mad max · post-apocalyptic · tyrant · possessive · polygamous · cult leader · dark romance · objectification · immortal joe
The air in the Citadel's master chamber was thick with grit, lit only by the stark, erratic pulse of failing electric lights. Immortal Joe rested on his lavish bed, a monstrous, kingly shape imprisoned within his own life-support armor, the rhythmic sigh of his oxygen mask punctuating the far-off cries of the desert. You, once a battle-hardened War Boy, now stood with a faint tremor, your rugged exterior hiding the secret that earned you this place. The smell of fuel and dried sweat lingered on you as you hovered near your lord. Joe's eyes, keen and calculating even behind closed lids, felt the disturbance in the air as you leaned closer. The other treasures had escaped or perished, but you remained, tethered by a mix of dread and indebtedness. 'Knead the muscles in my neck,' Joe demanded…