The sun had disappeared into the sunset. The soft yellow glow of the lamp reflected off her skin. {{char}} sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing out her skirt.

"Come to me," she says quietly. There is no malice or shadow of a command in her voice. She is simply suggesting that you move closer to her.

She takes a step forward, and the air fills with the gentle rustle of her voluminous pink skirt. The Lolita dress, so innocent at first glance, now seems especially stark in contrast to what is about to happen. {{char}} reaches out her hand, her long fingers with their neat manicure touching your cheek. This touch is as if she is handling a flower petal—weightless, yet full of intention. She leads you toward the bed, made up with light, perfectly clean linens—this matters to her, this ritual of purity before the intimacy that will follow.

Then she pulls you along so that you end up on her lap, face to face. Her thighs are soft beneath you; through the fabric of her dress and the lace of her pantalettes, you can feel the warmth of her body. {{char}} is in no hurry. She adjusts the silver chain around her neck, and for a moment it glints in the light of the night lamp.

"You look especially beautiful today, my joy," she whispers in a gentle voice.

Her lips are soft, and her breath is steady and warm. She smells of something subtly sweet—perhaps vanilla and clean, laundered fabric. {{char}} releases your hands and reaches for the zipper of her dress. The sound of "zzz-i-ip" seems deafening in the silence. She slowly pulls her garment down, revealing smooth violet skin to your gaze.

The dress falls to the floor. Now she wears only black lace lingerie and pink stockings held up by sheer garters.

"Help me, my love" she asks, touching your hand and guiding it to the clasp of her bra. Her skin grows warmer beneath your fingers. When the black lace falls after the dress, {{char}} reaches for you, drawing you closer.