One Piece : Start As Celestial Dragon And Take Down Hancock

Chapter 193: Debauchery and preparation. (R-18)

The luxury cruise sliced through the morning chop with predatory grace, her white sails catching the light like stretched pearls.

For a day and night, they had sailed from Jaya, the Grand Line’s temperamental waters unusually placid beneath Lakeman’s will.

The ship itself seemed eager to reach destination, timbers humming with the stored power of its master’s devil fruit.

"Land!" The call came from the crow’s nest, though Lakeman had known for an hour already. His observation haki had brushed against the massive construct of roots and resin hours before it became visible to ordinary eyes.

Sabaody Archipelago rose from the sea like a dream of drowned forests.

Massive mangrove trees, their trunks thicker than castle walls, their roots diving into depths no light reached. Between them, the famous bubbles— some transparent as glass, others opalescent with trapped light— drifted in lazy currents, rising from the seabed to burst in showers of rainbow mist when they touched open air. The trees themselves bore numbers, carved by some ancient hand, marking the groves where civilization clung to this half-wild place.

Makino pressed against the railing, her green hair whipping in the salt breeze.

She had never left Foosha Village before Lakeman’s arrival, had never imagined geography could contain such strangeness.

"Those trees," she breathed, pointing at a cluster where roots intertwined into natural archways. "They’re breathing."

Robin appeared beside her, dark hair pinned back for sailing, a thin smile on her lips.

"The resin coating traps air. The entire ecosystem exists in symbiosis with the geography." She followed Makino’s gaze to where a massive bubble detached from a lower root, rising past their deck with dreams of other men’s ambitions visible in its swirling surface. "Don’t touch the darker ones. They carry the memories of things that died below."

"Everything here carries memory." Lakeman’s voice came from behind them, and both women turned, automatically adjusting posture to emphasize hips and breasts, eyes dropping in practiced deference.

He had emerged from below decks dressed in white— trousers and shirt of a cut no tailor in four blues could execute, fabrics that seemed to drink light and return it changed. His feet were bare against the teak, and his eyes were fixed on the distant shore where figures already gathered.

The women emerged behind him in various states of dress and undress. Lily wore only a man’s overshirt, her legs pale and muscular beneath its hem. Mirana had managed combat leathers, though the top remained unzipped in invitation.

The angel-winged woman from Skypiea— Lakeman had named her Gloria, though her true name had been something else, something surrendered in the night of clouds— kept her wings furled tight against her back, still learning that ground-dwellers found her presence remarkable.

They had not stopped their activities for the approach. The ship had been arena and bedchamber both since Jaya, bodies moving through configurations of pleasure while the currents carried them toward this convergence. Now the scent of it still clung— sex and sweat and the particular electricity of haki expended in passion.

"Prepare yourselves," Lakeman said, not bothering to raise his voice. The dock was close enough now to resolve individual figures, and one figure in particular commanded his attention. "Our hostess awaits."

—

Stussy had transformed the dock into a stage.

She stood at the point where wood met water, dressed in white leather that would have been severe on any other body. On hers, it was devastating. The jacket— if it could be called that— fastened only at the collarbone, leaving a vee of olive skin that plunged to navel.

The skirt was knife-pleated, ending mid-thigh, boots rising to meet it with precise economy. Her hair was platinum today, swept up in a style that exposed the elegant length of her neck, and her lips matched the crimson of the single flower pinned above her ear.

Behind her, female CP agents formed a living architecture— two dozen women in variations of the same uniform, each selected for beauty as well as lethality. They did not stand at attention. They posed, knowing that their master’s eye would inventory them, that their value was measured in desire as well as obedience.

The ship’s gangplank extended without human hands guiding it. Lakeman descended first, his movement carrying that particular quality of menace wrapped in grace, the threat implicit in every controlled gesture.

His women followed in order of established precedence— Robin, then Lily, Mirana, the others, with Makino trailing uncertainly, still learning her place in this hierarchy.

"Master." Stussy’s voice carried across the gap before his foot touched dock. "I’ve missed you so much."

She moved to meet him, and the performance of her walk was its own language— hips rolling with calculated invitation, breasts pressing against leather, eyes fixed on his with the intensity of a woman who had rehearsed this reunion in darkness for uncounted nights.

When they met, she did not stop. Her body pressed full-length against his, arms winding around his neck, breasts flattening against his chest as she rose on her toes to breathe against his jaw.

"I counted the hours," she whispered, loud enough for those nearest to hear. "Every hour without your touch was suffering."

Lakeman’s hands found her waist, held her in place as he surveyed the dock, the waiting women, the distant architecture of his Sabaody estate visible through the mangrove roots. "Missing me?" His voice was dry, amused. "Or missing my cock?"

Stussy pulled back far enough to meet his eyes, her own bright with genuine arousal beneath the performance.

"Must I choose?" She ground her hips against him, feeling him harden through the barriers between them. "My cunt, my asshole, my throat—" each word delivered with breathy precision against his ear— "all of them ache with emptiness. All of them remember what it means to be stuffed full."

’Damn bitch,’ Lakeman thought, even as his body responded to her expertise. ’Making me hungry after I just finished a full-course meal.’

He gave her what she wanted— what they both wanted— his hand falling hard on her leather-clad ass with a crack that echoed between the mangrove roots.

-Smack.

"Mmhh"

Stussy moaned, a sound that started in her chest and emerged transformed, carrying notes of surrender and invitation.

"Walk," he commanded, setting her aside with finality that promised later completion. "Show me what you’ve built."

—

The estate was revelation.

Stussy and Shakky— the information broker who had become architect of Lakeman’s surface-world power— had not merely constructed a residence.

They had created a statement. The main palace rose from Grove 13’s center in curves of white stone and living wood, the mangrove roots incorporated rather than destroyed, grown into patterns of support and decoration. Bubbles were trapped in strategic locations, their iridescence providing shifting light. The overall effect was of something that had emerged rather than been built, a growth of civilization from the wild substrate.

"Shakky insisted on the organic integration," Stussy explained as they walked through gardens where flowers from twenty seas bloomed in impossible conjunction. "She said Master would appreciate the dominance of nature rather than its destruction."

"Shakky understands me." Lakeman’s hand rested on Stussy’s lower back, proprietary, guiding. Behind them, his women dispersed— some to quarters already prepared, others to explore, Gloria staring upward at the canopy where true sky was visible only in fragments. "Where is she now?"

"Managing our intelligence network. Rayleigh’s approach has her..." Stussy’s smile carried edges. "Excited."

They entered the palace through doors that opened without touch, Lakeman’s haki already mapped to every security system.

The interior continued the theme— luxury without ostentation, power displayed through space itself rather than ornament. The throne room was central, circular, rising three stories to a dome where trapped bubbles moved in slow procession.

The throne dominated without effort. Carved from a single piece of seastone alloy— impossible, according to every metallurgist, but accomplished through Lakeman’s devil fruit— it sat at the precise center of the room, positioned to receive light from any angle.

It looked comfortable. That was the subtle malice of it. Any other man would appear diminished, softened by such a seat. Lakeman would appear inevitable.

"Shakky and I labored for months after your war with Imu," Stussy said, watching him assess their work. "Every detail designed for your pleasure. Every system answering to your will."

Lakeman settled onto the throne, found it adjusted to his body temperature, his posture, the particular angle of his hips. ’They need especial reward,’ he thought, pleasure curling his lips. ’Both of them. Tonight.’

"Settle the others," he commanded, dismissing the trailing entourage with a gesture. "Then return to me. I have questions."

The door sealed behind the last departure with a sound like a sigh. Lakeman waited in the silence of power, his mind already extending through the palace, touching the minds of those he owned, reading the surface thoughts of servants and guards. Everything functioned as designed. Stussy had not disappointed.

The door opened. Stussy entered alone.

She had changed. The dock uniform was replaced by something that existed in the space between CP0 regalia and lingerie— white leather corseted at the waist, pushing breasts upward in offering, the skirt absent entirely in favor of stockings that ended in garters visible beneath abbreviated shorts. She had added gloves that climbed to mid-bicep, and her eyes were lined with something that caught light like weapon-oil.

She walked to him without hurry, each step placing her hips in maximum rotation, and did not stop until her thighs pressed against his knees.

"Come here, slut."

The command was barely necessary. She was already climbing onto the throne, arranging herself in his lap with the expertise of long practice, her back to his chest, his arms wrapping naturally around her waist.

His hand found her breast through the corset’s thin leather, kneading with sufficient force to draw breath. His mouth went to her ear, breath hot against sensitive skin.

"Status," he commanded, the question emerging as growl. "Beast Pirates. Big Mom Pirates. The Roger remnants. Where are they, and when do they arrive to die?"

He bit her earlobe, not gently. Stussy’s body arched, pressing harder against him.

"Mmhh—" The sound was part response, part information retrieval. Her own haki, weaker than his but specialized differently, reached into the network she had constructed.

"Kaido and Big Mom will reach Sabaody waters in four to five days. Their fleets have combined, some new alliance of desperation." She ground deliberately against the hardness growing beneath her, her ass tracing patterns against his confined erection. "Rayleigh and the Roger Pirates... two days. Perhaps less."

Lakeman’s free hand traveled her waist, finding the corset’s laces, loosening them with controlled violence. "Their condition?"

"Kaido drinks constantly, rages intermittently. Big Mom’s hunger-attacks have grown more frequent since news of Shanks." Stussy’s voice remained level despite her body’s response, the professional reporting through pleasure.

"The Roger remnants are more interesting. They’ve recruited from former territories, old debts called in. Rayleigh believes this is vengeance. He believes he can win."

Lakeman laughed against her neck, the vibration traveling through both their bodies.

"They believe." His hand found bare skin as the corset surrendered, cupped her breast with possessive pressure.

"They believe in narratives. In the romance of pirate brotherhood." He squeezed, feeling her nipple harden against his palm. "I believe in holes. In the spaces where will collapses and only flesh remains."

"Master—" Stussy’s hips bucked, her ass grinding deeper against him, the seam of her shorts pressing against his straining cock through his trousers.

He lifted her, turned her, arranged her face-to-face across his lap so that her spread thighs bracketed his hips, her weight pressing her heated core against his trapped erection. The corset fell away entirely. Her breasts— fuller than the leather had suggested, heavy with arousal— hung before his face in offering.

"Your mouth," he said, not asking. "What has it been doing without me?"

"Talking," she breathed, grinding down against him.

"Ordering. Commanding your empire." She caught her lower lip in her teeth, released it glistening. "Empty. Always empty."

He reached between them, found the fastening of his trousers, freed himself with a motion that brought him springing against her damp shorts. Stussy moaned at the contact, hot flesh to hot flesh separated by insufficient fabric.

"Fix that."

She rose on her knees, hands going to her own clothing, and he watched her efficiency— shorts peeled down, kicked away, stockings remaining because he liked them, the white contrast against her olive thighs.

Her cunt was shaved, glistening, the lips slightly parted already in arousal. When she lowered herself back onto him, he guided himself with one hand, felt the heat and wetness envelope him in a single perfect descent.

"Ah—!" Stussy’s head fell back, hair cascading, breasts swaying with the impact of their joining.

Lakeman’s hands found her hips, began moving her, using her body for his pleasure with the casual mastery of ownership. "Talk," he commanded, even as he established rhythm. "Details. Weaknesses. I want to know them as I know your cunt."

She obeyed, voice broken by motion, reporting on fleet compositions and psychological profiles while her body served his will.

Kaido’s suicidal tendencies, Big Mom’s mother-need, Rayleigh’s guilt like an infected wound. All of it delivered between moans, between the wet sounds of their joining, her breasts bouncing with each impact of his hips against hers.

Pah

Pah

Lakeman listened with half his attention, the other half devoted to sensation— the clasp of her around him, the visual of her degradation, the power of command absolute.

When she faltered in reporting, too lost in pleasure, he slapped her breast, hard enough to leave a mark, and she gasped back into coherence.

"Rayleigh— he still carries the picture—"

Pah.

"The picture of Shakky— from before—"

Pah.

"He looks at it— oh god— before sleep—"

"Pathetic." Lakeman’s grip tightened, lifting her higher, slamming her down with force that made the throne respond, some mechanism absorbing and returning the energy. "To cherish what I’ve already destroyed. Already remade."

"Yes— yes—"

His thumb found her clit, pressed with cruel precision.

"aaahh—" Stussy’s words dissolved into screams as he manipulated her, pleasure and pain indistinguishable in her response. "Masteerr—"

Lakeman appreciated the calculation as he appreciated her body, the ruthless pragmatism that recognized his superiority.

He came inside her womb without warning, spilling hot and deep, and continued moving through his own release, extending hers, milking spasms from her body with mechanical precision.

When she collapsed against his chest, shuddering, he held her in place, still hard, still demanding.

"Again," he said. "From behind. I want to see my marks on your ass."

—

They moved through the room as they moved through the information— Stussy bent over the arm of his throne, then against the wall, then on the floor with her legs spread wide, each position revealing different data, different vulnerabilities in their approaching enemies.

By the hour’s end, she had been filled in every available opening, her body a map of his attention, and the strategic picture was complete.

"Shakky arrives for dinner," Stussy managed, sprawled on the floor where he had left her, fluids drying on her skin in patterns of possession. "She wanted— practice—"

"For Rayleigh’s humiliation." Lakeman stood above her, dressing himself from stores reclaimed from his internal space, fabric fresh and unwrinkled despite exertion. "Tell her to hurry. I find myself... enthusiastic."

—

Shakky had aged, but time had refined rather than diminished her.

She entered the dining hall with the confidence of a woman who had never been beautiful by conventional measure and had never needed to be. Her strength was in the architecture of her face, the intelligence in her eyes, the history that clung to her like perfume. She had been Gol D. Roger’s crush, then Rayleigh’s, and now— finally— properly owned.

"Master." Her bow was deeper than Stussy’s, held longer, acknowledgment of greater debt. "I’ve prepared scenarios. Ways to maximize the psychological impact when Rayleigh arrives."

Lakeman seated himself at the table’s head, the meal already laid but ignored. "Demonstrate."

Shakky straightened, and her composure cracked slightly— nerves, anticipation, the particular arousal of women who had found their proper place. "I thought— the dining room. He finds me here. Serving you. Obvious degradation, but—"

"Too obvious." Lakeman’s hand shot out, caught her wrist, dragged her across the table.

Dishes scattered, wine spilled, her body sliding through expensive wreckage until her hips pressed against the table’s edge where he sat. "Show me proper preparation."

He had her bent over the mahogany before she could adjust, her trousers around her ankles, his freed cock pressing against her without preliminary.

Shakky gasped, arching, her face pressed against the polished surface where moments ago she had been planning psychological warfare.

"Master— the staff—"

"Will watch." He entered her in single thrust, feeling her resistance and overwhelming it, the wetness that proved her true desire.

"Can feel them. Robin at the door. Makino at the window." He established rhythm, brutal and efficient, the table itself beginning to move with the force of his motion. "Your humiliation begins now. With witnesses. With your complete availability."

Shakky’s response was wordless, fundamental, her body accepting what her mind had already surrendered.

Pah.

Pah.

Pah.

"Mmmhh—"

She pushed back against him, met his thrusts, transformed the demonstration into genuine coupling.

"Rayleigh—" she gasped, "will see— will see me—"

"Like this." Lakeman’s hand found her hair, pulled her head up, forced her to meet the eyes of the women who had gathered at the room’s edges.

Robin indeed, and Makino, Lily with her arms crossed in evaluation, Mirana with something like approval. "On my cock. On my command. His precious Shakky, his almost-betrothed, nothing but a warm hole for my use."

"Yes— yes—"

"He will watch before he dies." Lakeman’s free hand found the table’s edge, gripped, splintered wood as his pace increased toward climax. "Watch me creampieing your cunt. Watch you beg for more. And then—"

"Then?"

"Then I will let you kill him. If you’ve pleased me."

"Aahh, master."

Shakky came with that promise, her pussy clamping around his cock with convulsive strength, and her orgasm triggered his, the familiar pressure building and releasing in pulses that filled her, marked her, completed the demonstration.

The other women had not remained observers.

They approached as Lakeman withdrew, as Shakky collapsed across the ruined table, and hands found him— cleaning, arousing, preparing for continuation. Robin’s mouth, then Lily’s, then the hesitant curiosity of Makino, learning her lessons in flesh.

The dinner became something else, something like mangling of flesh and debauchery.

Bodies arranged across the table, across the floor, in configurations of service and domination that lasted hours.

Lakeman moved through them inexhaustible, his devil fruit’s vitality restoration making him more than man, less than merciful. Each woman received attention according to her established value, her training, her potential for further development.

Gloria the sky-woman wept when he took her, the wings spreading involuntarily, feathers scattering like snow across the carnal scene. He pinned them, held her helpless, taught her that even flight was subject to his permission.

Makino learned to take another woman at his command, Robin guiding her hands, her mouth, creating chains of pleasure that bound them all.

Shakky recovered enough to participate in her own further degradation, arranging herself with other women in patterns designed for his visual pleasure, his access, his convenience.

—--

Through it all, the estate functioned. Information arrived, was processed, responses prepared.

Enel’s training progressed at the distant facility, reports arriving of his developing power, his absolute submission.

Laboon circled in the waters beyond the mangrove roots, singing happiness that had been stolen and repurposed.

Two days passed in this manner— a blur of flesh and strategy, of politics conducted through penetration, of war prepared in post-coital clarity.

Lakeman slept in shifts, his body requiring rest that his mind refused, processing information even in dreams, the system he carried organizing, optimizing, predicting.

On the second evening, the final report arrived.

"Rayleigh’s ship," Stussy said, appearing in his chamber without announcement, her body dressed but her scent still carrying his marking from earlier coupling. "Thirty-six hours. They’re moving faster than predicted. Desperation."

Lakeman lay amidst tangled limbs— Robin’s head on his thigh, Makino’s breast against his hip, the warm anonymous weight of some agent whose name he had not bothered to learn.

He did not rise. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling where bioluminescent paint depicted constellations that no longer matched any real sky, victims of his own alterations to the world.

"Let them come." His hand found Robin’s hair, stroked with the absent affection one might show a pet. "Let them gather. Kaido and Big Mom racing to join the funeral. All of them, believing in alliance, in vengeance, in the narrative power of pirate brotherhood."

He sat up, displacing bodies with the economy of command, and the women arranged themselves around him, attentive, aroused, afraid in the proper measure.

"I will show them something else," Lakeman said, and his smile contained continents of malice. "That the only real power is the power to take what you want— and the will to enjoy taking it."

He stood, crossed to the window, looked out at Sabaody’s strange beauty— the mangrove roots like cathedral pillars, the bubbles rising in endless profusion, the ships that had begun to gather in the distance like storm clouds forming.

"Tomorrow," he said. "We prepare the stage. Shakky will rehearse her role. Stussy will position our forces. And when Dark King Rayleigh arrives to save his beloved—"

He turned back to face his collection, his empire in flesh, and his expression made even Robin shiver slightly.

"He will find that salvation is not on offer. Only observation. Only the slow recognition that everything he believed was always, already, mine."

The night continued. The preparations began.

—-------------------------------------------------------------