommodate the sheer, brutal girth of it.

The air around her shimmered.

That was the extra little unfairness of Amara’s powers. Even when the telepath had her acting like some deranged Nova Roman sex statue, her body still answered emotionally. The more worked up she got, the warmer the room became. Not a blast, not lava-form, not enough to burn anyone, but a dry, radiant heat that rolled off her in waves, like she was a campfire with tits instead of a lady bouncing on a dildo.

Her back was arched with queenly ferocity, thrusting her bare breasts forward, heavy, flushed dark with heat, her dark nipples tight and visibly aching with every jolt of her hips. It was an obscenely **** angle, displaying the wet, swollen stretch of her cunny completely opened and wrapped around the massive column of black silicone, swallowing it inch by glorious inch as she worked herself up and down in slow, deliberate bounces.

The lounge grew hotter by degrees. Sweat started shining on Bobby’s throat. Kitty’s hair clung damply to her cheeks as she kept moving on Gambit. Even Rogue felt it across the couch, that pleasant, smoky warmth blooming over her bare skin and making the gold-lit suite feel less like a prison lounge and more like a filthy bathhouse with silk cushions.

Her eyes were bright and not entirely hers.

Still Amara, though. Unfortunately for everyone.

“You are all failing to appreciate the grandeur of this achievement,” she announced, voice pitched with heavy Nova Roman offense.

Bobby put his face in both hands. “Here we go.”

Amara dropped lower, taking another inch with a gasp, then lifted her chin like she had just conquered a province. “Fifteen inches is not a vulgar novelty. It is a royal measure. A lesser woman would whimper. A Senator's daughter accepts the challenge of scale.”

Jubilee sat upright. “Did the dildo give her a speechwriter?”

Kitty slowed on Gambit, staring. “Amara, you're kind of scaring us.”

“I am resplendent,” Amara snapped, her eyes flashing white-hot for a second. “And you will say so.”

Piotr, standing nearby in his tiny red pouch, looked tortured by manners. “You are... very resplendent, Amara.”

“Louder, Peter.”

“You are very resplendent,” Piotr repeated dryly.

“Better.” Magma sank again, teeth flashing. “And my control is exquisite.”

Daisy, in her black-and-white SHIELD thong, sat with one arm across the back of a chair and her other hand pinching the bridge of her nose. “Her script is getting more aristocratic. That’s new.”

“It’s not new,” Bobby said. “It’s just getting better funded.”

Rogue glanced toward the balcony.

Logan was still outside doing his kata.

Nude, of course. Back to them, legs planted wide, heavy shoulders rolling as he moved through a slow, brutal sequence of strikes, blocks, turns, and low kicks.

Rogue watched him from the couch, unapologetically letting her gaze drag over the thick cords of muscle in his back before settling on the tight, incredible clench of his ass. From behind, his wide stance offered an easy, generous view of what hung between his thighs. Unlike the other boys in the room, who had much more manageable packages when relaxed; Logan was so thick, even flaccid, that the heavy swing of his cock and the low hang of his big nuts were impossible to miss with every pivot he made.

And then there was the hair. The Markandan maids were ruthless, coming through every morning to shave the rest of them, boys and girls alike, down to baby-smooth skin, leaving them looking like polished, pampered playthings. But no one had dared take a razor to Wolverine. He was still covered in that coarse, dark hair, an unapologetic alpha entirely comfortable in his own skin and giving zero fucks about modesty or the palace's pristine aesthetics. He moved through the forms with heavy, feral grace, his wide stance openly displaying exactly what he was working with. He looked half warrior, half animal, and all man.

Rogue watched the flex of his back and felt heat gather low in her belly.

She wondered if the telepaths were nudging that too.

Then she decided she did not care.

“Logan,” she called.

He finished the movement before answering. Always had to finish the movement. Then he turned his head just enough for her to see his profile. “What?”

“Amara says we ain’t appreciating her regal accomplishment.”

Logan looked over his shoulder at Magma, at the dildo, at the roomful of captives in g-strings, at Kitty still moving lazily on Gambit’s cock, and then at Rogue.

His face did something that was almost a smile.

“She’s doin’ great.”

Magma glared. “Great is insufficient.”

Logan stepped inside, sweat shining on his hairy chest. Some of it was from the kata. Some of it was Amara turning the lounge into a slow-roasting campfire circle with every bounce. He didn’t cover up. He didn’t turn away. He walked straight through the center of the room with the easy, heavy swing of a predator entirely comfortable in his territory. “Fine. You’re doin’ real great, princess.”

“Acceptable,” Amara breathed, shuddering as she settled lower.

Logan crossed the room and dropped onto the couch right beside Rogue, close enough that his bare thigh pressed against hers. He smelled like sweat and frustration. Before she could make a crack about him finally joining civilization, his arm slid around her shoulders and pulled her against him.

Possessive.

Blunt.

Very Logan.

Rogue let herself settle into it, all her soft abundance tucked against his hard side, her big breasts pressing into his ribs. She tilted her face up with a lazy smile.

“Well, hello to you too.”

He grunted. “You were starin’.”

“Was admirin’ your form.”

Logan’s eyes flicked across the room, landing dead on Gambit. A rough, territorial smirk curled the corner of his mouth.

His hand dropped from her shoulder to the front of her body, cupping one breast with casual, bruising confidence. Rogue inhaled sharply as his rough palm kneaded her, thumb dragging over her nipple until it tightened.

“Logan,” she murmured, not a warning.

He leaned down and kissed her.

It was not pretty. Logan didn't kiss like Remy. Remy was all smooth technique and practiced charm, making sure you noticed exactly how good he was at it. Logan just kissed like a starving man finally getting a meal. He took her mouth with rough heat, his stubble scratching her chin, his hand heavy on her tit, his other arm locked around her waist like he expected someone to try to pull her away.

Rogue kissed him back.

Openly. In front of everyone. Especially in front of Remy.

Across the divan, Gambit’s hips stuttered under Kitty.

Rogue heard it and smiled into Logan’s mouth.

There it was. That sweet little fracture in Remy’s rhythm. Her poor, pretty Cajun getting a front-row seat while Logan groped her tits and kissed her like she belonged in his lap.

Kitty looked down at Gambit, then followed his gaze. “Wow,” she said. “You are so distracted.”

“Remy is multitasking,” he said tightly.

“Badly.”

Logan broke the kiss, but he didn't pull away. He kept his hand firmly on Rogue's breast, lifting his head to lock eyes directly with Gambit. He didn't say a word, just let a slow, heavy smirk spread across his face as his thumb dragged over Rogue's nipple again, dragging a soft moan out of her.

Gambit’s jaw locked, his eyes burning red for a fraction of a second. "You blockin' the view, Logan," Remy muttered, though his voice lacked its usual smooth hum.

"Find a new view, swamp rat," Logan rumbled, settling back and pulling Rogue deeper into his lap.

That was when Jubilee slid in on Logan's free side.

Not subtly. Jubilee did not do jealousy subtly. She came sidling along the couch like a cat pretending not to need attention, yellow g-string bright, hair messy, eyes narrowed at Logan’s arm around Rogue and his hand on Rogue’s breast.

“Wow,” Jubilee said. “Cozy.”

Jubilee didn't just sit; she planted herself against Logan's other hip with all the grace of an anchor, her eyes locked on Rogue like she was counting the seconds until she could push her off. She didn't have much. Tiny, flat chest and no ass to speak of, but she had ambition.

“Hey, Daddy,” Jubilee chirped, her voice hitting that high, airy pitch she saved for when she wanted to be extra annoying. She leaned forward, pushing her face right into Logan’s lap and taking a deep, exaggerated inhale right against his cock and balls. “Mmm, you smell like sweaty junk. I love it.”

She looked up at Rogue, eyes gleaming with a bratty, triumphant challenge. “See? I’m claiming my territory too.”

Rogue just blinked, her expression coolly amused. She looked at the top of Jubilee’s head, then back to Logan, offering a look that clearly communicated Is she for real, sugar?

Bobby let out a choked laugh from the floor. “Unionize.”

Jubilee ignored him and leaned heavily into Logan’s shoulder, trying to elbow Rogue away while simultaneously keeping her face buried as close to Logan's groin as she could manage.

Logan looked from Rogue to Jubilee, feral possessiveness warring with his general irritability.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

Rogue laughed, full and rich, her chest bouncing under his hand.

Out in the center of the floor, Magma reached the base of the Mark-sized toy and threw her head back like a conquered queen accepting tribute.

“Now,” she demanded, voice shaking with pleasure and ridiculous dignity, “you may all praise me properly.”

“You’re magnificent, Amara,” Kitty called, still astride Gambit.

“A triumph of volcanic diplomacy,” Daisy added.

“Ten out of ten,” Bobby said.

Piotr nodded solemnly. “You are very brave.”

Out in the center of the floor, the heavy, invisible weight of the telepathic script suddenly snapped.

Amara froze mid-bounce. She blinked, the glassy, imperial haze clearing from her eyes in an instant, replaced by a wave of raw, burning mortification. A deep, embarrassed flush rushed over her mocha skin as she looked down at the massive black-and-gold toy she was currently impaled on, and then up at the room full of her teammates who had just been loudly cheering her on.

"Oh, my God," she whispered, her haughty accent entirely gone, leaving only the horrified tone of a young woman who had just realized what she'd been doing.

She scrambled up off the suctioned base, pulling her tiny g-string back into place with frantic hands. She practically sprinted toward the far wall to hide her face, leaving the ponderous, fifteen-inch toy wobbling and swinging from side to side in the center of the floor with a comical motion.

Before anyone could offer a comforting word or another sarcastic joke to cut the tension, the loud suite chime rang, signaling that someone was coming in.