The Virgin's Coronation
The months that followed Charles’s first, humble request were a period of profound and rapid alchemy, a relentless distillation of his soul. The act of kneeling, of giving voice to his desire to serve, had breached the final dam of his pride, unleashing a torrent of suppressed yearning that had been gathering force for a lifetime. The concept of “versatility,” he now realized, had been a comforting fiction, a stepping stone on a path that led in only one direction, a path he now recognized as his inviolable destiny. He had begun to accept the truth, a truth that resonated in the marrow of his bones: he didn’t want to be versatile. He wanted to be a bottom. He wanted to be Wen’s bottom. The thought, which would have been a source of suicidal horror a year ago, a concept so anathema to the very architecture of his being, now felt like a destination, a home he had been searching for his entire life without knowing it, a quiet harbor after a lifetime of stormy seas.
His submission was no longer a question; it was the quiet, constant baseline of their existence, as natural and essential as the tidal pull of the moon. He had become Wen’s student in the art of his own surrender, and he was a diligent, almost zealous pupil, absorbing every lesson, every nuance. He learned to anticipate Wen’s needs, to read the subtle shifts in his moods—the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes—and to offer his service without being asked, a proactive devotion that sprang from a deep, instinctual well of belonging. He found a deep, abiding joy in the simple liturgies of their life: bringing Wen his coffee in the morning, the rich aroma a fragrant offering; kneeling to take off his shoes when he came home, the soft leather yielding beneath his fingers like a final, daily concession. He was happier than he had ever been, a quiet, profound peace settling over him, the peace of a man who has finally stopped fighting his own nature, who has finally found his true place in the world.
His days in the City, once a relentless pursuit of dominance, now felt like a performance, a role he played with masterful skill for an audience that remained blissfully oblivious to his true self. He still commanded boardrooms, still brokered multi-billion-pound deals, his mind as sharp and incisive as ever. But the internal landscape had shifted. The victories were no longer for himself, but for Wen, offerings laid at the feet of his true master.
The tension, however, had not vanished. It had simply transformed. It was no longer the tension of a battle of wills, of two titans clashing, but the electric, humming tension of a story approaching its climax, a symphony building to its crescendo. Both of them knew where this was heading. Every touch, every shared glance, every night that ended with Wen’s fingers buried deep inside Charles, stretching him, preparing him, was a step towards an inevitable, unspoken destination. Charles’s virgin arse, the last unconquered territory, the final fortress of his old identity, the last bastion of his pride, was waiting. And they both knew who was coming to claim it, and how it would be claimed.
Charles was terrified. The thought of being fucked, of that final, absolute act of penetration, was a spectre that haunted his waking moments and filled his dreams, a primal fear that clawed at his gut. It was the ultimate taboo, the one line he had sworn his entire life he would never cross, a boundary etched in the very core of his being. To be a top was his nature; to be fucked was to be negated, to be erased, to be utterly undone. But now, that terror was intertwined with a desire so profound it felt like a physical ache, a hollowness deep inside him that only Wen could fill, a yearning that transcended all fear. He was a man standing on the edge of a cliff, terrified of the fall, his knees weak, his heart pounding, but knowing, with an absolute certainty, that the only way to truly live was to jump, to surrender completely to the inevitable.
One evening, the air in the penthouse felt different. It was heavy, charged, like the air before a thunderstorm, thick with unspoken anticipation. They had eaten dinner in near silence, the unspoken thing between them a living presence at the table, a palpable weight that pressed down on Charles’s chest. After dinner, Wen led him to the bedroom. His movements had a slow, deliberate gravity that told Charles the time had come, the moment of truth had arrived. There was no game tonight, no test, no subtle power play. This was a ceremony, a sacred ritual, a coronation.
Wen undressed him with the reverence of a priest preparing a sacrifice, each button, each zipper, a deliberate act of unveiling. He laid Charles on his stomach on the bed, his body a landscape of willing, trembling territory, every nerve ending alive with anticipation. Wen’s worship began as it often did now, with his mouth. He kissed his way down Charles’s spine, his tongue tracing the powerful muscles of his back, mapping him, reminding him of every inch that already belonged to him, every curve and hollow that was now Wen’s domain. The warmth of Wen’s lips, the gentle drag of his tongue, sent shivers down Charles’s spine, a delicious prelude to the deeper sensations to come.
He settled between Charles’s powerful, hairy thighs, the scent of Charles’s arousal mingling with the clean, musky scent of Wen’s skin, and began to rim him. His tongue was meticulous, masterful, a delicate probe that explored every fold and crevice. He was not just tasting him; he was preparing him, sanctifying the ground for the ceremony to come, softening the resistance, coaxing open the hidden pathways. Charles gripped the sheets, his knuckles white, his body trembling with a mixture of fear and unbearable anticipation, a delicious agony. He was ready. He wanted this more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, a yearning that consumed his very being.
Then came the familiar, slick feel of lubricant, cool and smooth against his heated skin. Wen’s fingers, now a known and welcome presence, began to work their magic. One finger, then two, then three, stretching him slowly, patiently, pushing past his limits with a gentle but undeniable pressure, a relentless, tender invasion. Charles groaned, a low, guttural sound torn from his throat, his hips rising to meet the intrusion, a silent plea for more, a desperate yearning for fullness. He was opening himself up, physically and spiritually, surrendering his last defenses.
Wen was thorough, his preparation an act of both dominance and profound care. He wanted this to be a coronation, not a violation, a sacred claiming, not a brutal assault. He wanted Charles to be ready, to be open, to receive him completely. When he was sure Charles was ready, that he was as open as he could possibly be, stretched to his absolute limit, he paused. He moved up, his body covering Charles’s, his warm breath a ghost against his ear, a silent promise of what was to come.
He slid his fingers out, and the feeling of emptiness was a shock, a sudden, aching loss, a void that cried out to be filled. Then, he felt the hard, blunt tip of Wen’s cock press against his entrance, a silent, insistent pressure that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated anticipation through Charles’s entire being. This was it. The moment of truth. The culmination of his entire journey, the precipice of his ultimate surrender. Charles’s entire body went rigid, a final, instinctual moment of resistance, the last gasp of the fortress before it fell, before it was utterly breached.
Wen didn’t push. He just held himself there, at the threshold, allowing Charles to feel the full weight of the moment. He could feel the incredible, virginal tightness of the man beneath him, a resistance that was not of the will, but of the flesh. A wicked, playful thought sparked in his mind. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against Charles’s ear, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper, deliberately drawing out the moment, teasing his prey. "Everything I've taken from you, Charles... every fortress has fallen. But there's one last little gate, isn't there? One that's never been opened." He let his words hang in the air, then slowly traced the puckered flesh with the tip of his cock, making Charles shudder. "It feels... very new. Very tight. One would almost think..."
He paused, letting the implication sink in before delivering the final, playful twist of the knife. "You’re a virgin, aren’t you, Charles?" The words were a teasing dart, meant to highlight the beautiful absurdity of the situation. "Cherry?" The crude, boyish term, so out of place in the opulent bedroom, was the final, gentle mockery of the titan’s last secret.
For a moment, Charles couldn’t breathe. To have his deepest, most shameful secret—a secret he had guarded even from himself, a truth he had buried beneath layers of pride and dominance—laid bare in this moment was the ultimate vulnerability. He couldn’t speak. His throat was tight, his voice lost. He could only manage a single, choked, desperate nod against the pillow, a silent, absolute affirmation.
Wen felt the nod, a subtle tremor that vibrated through Charles’s body. He had expected a surge of triumph, the final thrill of victory. And it was there, a flicker of it, the satisfaction of a game won. But it was instantly consumed by something far more powerful, something he hadn’t anticipated. The sight of that single, choked nod, an admission of such profound vulnerability from a man who had never been vulnerable with anyone in his life, struck Wen with the force of a physical blow. The teasing question had unlocked the final vault, and what lay inside was not a trophy, but a sacred trust. In that moment, Wen felt an immense wave of pride, not in his victory, but in the depth of the trust Charles was placing in him. It was a gift of staggering significance. And with that pride came a sudden, crushing sense of responsibility. This was no longer about conquest. This could not be a violation. He had to get this right. He wanted this to be a beautiful, erotic, and unforgettable experience for Charles. He wanted to guide him through this, to make him feel not broken, but reborn. He wanted Charles to *want* this, to embrace his own surrender not as a defeat, but as a glorious, liberating homecoming.
With this new, profound sense of purpose solidifying in his heart, Wen acted. He pushed Charles onto his back, his movements now imbued with a new gentleness, a new reverence. "Look at me," he commanded, but his voice was softer now, an invitation rather than an order. "Pull your thighs back. I want you to offer it to me. I want you to watch me take it. I want you to participate in this. This is your first time, Charles. Embrace it."
Charles, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and adoration, obeyed. He pulled his own powerful, hairy thighs back, opening himself completely, an act of active participation in his own deflowering. As he did, a dizzying kaleidoscope of images flashed before his eyes, a lifetime of dominance replaying in a split second. He saw a parade of young men, all in this exact position for him: young, smooth, pliable, their bodies canvases for his power. He was not like them. He was fifty-five, his body thick and powerful, covered in a pelt of ginger hair. He was a predator, a king. Yet, as he looked down at his own body, at his own hairy, muscular thighs pulled back in offering, he saw the undeniable truth. In this moment, in the profound, absolute nature of his surrender, he was exactly the same. The vessel was different, but the offering was identical. And in that moment of stunning clarity, a profound peace washed over him. The last vestiges of his pride, the ghost of the king, finally, truly died. He accepted that Wen had won, not through a battle of strength, but through a masterful campaign that had conquered his mind and captured his soul. This offering of his body, his virginity, his pride, was not a defeat. It was a coronation.
Wen positioned himself between Charles’s open legs. He lowered himself, the tip of his cock pressing against the tight, virginal entrance. The moment of contact was a spark in the darkness.
As Wen’s cock entered his hole, Charles’s eyes locked with his. In that instant, the world fell away. A jolt of pure electricity, a palpable current, shot between them, a circuit completing itself. It was a shock that resonated not in their bodies, but in their souls. In Wen’s eyes, Charles saw not just the possessive hunger of a conqueror, but a profound, almost sacred understanding, a promise to see him through this transformation. And in Charles’s eyes, Wen saw not just the terror of a virgin about to be taken, but a look of such profound trust, such absolute surrender, such deep and abiding love, that it stole his breath. Both men knew, with a certainty that transcended all thought and all words, that this was not just sex. This was a sacrament. This was the moment their lives, their very beings, were being irrevocably and permanently reforged. Nothing would ever be the same again.
Wen pushed forward. Slowly. Deliberately. Each millimeter of progress a new sensation, a new boundary crossed.
The initial pain was sharp, a clean, bright tearing sensation that made Charles cry out, a raw, animal sound of a final barrier being breached. He held Wen’s gaze, and Wen held his, a silent promise to guide him through the fire.
Then, as Wen pushed deeper, the pain began to recede, transformed by some strange alchemy into an incredible, overwhelming sense of fullness, of being stretched, of being occupied, of being utterly, completely filled. It was a feeling his body had secretly craved his entire life, a longing he had never dared to acknowledge. He was finally being taken, possessed, claimed in the way he had only dared to fantasize about. The hollowness inside him was being filled. He was being made whole.
Wen was fully inside him now, sheathed to the hilt in the tight, hot velvet of his virgin arse. He stayed still for a long moment, letting them both get used to the incredible sensation. And in that stillness, as he felt the powerful muscles of this titan of industry clenching around him, a profound revelation struck Wen. He remembered his fumbling, awkward attempts at topping boys his own age at university. It had felt clumsy, disconnected, and deeply unsatisfactory. There was no thrill, no sense of rightness. He had concluded then that it simply wasn’t for him, that his true nature was to be a bottom. But this… this was different. This was a different universe of sensation. The feeling of being inside this man, this magnificent specimen of mature masculine beauty, a man of such immense power and pride, was the most profound and validating experience of his life. He realized with stunning clarity that he hadn’t been wrong about the act, only about the partner. Topping a boy his own age felt like nothing because there was nothing to conquer, nothing to claim, no power to overcome. It was like putting a flag on a sandcastle. But this, being inside Charles Hemsworth… this was like planting his flag on the summit of Everest. He wasn’t a bottom. He was a top. But he was a top who required a worthy throne. He needed a man of substance, of power, of immense masculinity to submit to him for the act to have meaning. He looked down at Charles’s face, at the look of pure, liberated surrender, and he knew. Just as Charles, the lifelong top, was discovering his true nature as a bottom, Wen, the man who thought he was a bottom, was discovering his true nature as a top. They were two halves of a whole, each one the key to unlocking the other’s true self.
He leaned down and kissed Charles, a deep, passionate kiss that was no longer about dominance, but about a profound, earth-shattering intimacy, a silent vow of shared discovery.
Then, he began to move, his thrusts now imbued with a new sense of purpose. He was not just fucking Charles; he was claiming his own identity. He was celebrating his own coronation as much as Charles’s top. Slowly at first, a deliberate rhythm, teaching Charles’s body to accept him. With each thrust, Charles’s arse seemed to mould itself around his cock, making itself the perfect home for its new owner. The pain gave way completely to a pleasure so intense it was almost unbearable.
Wen increased his pace, his thrusts becoming more powerful, more confident, a relentless rhythm that drove Charles deeper into sensation. He moved them through multiple positions, a guided tour of surrender. He fucked him in the missionary position, never breaking eye contact, forcing Charles to witness the face of the man who turned him into a bottom. He pulled Charles onto his hands and knees and took him from behind, his hand gripping the older man’s hip in a gesture of pure ownership.
Finally, the ultimate reversal, the final act of the coronation. Wen pulled out, leaving Charles gasping and empty. He lay on his back and looked up at Charles, his eyes burning with a possessive hunger.
"Get on top," he commanded, his voice thick with lust. "Get on top of me and ride my dick. Ride it like the cheap whore you are for me. Show me how much you love being my bottom."
The words, so degrading, so humiliating, were the sweetest thing Charles had ever heard. With trembling arms, he pushed himself up, straddling Wen’s slim body. He looked down at the sight of Wen’s cock, slick with his own virginal tightness, pointing up at him. He lowered himself, taking his conqueror back inside him, a gasp of pure ecstasy escaping his lips.
He began to ride, his movements clumsy at first, then more certain as he learned this new dance, this new rhythm of surrender. He was in charge of the rhythm, but he was still the one being fucked, the one being possessed. The paradox was intoxicating. He was no longer a top. He was a bottom. He was Wen’s bottom, utterly, completely, irrevocably.
He felt his own orgasm building, a runaway train thundering towards him. His own big cock was rock hard but untouched, a forgotten thing. The pleasure of being filled, of being so completely and utterly used by Wen, was everything.
He looked down at Wen, his vision blurring with tears of gratitude and release. Wen reached up, his hands gripping Charles’s arse, pulling him down harder, faster, driving him to the brink.
The climax, when it came, was simultaneous, a supernova of sensation that obliterated the world. Charles screamed, a long, ragged sound of pure, unadulterated release, his body convulsing as his orgasm erupted, his seed spurting untouched over Wen’s smooth, hairless chest. At the exact same moment, he felt Wen’s body go rigid beneath him, a powerful surge deep inside his own body as Wen came, flooding him with his seed, sealing his claim, branding him from the inside out.
They collapsed together, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and shattered pretenses, their bodies intertwined, their souls irrevocably bound. The dynamic was set in stone. Wen was the top. And Charles, the powerful banker, the former king, was now, and forever, his bottom. And in that profound surrender, he found a peace he had never known, a sense of belonging that transcended all understanding.
As the aftershocks of their shared climax subsided, a profound quiet settled in the room, broken only by their ragged breaths. Wen gently rolled Charles onto his side and pulled him close, his slim body spooning Charles’s larger frame from behind. He wrapped an arm around Charles’s chest, his hand resting over his heart, a gesture of simple, profound possession and reassurance. Charles lay there, his body aching with a pleasure so deep it was almost pain, his mind a sea of calm. He, Charles Hemsworth, a man who stood six-foot-two and was built like a bearish titan, had spent his entire life believing he was a fortress. He never thought he needed a protector, because he was the ultimate predator. But as he lay there, enveloped in Wen’s embrace, he was struck by a revelation so powerful it brought fresh tears to his eyes. He had been wrong. He had needed a protector all along—not from the world, but from himself, from the crushing weight of the crown he had forced himself to wear. And in the most unlikely of forms, his protector had found him.
Wen began to softly stroke his body, his fingers tracing the lines of Charles’s ribs, the curve of his belly, a soothing, hypnotic touch that calmed the last of his trembling. As he did, Charles felt a subtle shift behind him. Wen’s young cock, with the impossible virility of youth, was growing hard again. It pressed against the small of his back, a warm, insistent presence. Then, with a gentle nudge, it slipped back inside Charles’s moist, still-sensitive, freshly-fucked hole. There was no pain this time, no resistance. It felt like coming home. It slid into place as if it were a key returning to its custom-made lock, as if his body had been built for this single purpose. It felt like it was its new home.
Wen didn’t thrust. He just rocked, a slow, gentle, back-and-forth motion that was less about fucking and more about a deep, primal form of comfort and connection. Charles’s own cock remained soft. He was in his fifties, after all, and did not recover with the speed of a young man. But it didn’t matter. His arousal was no longer centered there. It was a full-body experience, a state of blissful being. He felt a profound sense of peace, of rightness, of being utterly complete. In sync with Wen’s gentle rocking, he began to tighten his arse, a rhythmic, internal caress, a silent way of participating, of showing his pleasure, of welcoming his master home.
Wen felt the subtle, rhythmic clenching and a soft groan escaped his lips. He held Charles tighter, his own pleasure magnified by the older man’s willing, active reception. He continued the slow, gentle rhythm for a long time, until his own body tensed once more. He came again, not with a violent surge, but with a deep, warm flood that filled Charles completely, a final, quiet branding. He didn’t pull out. He stayed right where he was, buried deep inside the man he had conquered and come to love.
And like that, with Wen still nestled deep inside him, their bodies intimately connected, they fell asleep.
