The Rise of Golden Armor?

Now. The Wuzunde Estate. Golden Tribe District. Birnan Zana.

The morning sun, like a golden predator, stalked across the Markandan skyline, its rays finally forcing their way through Hisako Wuzunde's open window.

Hisako, a vision of delicate beauty, stretched languidly, her bare form a testament to the Markandan disregard for modesty. Golden bracelets and anklets were her only accessories. The humid air clung to her flawless, porcelain skin, highlighting the graceful curves of a body built for agility rather than raw power. Her raven hair, meticulously cared for by her devoted sister, tumbled down her back in a cascade of glistening ebony. Her pussy, a delicate triangle nestled between the toned muscles of her thighs, was a silent declaration of her womanhood, a womanhood that held the sacred duty of carrying forth the mutant bloodline. But it was her face, with its delicate features and eyes the color of deep pools of obsidian, that truly set her apart. A stark contrast to the rich, dark complexions that dominated Markandan society, Hisako's Asian features were a badge of honor, a sign of the Panther Goddess' favor.

Her birth, shrouded in whispers and legends, was a constant source of awe within the Golden Tribe. Born of a prominent family known for their unwavering loyalty to King Mark Williams, Hisako's arrival nineteen years ago marked a momentous occasion. While both her mother, Tamwea, and older sister, Manebi, possessed a typical Markandan physique – dark skin, broad features, ample curves, and breasts that rivaled overflowing clay jars – Hisako emerged with the fairest skin, the slender grace of a willow and the delicate features of a faraway land. This anomaly was the blessing of Bast herself, an early unmistakable sign of Hisako's mutant status.

This blessing came at a price, albeit a small one. As Manebi did not manifest any mutant power at puberty, she would never be the heir apparent. But Manebi harbored no resentment. Instead, she showered her younger sister with an almost obsessive devotion. Their days were spent in a constant state of pampering and adoration. Nudity, a cultural norm in the ever-warm Markandan climate, felt natural, a state of being rather than a conscious choice. Hisako's slender form, a stark contrast to her sister and mother's voluptuous curves, was a source of constant fascination. Her tiny breasts, adorned with barely-there pink nipples, seemed almost exotic compared to the generous swells that graced her family.

The line between familial affection and a more primal urge often blurred. Daily grooming rituals where the female members of the family ensured no hair remained anywhere on their lower bodies often transcended mere cleanliness. Hisako would lie with her legs splayed, her smooth, hairless mound exposed, while her mother's large tongue would explore every curve with practiced ease. Manebi, meanwhile, would find herself drawn to the delicate scent of her sister's skin, her lips trailing a path of fire down Hisako's slender throat before finding solace in the shy folds of her younger sibling's vulva.

That every mutant receive the worship and care in proportion to the way they were treated in the heathen outside world was a central tenant of their culture and it informed their every action towards her.

Their father, a mere human in a world of cherished mutants, remained on the periphery, his role limited to providing for his family and ensuring their continued comfort. Hisako's womb, and by extension Tamwea and Manebi's, was reserved for a far greater purpose – the propagation of the mutant bloodline, the lifeblood of their glorious nation. (Both daughters having been fathered by anonymous mutants bulls during sacred breeding ceremonies, of course).

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she stretched, the movement sending ripples across her taut six-pack bearing abdomen. Her gaze drifted across her room, taking in the familiar sights, face that held the serenity of one at peace with her place in the world.

In one corner of the room stood an antique set of Dora Milaje armor on a display stand, a potent representation of her family's influence. That they doted on their precious mutant daughter was an understatement – a famous set of samurai armor worn by Oda Nobunaga himself had been acquired by her father from Japan and was even now being shipped here for Hisako's approaching birthday just because of his daughter's open fascination with that primitive foreign land.

Across from the window, a curious sight basked in the morning light. A thick club, upon closer inspection, revealed itself as a massive dildo, a replica sculpted in the image of King Mark's legendary member. Veins like fat worms bulged along its surface, and the broad, jutting glans mimicked every detail of the King's endowment. This wasn't a toy used by Hisako, not yet. Her family, true believers, held to the tradition that a woman's first encounter with the King's grandeur should be the real thing. This, of course, was a privilege reserved for daughters of prominent families, and the Wuzundes, a cornerstone of the Golden Tribe, were assured their place in the King's breeding line.

But that didn't stop her from indulging in nightly self-pleasure sessions, cradling the replica, memorizing its shape, preparing for her glorious destiny.

A mischievous glint flickered in her eyes as they drifted across the room, landing on her collection of Superhero posters adorning the wall to either side of the open doorway to her room.

Here, her deepest desires manifested in bold, graphic detail. One poster depicted Wolverine, the famed X-Man turned Royal Hound, in all his ferocious nude glory.

Every bulging muscle, every coarse black hair was rendered in meticulous detail. His powerful torso, a monument to mutant strength, tapered down to a washboard stomach and a prominent display of mutant virility. The Markandan artists hadn't shied away from the details; a generous amount of precum leaking in a long oozy string from the tip, a visual representation of the overflowing virility that coursed through mutant veins. Wolverine's feral stance, claws extended, body crouched low, added a primal energy to the image. It wasn't just a battle cry, it was an inadvertent celebration of his potent masculinity. His hefty scrotum, prominently displayed past thighs nearly parallel to the ground, left no room for misinterpretation. This was mutant dominance laid bare.

On the other side of the doorway from Wolverine's ferocious display hung another idol – Cyclops, the stoic Captain of the Royal Guard. Though his physique wasn't as imposing as Wolverine's, his sculpted form radiated a different kind of power. Clad only in his iconic visor, his pose mirrored that of a Greek god, every muscle group sharply defined. Here too, the Markandan artists' focus on mutant virility was evident – a bead of precum glistening at the tip of his much smaller, but well-proportioned member. Hisako didn't mind the Captain's lesser size. Cyclops, it was said, possessed some of the most potent mutant DNA in Markanda.

Mutant potency wasn't always about size; it was about the power coursing through one's veins.

These were her heroes, her idols. They were the embodiment of mutant perfection, and Hisako, with her sights set on joining the Royal Hounds, craved to walk among them. Her power, the ability to manifest an energy armor, would allow her to fight in the nude, a basic prerequisite for being considered for the team: a symbol of Markandan pride and mutant dominance. The dream of baring her own mutant body, not in shame but in glorious defiance, as she protected her nation, sent a surge of exhilaration through her.

A flicker of insecurity crossed her mind. Her chest, still flat and undeveloped compared to women like Rogue Slut or Captain Concubine, worried her. But she quickly pushed the thought away. Her worth wasn't measured in cup size. She had the power, the lineage, and the burning desire to serve her King and country.

She even had her superhero moniker picked out as well as the pose for the future poster that would grace the walls of homes and public spaces across the nation.

Golden Armor.

Her mind's eye conjured the dazzling poster, a vivid representation of her future as Markanda's newest superhero, Golden Armor.

The centerpiece of this imaginary masterpiece wouldn't be a stern warrior face, but a celebration of the female form, Markandan style. On her knees, bathed in the golden light of victory, Hisako's pose would be both powerful and alluring. Her back would be straight, showcasing the rippling muscles of her sculpted core. Her arms, encased in translucent energy armor that mimicked the intricate goldwork of the Golden Tribe, would be raised in a triumphant V-shape.

But the true focal point, the element that would set her apart from the standard superhero fare, would be the lower half of her body. The translucent nature of her Golden Armor would ensure complete visibility, transforming her form into a living monument to Markandan womanhood. The spotlight would fall on her firm, rounded buttocks, a testament to her rigorous training and a symbol of her potential as a bearer of strong children. More importantly, though, it would reveal the very essence of her worth – her womanhood on full display. Nestled between those perfect curves would be a sight both powerful and intimate: her vulva, a flawless gateway ready to welcome the King's seed and fulfill her sacred duty. And completing the picture, a final, subtle detail – the puckered opening of her asshole, another avenue for pleasure and a silent declaration of her ability to bring joy to a worthy mutant mate.

This wouldn't be just a superhero poster; it would be a manifesto. It would be a celebration of Markandan beauty, strength, and fertility, all embodied in the powerful form of Golden Armor. It would be a symbol for every young Markandan girl, a reminder that true power came not just from fighting prowess, but from the sacred potential that resided within their bodies. Hisako couldn't wait to make that dream a reality.

Her through grueling training sessions and fueled her unwavering determination. The day she donned the mantle of Golden Armor wouldn't just be a personal victory; it would be a symbol for all Markandan women – a symbol that they could be both powerful and nurturing, protectors and mothers, all at the same time.

Then. Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Westchester County. New York

A stifling tension choked the rec room, thick enough to cut with a katana.

The usual playful chatter and teenage angst were replaced by a tense stillness, punctuated only by the nervous fidgeting of around thirty mutant teens. Hisako Ichiki, a wisp of a girl who'd just turned eighteen three days ago, tried to ignore the knot of worry tightening in her stomach. Why this sudden "surprise field trip" on the day SHIELD agents, clad head-to-toe in black tactical gear, had swarmed the school school grounds? Her dark eyes darted nervously across the neatly manicured lawns, the towering elms, the cobblestone paths winding through the lush greenery and then to the sleek Blackbird X-Jet sitting like an ominous black spider on the grass.