#45
Strangely, I wasn’t sleepy. Nor was I tired. Instead, I was starving.
The afterglow of too much pleasure always came with a crash in energy. I hadn’t realized just how drained and hungry I was until now. My muscles ached from exertion, and my stomach gave a low grumble.
I glanced at the pile of clothes beside the bed, then shifted my eyes to the silk robe that lay across the floor—Aunt Melissa’s, I think. I wasn’t in the mood to wrestle into my own clothes, not when I only needed a quick trip to the kitchen.
Shrugging, I slipped into the robe. It clung to my skin, still warm and a little damp. The scent of perfume and faint musk lingered in the fabric. I gave a final glance toward the bed. Aunt Melissa, Aunt Morgana, and Ally were still fast asleep, tangled in sheets and limbs, their breathing steady and soft.
Quietly, I stepped out of the room, careful not to disturb them.
The hallway was silent.
The house, once alive with laughter and lust, had now surrendered to the lull of early morning calm. No giggles, no creaking beds or gasps behind doors. Just the hush of slumber and the occasional groan of old wood under my feet.
I padded down the stairs barefoot, letting my thoughts wander in the silence. I turned into the hallway leading to the kitchen… and stopped.
The light was on.
At first, I thought nothing of it. Maybe someone had left it on by accident. But then I heard it—the soft clink of metal, the rustle of a plastic wrapper, the subtle sound of someone humming under their breath.
There was someone in there.
Curious, I crept forward and peeked around the doorway.
My breath caught.
Standing under the warm overhead light, her back to me, was a girl—completely bare save for a delicate, sky-blue thong that clung to her hips like a whisper. Sweat glistened on her pale skin, tracing lines down her spine. Her long dark hair was messy, falling over one shoulder as she worked quietly, carefully stacking slices of meat and cheese onto bread.
Her figure was petite, but womanly—curved in all the right places, soft and untouched. And though she was trying to act casual, something about the way her thighs shifted told me she was tense. Not unaware. Just pretending to be.
Layla.
The name bloomed in my mind.
She was one of my classmates—quiet, shy, the type who rarely spoke unless called on. Always modest, always watching from the sidelines. The last person I expected to see here like this.
And yet… here she was. In nothing but a thong. Alone in the kitchen of a house known for its sensual freedom. A contradiction wrapped in bare skin and innocence.
But maybe that was the trap of assumption. In a world like ours, girls weren’t expected to be shy for long. Even the quiet ones carried a hunger within them, a boldness that emerged when no one else was watching. Layla’s silence in class hadn’t meant weakness—it had meant she was patient, observant. Perhaps even dangerous in her own way.
I watched as she lifted the bread to her mouth, biting into it without shame, crumbs sticking to her lips. There was nothing dainty or restrained in the way she ate. She devoured it, like she hadn’t bothered with dinner earlier because she’d been too busy drinking, laughing, or maybe… having ‘fun’.
My chest tightened as I realized how different this side of her was. The girl who sat in the back row, eyes downcast, was gone. This Layla—the one barefoot and nearly naked in the kitchen, eating with messy hunger—was raw, unmasked. It was adorable. Charming.
She shifted her weight, her hips swaying lazily as though she knew she was being watched. Or maybe she wanted to be caught. In a house like this, it wouldn’t be surprising. Is she one of them? Thoughts swirled in my mind.
My gaze drifted downward before I could stop myself.
Her ass—plump, smooth, almost glowing in the soft light—shifted slightly as she leaned forward to grab something from the counter. The thong hugged her lower curves tightly, revealing more than it concealed.
My eyes followed the gentle slope of her side, catching a teasing glimpse of her breasts—round, perky, her nipples just barely visible from the angle.
A warm flush spread across my chest, and my breath hitched.
Don’t stare.
But I did. Just for a second longer. I couldn’t help it.
Do I say something?
I took a step forward, my bare feet silent on the floor, my pulse pounding so loud it felt like the sound would give me away. Was I intruding? Did she even know I was here? Or—worse—did she know exactly what she was doing, swaying just enough to bait eyes like mine?
“Fuck it,” I muttered inside my head. If she were here at this hour, dressed—or undressed—like this, then maybe she was part of the community Aunt Melissa had talked about. And if she was, then this shouldn’t be a problem.
But lust clouded my judgment. I was still drunk on the afterglow, my body aching, my arousal hot and reckless. Had I been thinking clearly, I might have remembered Aunt Melissa’s warning about the strict requirements to join, about the standards that separated those welcomed into this house from those still considered outsiders.
Unfortunately, clarity wasn’t something I had left.
Before I could stop myself, I moved.
Layla gasped as my arms slid around her waist, pulling her back into me. Her body tensed, the soft meat of her thighs brushing mine as I pressed closer, her perfume and the faint salt of sweat flooding my senses.
“Don’t move—I want to fuck you,” I whispered against her ear, my voice husky.
Layla stiffened in my arms, startled. Her shoulders rose, her hands faltering mid-motion over the counter.
“Eh—w-wait… me? Y-you mean… me?” Her voice cracked in disbelief, the words tumbling out in the same awkward, stammering way a shy boy might blurt when suddenly cornered by a beautiful woman’s attention.
“Alvin?!”
“Yes, it’s me,” I said firmly, leaning closer, letting my lips brush against the back of her neck. My hand slid around her side, tracing the curve of her stomach before dipping lower, slipping under the edge of the lacy red panties that barely clung to her hips. I didn’t even try to hide how badly I wanted her.
She made a small sound—half protest, half breathless groan.
“A-Alvin… w-wait, are you… Sure about this? With me?” Her tone was nervous, almost disbelieving, like she couldn’t reconcile the image of herself with what I was asking for.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. My fingers pressed more firmly, making my intent clear. “It’s you I want. Can you… bend over for me? I’ll try not to be rough, but I’m not sure I can maintain control in this state. So… forgive me if I hurt you.”
She froze, blinking rapidly, like the words weren’t sinking in. Then, almost too quickly, she shook her head.
“N-no, no—it’s fine. Really. Please,” she said as she felt me moving my fingers down and finding her slippery clitoris. She even spreads her legs so I can have easier access to her body. What a wonderful girl.
I plunge a finger into her pussy while reaching around with my other hand and pinching one of her nipples. She jolts with excitement, “D-do as you please,”
Her politeness almost comically mismatched with the heat of the moment. She spoke as if she were agreeing to lend me her homework or pass me a snack, her tone awkward but sincere.
Her voice carried that masculine bluntness I’d noticed about her before—direct, unadorned, almost casual. But her body betrayed her, trembling faintly as my touch sank deeper. She wasn’t fighting me. If anything, she seemed overwhelmed, shy, and secretly eager.
And that awkward, boyish modesty only made her submission more intoxicating.
Her breath came out in short, uneven bursts as I pressed closer, my hand already sliding beneath the thin strip of lace.
“Alvin, this is… really happening?” Layla muttered, her voice low, almost like she was scolding herself more than me. Her words trailed, caught between disbelief and heat.
“Yes,” I murmured against her ear, my lips grazing her skin. “It’s happening.”
Her hands gripped the edge of the counter as if she needed the anchor. She was trembling—not from rejection, but from the intensity of being wanted so suddenly, so directly.
“A-ah… I don’t… I don’t know if I’m… any good at this,” she stammered, sounding like a nervous boy cornered by a woman who wouldn’t take no for an answer. The raw honesty of it made my chest tighten. In excitement.
“You don’t have to be good,” I said, my tone firm but gentle. My fingers traced lower, teasing the spot where heat had already begun to bloom. “Just let me.”
Her thighs pressed together instinctively, a shy, boyish move that only heightened my hunger. But when I nudged her hips, urging her to spread, she obeyed without resistance—hesitant but willing.
“B-bend over?” she repeated my earlier words, her face heating. She hesitated a moment, then slowly bent forward over the counter, her hair spilling down her shoulders, her back arching beautifully. The sight alone made my pulse hammer.
She looked over her shoulder, cheeks flushed crimson, eyes wide and uncertain, and damn, how beautiful she looks right now. “I-it’s okay, right? I mean… I’m not… disappointing you, am I?”
The question, so awkwardly earnest, hit me harder than any seductive line could have. It was exactly like a shy boy asking if he was enough for the woman pressing him down.
I ripped her panties- which was surprisingly easy, I wonder if the material was just that soft and fragile- before I grabbed her shoulder and pushed her forward, bending her over the counter.
She yelped in surprise, but I didn’t release her.
With my free hand, I guided my rod up to her snatch and pressed forward. The moment I pushed deeper, a sharp gasp tore from Layla’s lips. Her whole body jolted, her nails scraping the countertop.
At first, I thought it was just from the sudden stretch, but then I felt it—the tight, unyielding squeeze around me. Too tight. Almost painfully so. And when I glanced down, I caught the faint smear of red.
My breath caught.
Blood.
It hit me in a rush. My earlier assumptions—thinking she was part of Melissa’s community, that she must have already known this world of depravity—were wrong. Utterly wrong.
“This… this is her first time,” I realized, my chest clenching.
Guilt stabbed through the haze of lust, washing over me with cold clarity. I’d been reckless, letting my desire blind me. I’d assumed she was like the others here, experienced, practiced in the games of this house. But Layla—quiet, shy Layla—was nothing like that.
For a split second, I wondered if I should stop, pull away before I hurt her any further. My body screamed in protest, but my heart twisted harder at the thought of her in pain.
But then she looked back at me.
Her face was flushed scarlet, her eyes glassy, wide with both pain and need. There was a tremble in her lips, but also a plea—a silent, desperate message that she didn’t want me to leave her like this. She didn’t want to be abandoned halfway, not when she’d given herself to me.
The thought of pulling out disappeared instantly.
If I pull out and leave, it’ll surely leave a scar on this beautiful maiden.
Tenderness surged in its place.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss between her shoulder blades. My hands slid carefully over her trembling hips, steadying her, grounding her. “It’ll pass soon. I’ll go slow. Just breathe… let me take care of you.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, giving the faintest nod. “O-okay…” she whispered, her voice breaking in that awkward, boyish way that somehow made my chest ache with affection.
“Congratulations on graduating from your virginity~” I teased softly, my voice warm, trying to coax a smile out of her despite the strain.
“Heh, he…” Layla let out a shaky, happy little laugh through the pain. A pained smile spread across her lips, but it was still genuine—fragile, but radiant. Her eyes shimmered, not just with tears, but with trust. With hope.
That single look nearly undid me.
I kissed the nape of her neck again, slower this time, letting my lips linger. “That’s it… you’re doing so well,” I murmured, moving with the faintest rhythm, careful, gentle, savoring each tiny shiver, each flutter of breath that escaped her lips.
Her fingers clawed on the counter, her body straining to adjust to me, but she didn’t pull away. She leaned into it, into me, her voice catching on a soft, broken moan. “Ahhh… Al…vin…”
I rested my cheek against her back, breathing her in, my hands stroking her sides in long, soothing motions. Every instinct screamed to move harder, faster, to drown in the heat of her, but I forced myself to focus on her, on the moment—on making this as much hers as it was mine.
For a moment, I stilled inside her, letting her adjust, my own breath heavy with restraint. Slowly, carefully, I moved just a little—gentle, but measured as to not hurt her. She winced at first, her body clenching tight around me, but as I rubbed soothing circles along her stomach and kissed the curve of her back, her tension began to melt, little by little.
Her gasps softened, her trembling eased, and that shy, stammering voice slipped out again: “A-Alvin… it’s okay. I-I can take it.”
“Hm, don’t worry. This would only be perfect if both of us enjoy this,” I said.
“But-Aaggghh!”
“Shhh, the pain will disappear soon.”
And with every word, with every squeeze of her body as it learned to accept me, my guilt gave way to something else—something deeper than lust. A protectiveness. A tenderness that made me want to cherish her as much as I desired her.
…
