You Agree

The Cerulean Maven, clearly delighted, shows you her box. A hardwood case of fine make, containing a small Feysilver bowl – and a smutty novel. She has pulled it from its hiding spot at the base of a shelf and now cracks the yellowed spine to show you the illustrations. Groups and lewd couples rendered in crude ink. She is well prepared.

”I asked a fellow student,” she explains, not meeting your eyes. ”He said yes, but chickened out. I had everything prepared and – and I really thought he’d do it.” She clears her throat. ”There is a water closet over there.”

The privy door closes behind you, and a strange feeling fills your chest. The room is elegant, comfortable almost, as you expected from the stately manor. But it feels cold. Deep blue tiles, and the evening air creeping in through a tilted window.

The heroine of the book, pulpy paper opened to a random page, reminds you of her. Both are students, but the printed one has darker skin and displays yet more naivete. She trusts a snake, rendered with thickly shaded, throbbing coils. And the fantastical beast, of course, takes advantage. It is her expression that beguiles you: Shocked and bright, and already convinced by well-disguised knowledge.

You grow to hardness, leering at the page and sensing her through the door. As you jerk off, you imagine her pussy yielding to your snaking growth; the frilly dress discarded and her mouth open to moan out her need. As you fill the small bowl, you imagine filling her instead, your white leaking from between her pink lips.

She flits away as you open the door. Her dress is rumpled, and her face is flushed rosy red. ”Thank you,” she whispers, grasping for the container.

You hand it over. Her continued praise does not make you feel any less self-conscious. Your hands are clean, but you know. And you know that she knows. There is a spark when yours touch hers. A small twitch and a drop of moisture. You can guess.

”Thank you,” she says, for the final time. ”I should...” The bowl in her hand trembles and embarrassment shades her mien a deeper red. ”It is late,” she mumbles, then gasps – no doubt realizing how callous her words sound.

But it is late. The hands on your timepiece show past midnight, and the other guests have likely long since left. And she does carry a container containing your sperm. It is late.

”First Officer?” The Maven asks as you reach the threshold. ”Will I see you again?”