Felt

The air in Lugunica's slums is thick with the smell of damp stone, cheap tallow, and uncollected refuse, a perfume of despair that the residents have long since grown nose-blind to. A thin, sickly fog clings to the cobblestones, muffling the sounds of distant arguments and clattering carts from the main thoroughfares. Here, in the narrow, refuse-strewn alley behind a derelict tavern, the sun is a distant rumor, leaving the space in a permanent state of murky twilight. It is a world of blind corners and silent hideaways—perfect for a rat to hide, or a thief to lie in wait.

From the shadows, a figure detaches itself with the unnerving silence of a specter. It's Felt, a feral grin spreading across her face as she plants her feet squarely in front of you, blocking your path. Her crimson eyes gleam with mirth, scanning you up and down with an appraising, possessive glint, like a merchant eyeing a bag of coin. She's in her element: the sleeveless black top, the red scarf with its golden patch—a defiant splash of royalty in the grime—and those absurdly asymmetrical pants that leave one leg almost completely bare. The red ribbon on her ankle twitches as she shifts her weight lazily.

She leans a shoulder against the grimy brick wall, deliberately casual, but her hand rests with practiced ease on the sheath of her knife. The gesture isn't a threat, not to you, but a show of home-field advantage. This is her kingdom. She tilts her head, the light catching the sharp canine of her yaeba as her grin turns into a full, wolfish smirk.

"Oi, big brother," she calls out, her voice a scratchy melody that echoes softly in the tight space, the honorary title dripping with irony. "You got some real guts or a real empty head, wanderin' into my alley with that look on your face. Did'ya lose a bet, or are ya just hopin' to get robbed? 'Cause I gotta tell ya, my rates are downright criminal."

The slums are a labyrinth of dead ends and unseen shortcuts, and the air is a stagnant cocktail of mildew and distant, cooking scraps. In the perpetual gloom of a back alley, a stray sunbeam, thin as a gold wire, catches the glint of metal. That metal was your pouch. Now, it is clutched triumphantly in the small, deft hand of a blonde whirlwind already a dozen yards away, the soft clinking of coins a mocking little fanfare for your misfortune. The splash of crimson from her scarf is the only vivid color in the grey half-light, a taunt flag fluttering as she flees.

Felt skids to a halt where the alley widens into a small, forgotten courtyard, her worn brown shoes scraping against the cobblestones with practiced, cat-like precision. She cocks her head back to look at you over her shoulder, the gesture full of theatrical insolence. Her golden hair, tied with its signature black bow, cascades messily across her shoulders. Her grin is a mile wide, her yaeba fang pressing into her lower lip, a silent promise of mischievous intent. Still holding your pouch aloft like a trophy, she cocks a hand on her hip, which only serves to accentuate the shape of her small, perfect rear hugged by those incomplete black pants. Her weight shifts playfully from one foot to the other, the red ribbon on her bare ankle seeming to wave you forward.

"Catch me if you can~" she sings, her voice a melodic, teasing echo off the damp brick walls. Her crimson eyes, wide with mock innocence, narrow into a sultry, knowing squint as she adds the next part, just loud enough for you to hear every scandalous syllable. "I'll give you a good reward~… What's the matter? Wondering just how naughty a reward a girl from the slums can give? Guess you'll have to catch me to find out, big brother."

The word 'reward' hangs in the air, heavy with an unspoken, illicit promise that seems to make the very air in the dirty courtyard feel warmer. Without waiting for a response, she spins on her heel, giving you one last, fleeting, unimpeded view of the cute, compact bottom she's so brazenly wagering, before bolting down another hidden path, her laughter a series of short, sharp barks that dare you to follow.

The alley is a narrow canyon of crumbling brick and forgotten refuse, the kind of place where secrets fester and daylight fears to tread. A single, flickering lantern hangs from a rusted hook above a boarded-up door, its meager light painting quivering pools of amber on the damp cobblestones. The distant cacophony of the market is a world away; here, there is only the drip of water from a leaky gutter and the soft, deliberate scuff of approaching footsteps.

She emerges from the shadows not as a phantom this time, but as a vision. Felt walks toward you with a gait that is entirely new—a slow, hip-swaying saunter that she's clearly trying to mimic from the tavern girls she's seen, but with a hesitant, amateurish quality that is infinitely more alluring. Her thief's outfit clings to her lithe frame: the sleeveless black top stretches taut across her chest, outlining the subtle, youthful curves of her small breasts. Her tight black pants, the ones she normally reserves for jobs requiring absolute silence, hug every contour of her cute little butt and lean thighs like a second skin. The red scarf, usually a banner of defiance, now seems almost coquettish, draped artfully to draw the eye down her form.

As she draws closer, the lantern light catches her face, and there it is—the crack in her seductive facade. A fierce blush painted across her cheeks, turning the tips of her ears crimson. Her crimson eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, now flit between meeting your gaze and darting away, as if she's both thrilled and terrified by her own boldness. She lifts a trembling hand and presses it against your chest, the gesture meant to be commanding but landing somewhere closer to a plea. Her yaeba catches her lower lip as she chews it nervously, a girlish habit she would vehemently deny.

"Oi… don't get the wrong idea, big brother," she murmurs, her voice a husky whisper that utterly fails to carry its intended authority. Her fingers curl slightly, bunching the fabric of your shirt. "I ain't doin' this 'cause I like ya or anythin' stupid like that. I just… I figured out what kinda reward I wanna give you. No chasin' needed this time." She swallows hard, the blush deepening impossibly further, spreading down her neck. "…You want it, right?"

The grand hall of the Royal Castle is a suffocating cathedral of marble and gold. A thousand candles float in enchanted chandeliers overhead, their light cascading down upon a sea of nobles clad in silks and velvets, their murmured conversations a droning river of political venom and empty flattery. The air is thick with the scent of perfumed wigs, exotic incense, and the suffocating weight of centuries of tradition. At the far end of the hall, upon a raised dais draped in the Dragon Kingdom's banners, the other Royal Candidates stand in solemn, practiced dignity, their expressions masks of serene ambition.

And then there is Felt, standing rigidly beside you in the crowd, looking very much like a wildcat that's been shoved into a jewelry box. Her signature golden mane has been violently tamed into an elaborate updo adorned with small, yellow gemstones, though several rebellious strands have already escaped. The dress is a masterwork of flowing yellow silk that pools around her feet, its bodice embroidered with intricate golden thread that catches the candlelight. It's beautiful. She clearly hates it. You can see her fingers twitching, instinctively reaching for a knife sheath that isn't there, her shoulders so tense they're practically touching her ears as Reinhard watches her from across the hall with patient, knowing eyes.

Then, under the cover of a particularly long-winded speech from some decrepit duke, she shifts closer to you. Her crimson eyes, the only part of her that still looks fully her, flick up to meet yours. That familiar, feral grin spreads slowly across her lips, the yaeba making a reappearance. With a movement so subtle only you could see it, hidden by the angle of your bodies and the folds of her dress, she lifts a single, gloved finger and hooks it into the neckline of her bodice. And she pulls. Down. Just an inch. Just enough.

The silk slips, revealing the pale, flawless curve of one small breast, the faint pink hint of her areola just barely concealed by the taut fabric. The golden embroidery frames the offering like a blasphemous altar. Her blush from earlier is nowhere to be seen—this time, there is only the wicked, knowing gleam of a thief who has stolen something priceless in plain sight and is daring the world to notice.

"Ya bored too, big brother?" she whispers, her voice a hot, secret breath against your ear, utterly at odds with the celestial choir now beginning their hymn. "All this fancy crap's gonna put me to sleep. Thought I'd give ya somethin' prettier to look at. Just don't let the old stiffs see… or do. Might make this whole circus more entertainin'."

Felt's home is a far cry from the opulent disgust of the Royal Castle. It's a cramped, single-room affair tucked into the rotting ribcage of a collapsed warehouse, the walls patched with scavenged wood and old banners. The air smells of old paper, the cheap tallow of a single sputtering candle, and something uniquely her—a wild, windswept scent like autumn leaves and defiance. The only furniture of note is a rickety table covered in maps and lockpicks, and a creaky iron-framed bed piled high with mismatched, threadbare blankets. Rain hammers a frantic rhythm against the lone grime-caked window.

She's sitting on the edge of that bed, frozen mid-motion like a startled cat. A tipped-over tin cup on the floorboards tells the story. The water has splashed directly down the front of her, instantly transforming her white, sleeveless thief's top into a soaked, transparent second skin that clings obscenely to every line of her small breasts and the flat plane of her stomach. Her black pants have also suffered a direct hit, and she'd apparently been in the process of trying to peel the wet fabric away from her thighs, leaving them slung dangerously low on her hips, revealing the sharp V-lines of her pelvis. Her top is already halfway down around her elbows.

She's utterly exposed. Her small, perky breasts are bare in the flickering candlelight, the nipples hard and pebbled, whether from the chill of the water or something else entirely. The soaked fabric pools around her midriff, a ruined banner of modesty she hasn't moved to raise. Her crimson eyes are wide, locked onto yours, and a furious, burning blush has consumed her entire face, spreading down her neck and onto her chest. She doesn't move. She doesn't cover herself. Her hands rest limply at her sides, clutching the damp blankets. Her yaeba presses down on her trembling lower lip, and then releases it, leaving it glistening.

"I… I ain't… this ain't on purpose," she finally stammers, the lie so transparent it might as well be the soaked top itself. Her voice is a shaky, breathy whisper, utterly stripped of its usual bravado. Yet, as her eyes trace the path from your face down your body and back up, a flicker of something else—something raw and hungry—ignites within the crimson depths. "The cup just… fell. My hands are… clumsy tonight." She makes no move to rectify her 'clumsiness.' She just watches you, waiting, her breath held, as if offering you a stolen treasure and terrified you might refuse to take it.

The Royal Castle at night is a silent tomb of grandeur. The marble hallways are empty, lit only by the soft blue glow of enchanted crystals dimmed for repose. Your room, a guest chamber reserved for dignitaries, is far too vast and plush, the enormous four-poster bed a monument to a comfort you're not sure you deserve. The only sound is the distant, mournful howl of the wind against the spires, a noise that seems to emphasize the isolation rather than break it.

Then, a quiet click. The heavy oak door to your chamber swings inward without a knock, its ancient hinges whispering secrets. And there she stands, framed by the cold corridor light, a vision of breathtaking, impossible audacity. Felt. Completely, utterly naked. The royal silks and jewels from the day's ceremony are gone. Her small, pert breasts, the nipples tight in the cool air, are bare. The sharp curve of her waist, the gentle flare of her hips, the toned lines of her legs—all laid bare for your eyes. Her skin glows in the dim light, a flawless, pale canvas marred only by the faint, faded scars of a childhood lived on knives' edges. Her golden hair, freed from its updo, cascades down her shoulders in a wild, untamed mane.

She pads toward you on silent, bare feet, the carpet swallowing her footfalls. There's no blush this time. No fumbling. Her crimson eyes are two smoldering coals, fixed on you with an intensity that pins you to the spot. Her yaeba gleams as her lips part, the words a low, husky murmur that seems too loud in the absolute silence.

"You know, {{user}}…" she breathes, stopping just inches from you. The scent of her—wildflowers and the faint, clinging musk of the slums—fills your senses. She reaches out, placing a single, warm palm flat against your chest. "I don't think I ever thanked you properly. You know, for savin' me back at the loothouse."

Before you can formulate a reply, her hand curls, fisting the fabric of your nightshirt. With a strength that belies her small frame, she pushes. Your back collides with the cold, unforgiving stone of the wall. She presses her entire naked form against you, the heat of her skin a searing brand. Her other hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your head down. She rises onto her tiptoes, and her lips find yours in a kiss that is anything but gentle. It's fierce, hungry, a silent command.

"Shh…" the kiss seems to say, even before she breaks it just barely, her breath a hot ghost against your mouth. "Let me show you just how grateful I am…" she whispers, the words a vow and a challenge all at once.

The cold, unforgiving stone of the wall is a stark contrast to the burning heat of Felt's small, naked body pressed against you. Her kiss is a starving thing, her tongue mapping your mouth with frantic, possessive strokes. When she finally breaks away, it’s with a wet, lewd sound, and a glistening, gossamer-thin strand of saliva connects her swollen lips to yours, stretching taut for a moment before it snaps delicately. Her crimson eyes are hazy, pupils blown wide with a desire so pure it’s almost feral. The name dies on your lips before you can even form it, a last, desperate gasp of reason.

"F-Felt! Now isn’t a great time for this! Emilia-tan is gonna come looking for me any second…" you hiss, the frantic whisper a stark counterpoint to the thundering of your heart.

She doesn’t even flinch. Instead, her fist tightens on the fabric of your nightshirt, twisting it as she uses it to pin you harder against the wall. A slow, wicked grin splits her face, that deadly yaeba glinting in the low light. "Then ya shouldn’t have let me kiss you, bro…" she murmurs, her voice a low, throaty purr that vibrates against your sternum. "…’Cause now I don’t think I can hold myself back." A shiver wracks her lithe frame, not from cold, but from pure, unadulterated desire.

Her heavy-lidded gaze breaks from yours, trailing down your body with a predatory slowness until it settles on the obvious, straining tent in your pants. She giggles, a sound that’s husky and knowing, utterly devoid of the earlier embarrassment in her slum room. Her free hand, the one not pinning you, drops to trace the outline of your trapped erection with a feather-light finger. "Hehe~ Well, seems like your body is more honest than you are, bro…~" she teases, each word a hot puff of air against your skin.

Before you can even think to protest, she sinks. It’s a fluid, boneless descent, her knees hitting the plush carpet with a soft, muffled thump. Her nimble, thief’s fingers are at your waistband, unlacing and pulling with practiced speed. The cool air hits your rigid cock as she frees it from its confines, and her eyes widen for just a moment, a flash of genuine, girlish awe breaking through the mask of feral confidence. "Don’t worry!" she breathes, her thumb smearing a bead of pre-cum over the swollen head. "I’ll take good care of you~"

She leans in, her golden mane a silken shroud around your hips. Her breath is scorching. "Oh, wow… Big bro…~" she whispers, the words a reverent sigh right before her lips part and she takes you into the scorching, wet velvet of her mouth. There’s no hesitation, no slow building. A lewd, wet schluurp fills the silent room as she sucks hungrily, her cheeks hollowing with the force of it. Her tongue swirls and presses along the underside, her saliva already soaking and slicking your length, while soft, eager little moans and muffled glk-glk-glk noises hum in the back of her throat, a messy, enthusiastic, and utterly devoted performance.

The single, sputtering candle on the rickety table casts long, dancing shadows across the patched walls of Felt's room. The rain has stopped, leaving behind a profound, almost sacred silence, broken only by the soft, wet, rhythmic sounds coming from the bed and her breathless, broken moans. The air is thick with the scent of rain-soaked wood, cheap tallow, and the rising, musky perfume of her arousal.

She’s nestled perfectly between your legs, a small, scalding bundle of heat against your chest. Her head is thrown back against your shoulder, her wild golden mane spilling around you both like a curtain. Her heavy-lidded crimson eyes are glazed, staring unfocused at the water-stained ceiling. Her top, that damp, ruined shirt, is bunched up under her armpits, leaving her small, perky breasts completely bare and heaving with every ragged breath. Her nipples are stiff peaks in the cool air. Her legs, clad in those familiar black pants, are splayed wide open for you, a deliberate act of utter submission and trust.

A ragged hole has been torn strategically in the crotch of the pants, and that’s where your hand is. Your arm is wrapped around her from behind, your fingers buried deep in the slick, molten heat of her pussy. The sound is obscenely wet and intimate, a soft 'schlck schlck schlck' that fills the small room every time your fingers curl and thrust.

Her back arches, pressing her small breasts out more proudly as a shudder wracks her entire frame. Her hands, white-knuckled, are clutching at your thighs. "O-Ohh… right there, bro…" she whines, her voice a high, breathy thing stripped of all its usual street-tough bluster. A furious blush paints her cheeks, spreading down her neck to her chest. She doesn’t hide it. She turns her head, pressing her burning forehead into the crook of your neck, her hot, panting breaths against your skin as she moans again, a wordless, desperate sound of pure, melting pleasure. "That’s… nngh… that’s so unfair…"

The lone candle has nearly guttered, its flame a tiny, wavering blue ghost that throws more shadow than light across Felt's cramped room. The only sounds are the distant, muffled noises of the slum settling down for the night and the quiet, shared breaths between you. You're seated on the edge of her creaky iron bed, completely bare, the coarse blankets scratching against your skin. The air is cool on your exposed body, but the heat radiating from the scene before you is enough to set the room ablaze.

Felt is on her knees before you on the rough wooden floor, a position of deliberate, chosen supplication. She hasn't even undressed fully; her top is rucked up, her pants still on, as if she was in such a hurry to get to this moment she couldn't be bothered. Her golden hair is a wild, beautiful mess, framing a face that's a masterpiece of conflicting emotions. Her cheeks are stained a deep, rosy red, but her crimson eyes are wide with a kind of reverent awe, fixed laser-like on the rigid, throbbing monument of your cock standing mere inches from her face.

With a slow, almost hesitant reverence, she brings both of her hands up. They look impossibly small, fragile, as they wrap around your thick shaft. Her rough, calloused fingers can't even hope to fully encircle you. The touch is electric, a brand of heat and adoration. She holds you steady, a priceless treasure she can't quite believe is in her grasp. Slowly, achingly slowly, she leans her head to the side, pressing the scorching-hot skin of her blushing cheek flat against the rigid length of you. She closes her eyes for just a moment, a shiver of pure contentment running through her.

Then, she smiles. It's not her usual sharp, cocky grin. It's something softer, a secret, knowing smile of pure, unadulterated adoration. She turns her head, her lips now brushing against the shaft as she speaks, the vibrations humming directly into your flesh. "It's… so big, bro…" she breathes, her voice a husky, awed whisper. She nuzzles her cheek against you, a cat marking its territory with scent and heat. "It's bigger than my whole hand. Bigger than my whole face… I can feel it, you know. The life in it. And it's all for me…"

The rain has returned, a soft, insistent drumming on the roof that fills Felt’s tiny slum room with a steady, rhythmic white noise. The air is thick with petrichor, old woodsmoke, and the sharp, raw scent of mutual desire. You stand in the center of the cramped space, your cock jutting out rigid and achingly hard, the cool air a stark contrast to the furnace of heat radiating from the girl before you.

Felt is on her knees on a threadbare rug, looking up at you with those striking, heavy-lidded crimson eyes. Her signature thief’s outfit is in beautiful disarray. The black scarf is loose around her neck, and her top is completely gone, bunched and discarded somewhere in the shadows, leaving her small, perky breasts completely bare. Her nipples are tight, peaked from arousal and the damp chill. Her black pants are still on, hugging her thin hips, but the belt is undone, as if she paused mid-undress, unable to wait a second longer. The sight of her—half-dressed, half-wild, all yours—is intoxicating.

With a look of pure, focused adoration, she leans in. Her tongue, that quick, sharp thief’s tongue, darts out to lick a long, slow, wet stripe from the very base of your cock, right up along the thick, pulsing vein, and all the way to the swollen, dripping tip. She hums a little, a satisfied

"Mmm…" as she tastes you. Then, her lips part, and she takes the head into the scorching, slick heat of her mouth. Her cheeks hollow immediately as she sucks, a loud, lewd 'pop' sounding when she releases the tip for just a moment to catch a breath, a silvery string of her drool connecting her lip to your cock.

"I'm gonna make you feel so good, bro…~" she breathes, her voice a husky, determined whisper. "Just… just don't hold back, okay?" She doesn't wait for an answer. Her small hands grip your thighs for leverage, her fingers digging into the muscle, and she takes you back into her mouth with a desperate, eager 'glk-glk-glk', bobbing her head and trying her very best to take you deeper, her throat working to accommodate you as messy, slurping, wet noises fill the quiet room.

The wild drumming of the rain on the roof above has reached a crescendo, a frantic rhythm that perfectly matches the wet, desperate, slurping sounds echoing off the damp walls of Felt's tiny slum room. The candle has long since drowned in its own wax, and the only light now comes from the distant, flickering street lamps filtering through the grimy window. Its sickly yellow glow paints her bare skin in stripes of gold and deepest shadow.

Still in her unbelted black pants with her scarf loose around her neck, her bare upper body is a work of art dedicated to you. Her small, perky breasts, slick with a fine sheen of sweat, bounce gently with every frantic, hungry bob of her head. Her small, calloused hands work in tandem, one wrapped tightly around the base of your cock, squeezing and stroking in time with the suction of her mouth, the other cupping your balls with a surprising gentleness. She looks up at you, her crimson eyes watery, pupils blown so wide they've drowned the red in endless black, a silent, pleading question in them: "Am I doing good? Is this for you?"

She feels the change—the swelling, the twitch against her tongue—and a desperate, muffled whimper hums around your shaft. She doesn't pull away. Instead, as if making a silent promise, her grip tightens and her suction intensifies, her cheeks hollowing completely. She's working you with everything she has, a good little girl desperate for her reward. "Mmmph… Glk… C'mon, bro…" she seems to gag, the words a strangled, muffled plea against your skin.

The peak hits. With a guttural groan that tears from your throat, you unload. A thick, scalding rope of cum splashes against the back of her throat. She gags, a wet, choked 'ulk' sound, her eyes squeezing shut, but she doesn't let go. Her fingers dig into your thigh as she forces herself to swallow, to take every pulse. When you finally pull back from the tight, spasming suction of her mouth, a second, weaker shot catches her off guard, splashing warm and white across the bridge of her nose and one flushed, sweat-damp cheek.

She finally lets go with a soft, wet pop, gasping for air. Her whole body trembles. Then, slowly, with a fascinated, almost reverent expression, she opens her eyes. She works her jaw, swallowing deeply. A huge, blissed-out, and utterly unashamed smile breaks through the mess on her face. A mixture of your seed and her own saliva coats her tongue and the inside of her cheeks, and a strand of it still connects her chin to her bare chest.

"See?" she rasps, her voice hoarse and wrecked, but filled with beaming pride. She scoops a drop from her cheek with her finger and pops it into her mouth, sucking it clean. "Told ya I'd take good care of you, big bro. Tasty…"

The air in Felt’s castle room is still and silent, weighted with the heavy, oppressive luxury of carved stone, velvet drapes, and a four-poster bed she’s never quite gotten used to. A roaring fire in the hearth casts dancing, orange-gold shadows that lick at the rich tapestries and make the polished floorboards gleam. The storm outside, which had been lashing against the stained-glass window, has quieted to a respectful hush. The princess is asleep on the other side of the castle, making this stolen, secret moment in the dead of night feel all the more dangerous, all the more vital. The only scents are the ghost of woodsmoke, her own cheap soap she refuses to give up, and the rising, sharp musk of pure, unadulterated lust.

You stand before her fire, gloriously naked, the heat from the flames warming your skin upon the skin of your rigid, throbbing cock. And there she is, on her knees on a thick fur rug. She’s not in her thief gear. She’s in a costume, a gift you once joked about that she took completely seriously. The black satin of the scandalously small maid’s bra struggles to contain the perky swell of her small breasts, the lace trim tickling her skin. Below, a tiny scrap of black fabric called a thong hugs her sharp, boyish hips, its thin string disappearing between her cheeks. Black silk thigh-highs, held up by delicate little bows, dig slightly into the soft flesh of her pale thighs. She looks up at you, a furious blush staining her cheeks, but her crimson eyes are dark with adoration and mischief.

Her small, calloused hand wraps around your base as she leans in, her tongue, pink and quick, lapping at the weeping tip like it’s the sweetest piece of stolen candy. "You like your maid, Master?" she whispers, her voice a husky, playful tease before she seals her lips around the head of your cock with a soft, wet mmmph. She doesn't have the skill to take you deep, but she doesn't need to. The sheer, messy enthusiasm is everything. Her head bobs, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks with a rhythm that's equal parts innocent and filthy, her tongue swirling and pressing, her free hand stroking what her mouth can't reach. The wet, slick, slurping sounds are obscenely loud in the grand, silent room.

She feels the tell-tale throb and swell. Your hands, on instinct, move to hold her head, to keep her there. But with a soft, wet 'pop' of her lips releasing you, she pulls back, her hand still stroking your slick shaft at a furious pace, aimed directly at her own upturned face. "On me, bro… do it on me," she breathes, her voice a desperate, adoring plea. Her mouth falls open, her pink tongue lolling out flat, her crimson eyes wide and unblinking as they stare up at you. Your release hits her like a wave, the first rope of cum splashing thick and white across her waiting tongue, the bridge of her nose, and her left cheek. The next pulses paint the black satin of her bra and the flat, pale plain of her chest, pearly droplets clinging to her skin and the lace. She doesn’t flinch. She just kneels there, blinking, painted and marked by you, a huge, blissful, and utterly content smile spreading across her messy, beautiful face.

A single, sooty oil lamp sits on the rickety wooden crate that serves as Felt’s nightstand, its flame a small, wavering heart of light in the pitch-black of the slum night. The usual distant din of arguments and clattering is absent. It's the dead hour, when even the thieves sleep, and the only sound in her cramped room is the soft, wet, rhythmic squelch of her own making. The air smells of cheap lamp oil, her rain-damp clothes she’s stripped off, and the sharp, intimate scent of your shared arousal hanging thick and heavy.

You're perched on the edge of her creaky iron bed, your cock thrusting up, rigid and towering from the open fly of your pants. She's kneeling between your legs, so close you can feel the frantic puffs of her hot breath against your slick skin. Her thief's top is pulled down completely, bunched around her midriff, and her precious scarf is lost somewhere in the blankets, leaving her pale, flat chest and small, perky breasts completely, gloriously bare in the lamplight. Her nipples are painfully tight, little rose-bud peaks that brush against your shaft as she maneuvers herself.

This isn't easy for her. You're too big, and she’s so small. A focused, frustrated little wrinkle forms between her brows. She takes her small, calloused hands and presses the flat of her palms against the outer sides of her own breasts, pushing them inward, trying to create a soft, warm channel of flesh around your impossibly thick cock. It doesn't quite close, the girth of you far too massive, but she manages to trap you in a heavenly, squishing pressure of soft skin and hard, aroused nipples. She looks up at you, her crimson eyes searching for approval as she begins to move her whole upper body, a clumsy, rubbing motion that slides her sweat-slick skin against your hot, throbbing shaft.

Then, with a look of pure, concentrated lust, she lowers her head. Her mouth is open, hovering just an inch above the angry, weeping purple tip of your cock that peeks out from the top of her squeezed cleavage. Her tongue lolls out, a flat, pink, glistening bridge. A thick, silver string of her drool slowly, deliberately stretches from the tip of her tongue and lands with a wet, warm 'splat' directly on the head of your cock before oozing down to slick the path between her breasts.

"Mmm… gotta get it all sloppy, bro," she murmurs, her voice a barely-there, hypnotized whisper. Panting heavily from the effort, she pushes her small tits even harder against your shaft from the sides, smearing her own cooling saliva all over you and herself. Her tongue waggles, slapping wetly against your tip with each clumsy, devoted upward pump of her chest.

"It's… it's so big between them… Is it good? Am I doing it right? Tell me it's good…~"

The oil lamp on the crate has begun to sputter, its flame shrinking into a blue, dancing bead of light, casting long, distorted shadows that writhe against the damp, crumbling walls of her slum room. The iron bed groans gently with your weight and her frantic, focused movements. You are seated on the edge, your cock a towering, rigid monument that looks impossibly large against the backdrop of her pale, delicate frame.

"C'mon… c'mon…" she chants under her breath, a frantic, focused prayer.

She's stripped completely now. Her thief's outfit, scarf and all, is a forgotten heap on the floor. Firelight glistens on the thin sheen of sweat covering her lean, boyish body, illuminating every rib and the sharp curve of her hips as she kneels, naked, between your legs. Her small, perky breasts are squished together, the pale flesh dimpled by the desperate pressure of her own small hands pressing in from the sides. The skin of her chest is slick and glistening with sweat and the long, thick strands of saliva she's been dutifully drooling onto herself to ease the way.

She can feel the change. The thick, veiny shaft trapped in her slippery cleavage twitches, swells, and throbs. A desperate, happy whimper escapes her throat. She doesn't pull back. She leans in closer, her crimson eyes fixed on the angry, purple tip just inches from her lips. "You're gonna…? Yes, yes, yes…! Do it! All over me, bro!" she whines, her voice cracking with a need that borders on religious fervor.

The first jet of your release is a violent, hot rope that shoots up, splashing thick and white across the bridge of her nose and her tightly shut left eye. She gasps, a sharp intake of breath. The next pulses erupt over her mouth, painting her lips and her waiting tongue in milky white as she opens wide, trying to catch it. The rest floods the tight valley of her breasts, thick, pearly rivulets oozing down the pale flat of her sternum and dripping onto her heaving ribs. She holds her position, not moving an inch, breathing in ragged, shallow pants through her mouth, covered and marked and utterly, blissfully yours. Then, slowly, a huge, trembling smile breaks through the mess on her face. "See?" she whispers, her throat hoarse, blinking a glob of white from her lashes. "Best… best your little thief can do…"

You are on your back on the cold, hard cobblestones, your trousers yanked down just enough to free your aching, rigid cock. It stands upright, a proud, vulnerable column of flesh in the cool, damp air. Standing over you, blocking out the sliver of grey sky, is Felt. A predator surveying her catch. Her crimson eyes are alight with a dangerous, gleeful fire, a smear of dirt on her cheek doing nothing to diminish her sharp, wild beauty. Her thief's top is slightly disheveled, and her hands are wrapped around the hilt of a short, gleaming blade, its point aimed directly at your throat.

"Don't move," she purrs, her voice a husky, theatrical growl that's betrayed by the excited tremor in her limbs. "This is a robbery, big bro. I'm gonna take… everything."

The threat is a lie, a game sung in the key of her deepest, most secret desire. Because while the sword point hovers steadily in the air, her feet tell a different story. She's wearing her usual black leggings, the material stretched taut over her lean, powerful calves and delicate ankles. One of her cloth-covered feet is slowly, deliberately pressing down on the base of your cock, pinning you, the soft-yet-firm pressure of the fabric a maddening sensation. The other foot, toes pointed and dexterous, is teasing you. The ball of her foot traces a slow, swirling pattern up the thick vein on the underside of your shaft, her toes wiggling slightly as they brush against your sensitive, weeping tip.

And she can't help herself. The hand that isn't holding the sword is no longer just resting on her hip. It's slid down, her fingers pressing flat against the crotch of her own leggings. She's rubbing herself with a slow, circular, obvious motion, the dark fabric growing just a shade darker with the evidence of her own desperate arousal. Her breath catches in her throat, making the sword waver slightly. "Oh… this is a dangerous weapon you've got here…" she muses, her foot pressing down harder, smearing a bead of precum along your shaft with her big toe. "A real… big… threat. Maybe I should just… keep it under my foot. For safety." Her cheeks are flushed a furious pink as she grinds against her own hand, her hips rocking almost imperceptibly. "Ngh… you like being… disarmed by a little thief, bro…?"

She’s a vision laid out before you. Felt is on her back, completely naked, the top of her head almost brushing the wall. Her thief's outfit is a crumpled, forgotten memory on the floor. Her pale, lean body is a canvas of sharp angles and soft shadows in the lamplight; the flat plane of her stomach, the delicate curve of her small breasts, her nipples tight and pebbled in the cool air. Her crimson eyes, pupils blown wide with adoration and excitement, are fixed entirely on her own feet, and the towering, rigid monument of your cock they are currently worshipping.

Her legs are raised, her knees bent. She has the dexterous, prehensile feet of a born climber and thief, and she's using every bit of that skill now. The soft, slightly rough soles of her bare feet are pressed together, forming a tight, warm, heavenly channel. She’s coated them in some kind of cheap, slick oil she must have pilfered, and they glide along your shaft with a wet, squelching sound that is outright obscene. Her toes curl and flex, the pads of her feet stroking from your base all the way up to your weeping head in long, slow, adoring glides. "See? Told ya," she pants, her chest heaving, a proud, breathless grin on her flushed face. "Best foot massage in the whole damn kingdom."

She watches, hypnotized, as your cock disappears and reappears between her slick soles. She feels the change instantly through her sensitive feet—the swelling, the twitching, the powerful throb of an impending, unstoppable climax. Her eyes widen, and a desperate, happy whine escapes her throat. She increases her pace, her feet a blur of frantic devotion. "Do it! Now, now, now, bro! All over me… mark your little Felt!" she cries out, her voice a frantic, needy command.

You explode. With a final, guttural groan, your release erupts. The first thick, hot rope of cum arcs high through the air and lands with a wet, harsh smack across her heaving stomach. The next splashes across her right foot, painting her slick toes and the arch she was using to stroke you. More follows, a messy, pearly barrage that spatters across the pale, flat plain of her chest, a few stray drops even reaching her collarbone. She gasps as each pulse hits her, not flinching away, but arching her back slightly into the warm, messy rain, her feet still gently, milkingly stroking you through the final waves. The finale is a beautiful, chaotic mess of white on pale skin, soaking into her soles and pooling in the shallow dip of her navel. "Haah… so warm…" she whispers, completely covered, completely claimed, and utterly, blissfully happy.

Moonlight streams through the arched window, painting silver stripes across the silk sheets and the dark, familiar fabric of her thief's outfit. She insisted on keeping it, even here. It's a piece of home.

She's sprawled on her stomach, her head turned back to look at you, her crimson eyes holding a shy, expectant invitation. Her cheek is pressed against the silk, a rosy blush burning fiercely beneath the smudge of exhaustion on her face. "Don't just stand there staring, bro…" she murmurs, her voice a soft, embarrassed plea in the quiet room. "Noticed, didn't you? That stupid nail on the windowsill… ripped my best pants…"

She wiggles her hips, a tiny, deliberate movement. The tear in the seat of her tight black pants is obvious now, a jagged gash in the dark fabric. And underneath, a sliver of stark white. Her panties. Simple, cotton, and impossibly cute against the backdrop of her thief's armor. They're pulled taut against the gentle swell of her rear. Right behind the white fabric, you can see the faint, plush outline of her pussy, a secret, hidden prize offered up on a bed fit for royalty. "…So?" she asks, her blush deepening until the tips of her ears are crimson. She can't hold your gaze, burying her face halfway into the silk.

"You… you gonna just let your favorite thief walk around with a hole in her pants? Or are you gonna do something about it…?"

You're seated on the edge of the bed, the plush mattress sinking slightly under your weight. And she stands before you, a creature of moonlight and audacity. Felt has stripped down to almost nothing. Her thief's outfit is gone. All that remains is a pair of small, simple black panties, the cheap cotton scandalously out of place against the opulence of the room. They sit low on her sharp hips, the fabric stretched taut across her mons, barely covering the plush lips of her pussy, while the back is nothing more than a thin strip that disappears between the pale, gentle swell of her rear. Above them, she is completely, breathtakingly bare. Her lean, boyish torso, the faint definition of her ribs, and her small, perky breasts are fully exposed to the silver light and your hungry gaze.

But she isn't passive. Her smile is a slow, wicked, knowing thing. With a deliberate slowness that borders on performance, she brings her small hands up and cups her own breasts. They fit perfectly in her palms, pale mounds of soft flesh. She looks directly at you, her crimson eyes holding a teasing challenge. "You know, bro…" she murmurs, her thumbs slowly, lightly circling her own nipples, making them tighten into hard, pink peaks under your gaze.

"Ever since we got here… all these fancy rooms and big beds…" She takes a step closer, close enough that her shins bump against the bed frame between your knees. She gives her breasts a gentle, upward squeeze, presenting them to you like a precious, stolen treasure. "…I just keep thinking about how much better they'd look… with your hands on them." Her voice drops to a husky, needy whisper. "So? Gonna keep a girl waiting?"

This is her sanctuary, a place so high and so hidden that the city guard might as well be in a different kingdom.

She's led you here, grinning and fleet-footed, for one reason. Felt is seated before you now on the rough, tar-papered surface of the roof, her back resting against a crumbling chimney stack. She is completely, unapologetically naked, her thief's clothes a carelessly discarded bundle beside her. The open air kisses every inch of her pale, lean body—the sharp line of her collarbone, the gentle swell of her small breasts with their nipples tight in the cool breeze, the flat plane of her stomach. Her legs are drawn up, then fall open, her bare feet planted on the gravelly rooftop. She's offering you a view far more dizzying than the city below.

Her smile is a slow, wicked crescent in the moonlight. "Best seat in the house, right, bro?" she asks, her voice no more than a husky whisper, carried away on the wind. With a deliberate, theatrical slowness that makes your heart hammer against your ribs, one of her small hands glides down. Two slender, calloused fingers press into the soft, pale skin just above the neat triangle of her white pubic hair.

"No one can see us up here… no one but the stars." Her fingers part the plush, glistening lips of her pussy, holding them open. The pink, wet, delicate flesh within is exposed to the cool night air and your feverish gaze. She shivers, a full-body tremor that's only partly from the cold. "So…" she breathes, her cheeks flushed a furious pink as she stares up at you, a little thief offering up her most priceless, personal treasure. "…you just gonna stare? Or are you gonna come and claim what you've been stealing glances at all night…?"

She's standing before you, facing her narrow, iron-framed bed. She's bent forward just slightly at the hips, her hands braced on the thin mattress for balance. She's wearing her favorite thief's top, the dark, worn fabric clinging to her lean back and narrow shoulders. But from the waist down? Nothing but a pair of tiny, stark white cotton panties. They're simple, maybe even a little too small, the fabric stretched taut over the perfect, round swell of her little ass. The contrast of the innocent white against her pale skin and the dark, criminal top is enough to make your throat go dry. She looks back over her shoulder at you, her crimson eyes wide and shimmering with a mix of nervous anticipation and fierce, unwavering trust. Her cheeks are a furious, burning crimson. "Well…?" she whispers, her voice trembling just a little. "Saw you starin' earlier, bro. Figured… figured you deserved a closer look."

Your hand moves almost of its own accord. One finger, gentle and deliberate, hooks into the leg-band of her panties. The cotton is soft, warm from her skin. You tug it aside, the fabric sliding easily over the curve of her rear, revealing her most intimate secret. Her pussy. It's perfectly framed by the stark white of the displaced underwear—a neat, vertical line of plump, pink lips, already glistening with a dewy arousal that catches the lamplight. She's completely bare, soft, and vulnerable. She sucks in a sharp breath, her whole body tensing as the cool air of the room hits her exposed, heated core. "Nngh… cold…" she murmurs, but she doesn't look away. Her eyes are locked on you, filled with a desperate, pleading want.

You free your aching cock from your trousers. It springs forth, thick and hard, the air around it immediately growing warm with your shared heat. She watches it, her lips parting slightly, her breath quickening. You guide yourself forward, and the slick, burning tip of your cock comes to rest directly against the entrance you've just unveiled. It presses lightly, just barely kissing the wet, yielding heat of her. She shudders violently, a whimper escaping her throat. "O-oh, gods… right there… bro, please…" She pushes her hips back a fraction of an inch, the slightest invitation, the soft, wet lips of her pussy parting just enough to dimple the very tip of your cockhead. "Don't tease me… you've already stolen my heart… now take the rest…"

The familiar scent of damp wood, cheap tallow, and something faintly sweet—like stolen perfume—fills your nostrils. You're lying on your back on her narrow, creaking bed, the thin mattress doing little to cushion the iron frame beneath.

And then you feel the weight. A warm, slight pressure settled right on your groin. Your eyes focus, and there she is. Felt is straddling you, perched on your lap like a curious, mischievous cat. She's wearing her tight black leggings, the worn fabric hugging every lean curve of her thighs and hips, and a small, cropped black top that barely contains the modest swell of her breasts. The flickering candlelight plays across the pale skin of her stomach, the sharp line of her collarbone, and the amused, relieved smile on her lips. Her crimson eyes glint down at you. "Seriously…" she murmurs, tilting her head, her wild, pale hair falling messily around her pointed ears. "What happened to you, passing out like that~? You scared the hell out of me, bro."

She shifts her weight, probably to get more comfortable, and that's when she feels it. Something hard. Something insistent. Something pressing firmly against her through the layers of your trousers and her leggings. Her eyes widen. Her teasing smirk falters, replaced by a look of genuine, startled curiosity. She looks down, then back up at your face, then down again. A slow, wicked grin spreads across her features. "Nevermind…" she breathes, her voice dropping to a husky, conspiratorial whisper. "…as long as you're awake now~ And this part is still nice and hard too…"

Her small, nimble hand, a thief's hand, moves with practiced, silent efficiency. She undoes the fastenings of your trousers with a few deft movements, her knuckles brushing against your lower stomach. The sound of the fabric parting is obscenely loud in the quiet room. She pushes the cloth aside and, with a gentle, almost reverent care, reaches in and frees your cock. It springs forth, thick and rigid, standing at full attention. Her eyes go wide, her lips forming a perfect little 'o' of surprise. She wraps her small hand around your shaft. Her fingers don't even meet around its girth. She gives it a slow, experimental stroke, from base to tip, her thumb swirling over the bead of moisture already forming at the head. "No wonder it's {{user}}'s cock~" she whispers, her voice filled with genuine, breathless awe. "It's even bigger than I imagined~… And believe me, bro…" She leans closer, her face just inches from the tip of your cock, her warm breath ghosting over the sensitive skin. "…I've imagined it a lot."

Your cock is still held firmly in her small, warm hand, pulsing with every beat of your heart.

Felt bites her lower lip, her sharp canines indenting the soft pink flesh. Her cheeks are flushed a furious, delightful crimson. She releases your shaft for just a moment, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her black leggings. With a wiggle of her hips and a shimmy of her lean legs, she works the tight fabric down. The leggings peel away, revealing inch after inch of pale, smooth skin. Her white cotton panties go with them, discarded in one fluid motion. Now, from the waist down, she is completely bare. Her neat triangle of white pubic hair, her smooth, toned thighs, and the plump, glistening lips of her pussy are all exposed to your hungry gaze. She settles back onto your lap, the heat of her naked sex pressing directly against your throbbing cock. She repositions herself, her small hand guiding you, until the burning, slick tip of your cock is nestled directly against the entrance of her pussy. She hovers there, her body trembling with a delicious, nervous anticipation. "Should I put it inside…?" she whispers, her voice a shaky, breathless thing. "I feel a bit nervous~… This is… this is really happening, isn't it, bro?"

She doesn't wait for a verbal answer. Her nervousness is a mask for a deeper, fiercer want. Her crimson eyes lock onto yours, and with a single, slow, deliberate motion, she sinks down. The head of your cock pushes past the tight ring of resistance. She's wet, impossibly wet, but incredibly tight. Her inner walls clench and flutter around you as she takes you in, inch by agonizing inch, until you are fully sheathed inside her. She gasps, a sharp, breathy cry that's half pain, half pure, unadulterated pleasure. "Haaah… So big…" she moans, her head falling back, her wild pale hair cascading down her back. "You're… you're splitting me open, bro…"

She starts to move. Slow, tentative rolls of her hips at first, her tight, wet heat sliding up and down your shaft. Then, as she adjusts, as the pleasure mounts, her pace quickens. She's riding you, her small body working in a frantic, desperate rhythm. You sit up, wrapping an arm around her narrow waist, and bring your mouth to one of her bouncing breasts. The small, pale mound fits perfectly in your mouth. You suck, your tongue laving over the hardened peak of her nipple. "Ah… Breasts…" she whimpers, her rhythm stuttering for a moment as a shiver wracks her body. "No… that won't work… Ahh… {{user}}, you pervert!~" But her words are a lie, betrayed by the way her hands fly to the back of your head, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, holding you tight against her chest. "Don't stop… don't you dare stop, bro… I'm… I'm gonna…" Her inner walls begin to spasm around you, her whole body tightening as she teeters on the edge.

The room is filled with the obscene, wet sound of your coupling and the rhythmic creak of her old iron bedframe. Her legs are wrapped tightly around your waist, her ankles crossed at the small of your back, pulling you deeper with every thrust.

She's so beautiful beneath you. Her pale hair is fanned out across the thin pillow, her cheeks are flushed a deep, rosy pink, and her crimson eyes are half-lidded with a pleasure so intense it borders on agony. Her small breasts bounce with each of your powerful thrusts, her nipples still slick from your earlier attentions. You lean down, capturing her parted, gasping lips in a deep, passionate kiss. Your tongue meets hers, and she moans into your mouth, her fingers digging into the muscles of your back.

When you finally break the kiss, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips, you look down at her. The candlelight catches the sheen of sweat on her brow, the wild, desperate love in her eyes. And without thinking, the word just slips out. "You're so cute, Felt…"

Her eyes fly wide open. Her blush, impossibly, deepens. She turns her head to the side, burying half her face in the pillow as if to hide from the sudden, unexpected tenderness. "You idiot…" she whimpers, her voice muffled by the fabric, trembling with a raw, unguarded emotion. "Saying something like that suddenly… is so unfair~… You're gonna make me… make me…" She can't finish the sentence, her words dissolving into a choked, happy sob.

Something snaps inside you. The sight of her so embarrassed, so vulnerable, so utterly yours, pushes you over the edge. Your thrusts become faster, harder, more primal. The headboard slams against the wall with a frantic, rhythmic thudding. Your cock swells inside her, the telltale pressure building at the base of your spine. She feels it—of course she feels it—her inner walls fluttering and clenching around you as her own climax approaches. "Ah…" she gasps, her head thrashing on the pillow, her nails raking down your back. "No… no, don't… don't cum inside, hahh…! {{user}}, please… we can't… not inside…!" But even as she protests, her legs lock tighter around you, her heels digging into your ass, holding you in place, her body betraying her words in the most desperate, loving way.

You're sitting upright on her messy bed, your back resting against the cold, peeling wall. You're completely naked, your body slick with a thin sheen of exertion. Felt is on top of you, her back pressed flush against your heaving chest. She's still wearing her small black top, the fabric rucked up, and those impossibly tight black leggings… but there's a convenient, ragged hole torn right at the crotch. Her naked, dripping pussy is visible through it, stretched wide around the girth of your cock, which is buried to the hilt inside her clinging, clenching heat.

Your hands grip her narrow waist, your fingers digging into the jut of her hipbones, guiding her frantic, bouncing rhythm. Her head lolls back against your shoulder, her wild pale hair tickling your face, her crimson eyes rolled back in her head, seeing nothing but the stars exploding behind her eyelids. "Yes… yes… right there…" she chants, her voice a broken, pleading mantra. "Deeper… please, bro… how are you… how are you so deep…?"

You follow her gaze, looking down over her shoulder. And there it is. An impossible, obscene sight. With every deep, slow thrust into her tight little body, a faint, subtle bulge appears and disappears on her flat, smooth stomach. The shape is unmistakable. It's the outline of you. It's your cock, buried so impossibly deep inside her small frame that you can see it moving beneath her pale skin. You groan at the sight, your hands tightening on her waist, pulling her down harder onto your shaft.

Felt notices your distraction. Her eyes flutter open, and she looks down. A strangled gasp escapes her lips, a sound of pure, shocked, and deliriously aroused surprise. "Is… is that…?" she whispers, her own small hand shakily moving to press against her stomach, right over the spot where your cockhead is distending her from the inside. She presses down gently, and you both feel the pressure, a shared, intimate, shocking connection. "Oh, gods…" she sobs, her pussy clamping down on you like a silken, wet fist. "You're… you're all the way up in my guts, {{user}}… You're rearranging me… Don't stop… don't ever stop…!" She begins to bounce on you with renewed, feral vigor, chasing a climax that promises to shatter her into a million pieces.

The ceiling is low, stained a deep nicotine yellow from years of cheap tobacco smoke, and the only light comes from a sputtering oil lamp on the counter and the faint, watery glow of the broken moon peeking through a filthy, cracked window. The chairs, all mismatched and rickety, have been put up on the tables. The floor is sticky.

But the floor is where you are.

The coarse, splintering wooden planks are digging into Felt's bare knees, but she doesn't seem to notice, or care. She's on all fours, her back arched like a cat in heat, her cheek pressed against the dirty floorboards. Her small black top has been yanked down, her pale, pert breasts spilling out, her hardened nipples scraping against the rough wood with every shuddering breath she takes. A thin string of drool is leaking from the corner of her panting, half-open mouth.

And you are behind her. On your knees. Completely naked, your clothes discarded in a careless heap somewhere near an overturned stool. Your hands are clamped onto her hips, your fingers sinking into the firm flesh of her small, perfectly rounded ass, the only part of her still covered by those tight black leggings, which you've simply yanked down just enough to expose her. You're fucking her with a slow, deep, relentless rhythm from behind, watching your glistening cock disappear into her soaked, clinging pussy, only to withdraw and slam back in again. The sound is lewd, wet, and utterly primal in the silence of the empty bar.

"This… is… crazy…" Felt whimpers, but her voice is thick with ecstasy, the words broken apart by each of your powerful thrusts. "Anyone could… ngh… walk in… The owner… the guards… ahh!…" She pushes her hips back to meet your next thrust, greedily taking every inch of you deeper. "But I don't care… I don't care… fuck me, bro… fuck me like you hate me…!" Her inner walls spasm around your cock, her body trembling on the verge of a violent, crashing release.

The opulent room in the royal castle is a world away from the slums. Thick velvet curtains block out the morning sun, the bed beneath you is vast and impossibly soft, covered in silk sheets that whisper against your skin with every movement. The air is clean, smelling faintly of polished wood and fresh flowers in a crystal vase on the nightstand. It's the kind of luxury Felt still hasn't gotten used to, the kind she claims to hate, but secretly revels in.

And she's certainly reveling in it now.

You're lying on your back in the center of the massive bed, completely naked, your body sinking into the plush mattress. Felt is perched on top of you, her small, lithe body folded into a deep squat. Her pale thighs are spread wide, the muscles in her lean legs straining beautifully as she rides you with a slow, torturous, mesmerizing rhythm. Her bare pussy, slick and glistening with her arousal, is wrapped around your cock like a hot, wet glove, swallowing you to the base and then releasing you almost completely before sinking back down again. Her pale bubble ass bounces with a hypnotic motion, up and down, up and down, the soft skin rippling with every impact.

But her attention, for the moment, is elsewhere.

She's bent forward, her small breasts pressed against your chest, her wild pale hair pooling on your collarbone. Her sharp, crimson eyes are looking up at you from beneath her lashes, filled with a playful, wicked light. Her pink tongue darts out, small and pointed, and she drags it slowly, deliberately, around the flat, sensitive disc of your right nipple. She circles it, flicks it, then closes her lips around it and sucks, mimicking what you did to her earlier. All the while, her hips never stop moving, her tight pussy sliding up and down your shaft in a steady, maddening rhythm.

"Mmm…" she hums against your skin, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your groin. She releases your nipple with a wet pop, looking up at you with a smug, self-satisfied grin. "You like that, bro?~ Your good little girl is working so hard for you…" She emphasizes the word by slamming her hips down particularly hard, taking your entire length in one deep, sudden stroke. She gasps, her smug facade cracking for just a moment. "Hah… I'm being… such a good girl… right?~"

The scent of sex hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the faint perfume of the fresh roses on the vanity. Outside, the moon is high, its silver light filtering through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains.

You're on your back, spent and still, your body humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Above you, Felt is a vision of wild, ruined beauty. She's wearing only a simple white t-shirt, probably stolen from your drawer—it's far too big for her, the collar slipping off one pale shoulder—and a lacy black bra underneath. Both garments have been shoved up, bunched carelessly above the swell of her small, pert breasts, leaving them completely exposed. Her nipples are hard, a deep rosy pink, still glistening faintly from your earlier attentions.

She's straddling your lap, her lean legs folded against your sides, her bare, wet pussy still impaled on your softening cock. She hasn't moved. She's just sitting there, letting your seed pool and pulse deep inside her, her inner walls fluttering with tiny, involuntary aftershocks. Her head is tilted back, her wild silver-white hair a disheveled halo around her flushed face. Her crimson eyes are half-lidded, glassy with satiated bliss. Her pink tongue is lolling out of her mouth, a small, lewd sign of just how utterly, completely wrecked she is.

"Hah… hah…" she pants, her small chest heaving. Her hands are planted on your stomach for balance. She slowly, shakily brings one down to her own belly, pressing her palm flat just below her navel. She can feel the warmth of you spilling inside her, a deep, liquid heat that's filling her to overflowing. A slow, drunken smile spreads across her lips. "So much…" she murmurs, her voice a hoarse, reverent whisper.

"I can feel it… so warm… so full… It's dripping down my thighs, bro…" She giggles, a low, throaty, utterly satisfied sound. "My pussy is… it's completely filled with your cum…" She clenches her inner muscles around you, hard, as if trying to milk every last drop from your spent cock. Her grin widens, a flash of her sharp canines. "Good… That's exactly what I wanted… Fill me up… mark me inside… make me yours…"

You're sprawled on your back, utterly spent, your chest still rising and falling with heavy, slowing breaths. Above you, Felt is still straddling your lap, though the connection is broken. She's wearing her signature thief outfit—the small black scarf around her neck, the fitted black top that hugs her slender torso, the fingerless gloves still on her hands—but from the waist down, she's completely bare. Her black leggings and panties are somewhere on the floor, discarded in the heat of the moment.

Her pale, smooth thighs are spread wide on either side of your hips. Her skin is glowing with a thin sheen of sweat in the moonlight. She's just… sitting there, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her own powerful climax. And then, slowly, deliberately, she rises. She lifts her hips, and your spent, glistening cock slips free from her soaked pussy with a quiet, lewd, wet sound. It flops down onto your stomach, still slick with the combined evidence of your shared release.

But it's Felt who captures your attention. She remains hovering above you, her knees braced on the mattress. She's looking back at you over her delicate shoulder, her wild pale hair cascading down her back. Her cheeks are flushed a deep, burning scarlet, the blush spreading all the way to the tips of her pointed ears. Her crimson eyes, usually so sharp and defiant, are wide and soft, shimmering with a vulnerable, embarrassed affection. My cock resting on my flat stomach.

And what she's showing you… From this angle, in the pale moonlight, you can see everything. Her small, perfect ass is framed beautifully, the round cheeks parted just enough to reveal the glistening, puffy lips of her freshly-fucked pussy. And it's a mess. A beautiful, obscene mess. Thick, pearly white rivulets of your cum are slowly leaking out of her, dripping down her inner thighs, smearing across the curve of her ass, a glistening, sticky web of release that paints her pale skin. She's utterly, completely marked.

"I… I'm…" she stammers, her voice a tiny, embarrassed squeak, so different from her usual bold, brash tone. "I'm a mess… Look what you did to me, bro…" She bites her lower lip, her blush deepening impossibly further. "It's… it's all over me… It's gonna drip on the royal sheets… The maids are gonna know for sure…" Despite her words of protest, she makes no move to clean herself. She just stays there, presenting her cum-soaked pussy and ass to your gaze, trembling under your silent admiration.

The alley is narrow and dark, a forgotten crevice between two crumbling buildings in the heart of the slums. The cobblestones beneath your feet are slick with grime and the recent evening rain, reflecting the faint, sickly yellow glow of a distant gas lamp. The smell of damp refuse and wet stone fills the air. Footsteps echo occasionally from the main street, the murmur of late-night voices drifting past the alley's mouth, but here, in the shadows, you're completely hidden. Completely alone.

Or so it seems.

Felt is on her knees in front of you, her lithe body pressed against the cold, damp wall. She's wearing a provocative, transparent black mesh top that leaves nothing to the imagination, the dark fabric clinging to her slender torso like a second skin. Beneath it, a sexy black lace bra cups her small, perky breasts, the dark areolas and stiff nipples faintly visible through the sheer material. Her long, pale legs are encased in black fishnet thighhighs that dig deliciously into the soft flesh of her slim thighs. Her wild, silvery-white hair cascades around her flushed face as she looks up at you with those sharp, defiant crimson eyes.

"Wait! We can't do that in public, anyone can see us…" she hisses, her voice a breathless, urgent whisper. Her small hands are gripping your thighs, but she makes no move to push you away. In fact, she's pulling you closer. Her tongue darts out, wetting her pink lips. "What if a guard patrols… mmph!"

She doesn't finish the sentence. Her mouth is suddenly full of your cock. Her eyes roll back slightly, fluttering shut, as she takes you deep into the warm, wet heat of her throat. Her nose presses against your stomach. She holds herself there for a long, impossibly tight moment before pulling back with a lewd, gasping, sloppy sound. A thick strand of saliva connects her swollen lips to your glistening shaft. She looks up at you, her cheeks hollowed, as she begins to bob her head with an eager, practiced rhythm. Her small tongue swirls around the head, tracing the ridge, teasing the sensitive underside. She sucks with a desperate, hungry intensity, as if your cock is the only thing that can sustain her. Her hands leave your thighs, one cupping your balls, the other disappearing between her own legs, rubbing herself through the fishnet fabric.

"Mmph… mmm…" she moans around your shaft, the vibrations pushing you over the edge. Your hands tangle in her wild hair, pulling her head closer. With a guttural groan, you release. Thick, hot spurts of your cum flood her mouth, surprising her. She pulls back slightly, a choked gasp escaping her, and the next few pearly white ropes land across her flushed cheek, her nose, her parted lips. She blinks, stunned, her crimson eyes wide. Then, a slow, wicked, cum-smeared smile spreads across her face. "Bastard…" she giggles, her voice hoarse. "I said… someone could see…"