For a moment, things are looking up for Sylvain.

Sylvain knew if he rose from the weeds to meet Ingrid now, she'd probably put an end to him whether she recognized him or not. There was only one hope of escape he could think of: he needed to use the box as a distraction. He hurried to mash the play button another time. He hated the idea of leaving Ingrid stuck in such a humiliating state, but he had no intent of leaving her that way. He'd figure out some way to smooth this over with his head still on his shoulders... he just needed longer to think.

The Boom Box whirred as the field's reeds began to rustle with Ingrid's approach. Sylvain remained still as the actual scarecrow he'd stolen clothes from, praying Ingrid wouldn't attack before the music could pacify her.

The return of the Box's noise and the arrival of Ingrid's boots occurred at nearly the same time. In fact, Ingrid was now literally on top of his position. By a freak stroke of luck, she'd stamped the weeds to either side of his head while missing the target of her ire himself.

Ingrid's fury was quickly replaced with panic as she heard a rumbling, clapping beat begin blaring from the weeds beside her. "Oh no...!" The knight in training raised her spear, obviously intending to strike at the source of the music to silence it. Instead, she found herself planting the spear tip-first in the dirt of the field, holding the handle in front of her and adopting a stance facing it, her legs spread a bit more widely.

Sylvain watched the spear's approach with terror, parting his own legs and scooting up so the weapon would plunge into dirt instead of directly ending House Gautier's lineage. He recognized the need to keep scooting on out of there, to take advantage of the situation and make a hasty getaway. If Ingrid still hadn't gotten a good look at him, he could probably grab the boombox and make an escape with it... She'd be distracted until she got out of earshot of the music.

That was the plan, until Sylvain looked up and got an eyeful of exactly how Ingrid was being distracted.

With her hands still on the lance in front of her, now acting as a makeshift pole for her to lean on, Ingrid had begun to "drop it" in accordance with the lyrics now shouting at her. "It," of course, was the ass she was losing control of. Whether she realized it or not was unclear, but she was standing over her assailant's prone body, facing in the direction of his lower half. As a result, when Ingrid began gyrating her hips and making her skirt flip, she was giving Sylvain a generous worm's eye view of what she had to work with. Her figure was fit, and there wasn't much significant fat to make jiggle; what she did have, however, was clad in a tight pair of blue leggings, tight enough that he could make out the lines of the panties he could only assume matched her exposed bra.

The singer was asking Ingrid how low she could go, which Sylvain thought was also an appropriate question addressed to himself. Both he and Ingrid seemed to consider that a challenge: in spite of her protests, Ingrid continuing to bend her knees to bring her bouncing butt closer to the young man's face, and in spite of his guilt, Sylvain was making no attempt to get out of the danger zone. He couldn't stop a terrified grin from spreading, one he was glad Ingrid surely couldn't see. The smell of her sweat began to get stronger, a smell that grew more salacious the more he thought about where, specifically, it was coming from.

... There was no time to get distracted! Regardless of how long this moment felt, Sylvain knew it would come to an end, and when it did, there'd probably be a reckoning to pay. If he let this happen, he couldn't imagine he'd escape with his life. "Ingrid!" he shouted desparately.

"S-S-Sylvain?!!" The young woman squeaked above him. "Sylvain, if you're in this field... If you're behind this, I'm going to-"

"Forget about that! You have to grab that shiny gold box, Ingrid! You can stop the music if you-"

Ingrid quickly leaned to do as he said, finding that with hard focus, she could at least exert that much control over her upper body... Her lower body, however, was another story, and in her attempt to lean without moving her feet, she'd brought her twerking ass all the way down, such that she was now inadvertently pounding the young man's mouth with her clothed pussy, cutting off his words. "If I what, Sylvain?!"

"... Pause...!" Sylvain gasped from beneath her.

"Paws?! Oh, p-pause... I hope it's clear that I can't!"

"... Lever... two..."

"Lever two... Aha! I just need to... No!" Just as she seemed to put together the puzzle, the arm she'd been reaching with decided it wanted to snake up behind her head, finding a comfy spot under her flapping braid. Gritting her teeth with exertion, Ingrid managed to peel her other hand from the lance, then begin trying to twist her body to reach crosswise and earn her freedom with the off arm.

Sylvain realized his speech wasn't getting through now, so he decided to simply embrace the dreamlike feeling of a tight ass both grinding and thumping against his nose and mouth. Finally, however, that grinding ground to a stop, along with the music. His eyes were filled with Ingrid's blue-clad butt, and his sense of smell (perhaps even taste, he noted with horror) were overwhelmed with the musk of Ingrid's exercise. More unbelievable even than any of that, however, was the fact that she was just sitting there, surely realizing by this point what her ass was planted on.

Finally, she spoke up. Even if she'd turned to face him over her shoulder, he couldn't see her back around her backside . As a result, he couldn't tell if the quiver in her voice was embarrassment, fury, or exhaustion. He had to imagine it was some mix of all three. "I'm about to stand up and look down. When I do, if I see the face of Sylvain Jose Gautier looking back at me, I swear, I'll..."

Most of Sylvain's senses might be blocked, but his ears still worked fine. In spite of that, he didn't hear a conclusion to that sentence, although it could surely only end in "scream" or "****," or both. Regardless, he didn't have to wait to find out. Ingrid helped herself off of him, crouched in the weeds, and turned to face him...

The **** glare he'd been sure he'd see was absent. Ingrid looked mad, for sure, but far more notably, her face was beet red. Although her big green eyes were glaring daggers, they were beginning to tear up. She didn't seem to want to say anything, probably worried her composure would break even further. Instead, she was letting him have the first word... Which, of course, could easily be his last. He noticed she had one hand on her lance and one arm wrapped around the Boom Box, now. He was at her mercy.