He swore it was a fluke. A single lapse. Harold had been gone for eight days on some overseas deal, and Melissa was only human. Once. That's all it would be.
He lied to himself very convincingly for exactly seventy-two hours.
Wednesday, 1:30 a.m., the house dead quiet except for the low hum of the air system and the blood in his ears. Phei lay rigid in bed, throat dry again, cock already half-hard at the memory he couldn't scrub out no matter how many times he showered.
He didn't even pretend to fight it this time.
The hallway felt longer tonight, colder against his bare feet, but the closer he got to the east wing the warmer the air became, thick with that same spiced perfume now laced with something darker, muskier, unmistakable.
His pulse was already sprinting by the time the sliver of light appeared under the library door, brighter than before, like she'd cranked the monitor to full.
Or maybe it was just his anticipation.
The sounds leaked out before he even touched the wood.
Soft, wet clicks. A low, rhythmic creak of leather. A breathy, impatient whimper that went straight to his balls.
He pressed his eye to the gap.
Melissa was already deep in it.
The silk robe was gone completely tonight—just a careless puddle of black on the floor beside the chair.
She sat naked in Harold's throne, legs splayed wide, feet planted on the edge of the desk so her thighs framed the screen. The monitor painted her skin in shifting blues and whites as she scrolled one-handed through a thumbnail gallery, the other hand busy between her legs.
Her pussy looked different tonight—angrier, more swollen, lips puffy and slick, darkened with blood.
She was using three fingers now, spreading herself open on every outstroke so the soft pink inside flashed wetly before she sank them back in with a greedy sound that made Phei's mouth flood with saliva.
She clicked a next video. The speakers were off, but whatever she saw made her head fall back, a low, filthy "fuuuck" dragging out of her throat. Her hips jerked forward, chasing her hand.
Phei watched, transfixed, as she spread wider still—one heel slipping off the desk so her knee hooked over the armrest, opening her completely. The cheval mirror had been adjusted; the angle was perfect.
He angered himself so the mirror was directly in his face could see everything: the way her clit stood hard and shining, the rhythmic clench of her entrance every time her fingers twisted inside, the steady drip of arousal that rolled down to soak the leather beneath her ass.
Her free hand left the mouse and dragged up her own body, nails raking over her stomach, leaving faint pink trails. She cupped one breast hard, pinched the nipple until she hissed, then let it go and did it again, rougher.
Her back bowed, sweat beading along the elegant line of her spine, trickling down to pool in the small dip just above her ass.
The wet sounds were louder tonight—sloppy, careless, the kind of noise that only happened when someone stopped giving a damn who heard. Each thrust of her fingers ended with a wet slap of her palm against her clit.
Her thighs trembled; the foot still on the desk curled, toes digging into polished oak.
Phei's cock was fully hard now, leaking a steady pulse of pre-come that cooled instantly against his skin where it soaked through his sweatpants.
He didn't touch himself. Couldn't. If he did he'd come in seconds and the sound would give him away. Instead, he stood frozen, breathing through his mouth, tasting her in the air—salt and heat and raw, aching need.
Melissa's rhythm stuttered. Her head snapped forward, eyes locked on the screen, lips peeled back from her teeth.
"Right there—don't stop—fuck—" The words spilled out, hoarse, pleading, aimed at whatever faceless man was fucking her in the video.
Her fingers pistoned faster, wrist flexing, forearm corded with strain. In the mirror her pussy fluttered visibly, a fresh rush of slick coating her hand and wrist, dripping in thin strings to the seat.
She came hard.
Her whole body seized—back arched like a bow, breasts thrust forward, nipples tight and dark. A sharp, broken cry tore loose, louder than last time, echoing off the books.
Her pussy clamped down on her fingers in waves Phei could actually see, each contraction forcing another thick pulse of wetness out around her knuckles that splattered softly onto the leather.
She stayed locked like that for a long, shuddering moment, breath sawing in and out, then collapsed forward, forehead thunking against the edge of the desk. Her hand stayed between her legs, lazily stroking through the mess, spreading it over her clit in slow, indulgent circles like she was wringing out every last aftershock.
Minutes passed. The monitor dimmed to a screensaver—slow-moving galaxies that painted her sweat-slick skin in shifting constellations.
Phei backed away while she was still slumped there, boneless and glowing, the scent of her orgasm thick enough to choke on.
He made it to his room, locked the door, and came in his sweatpants without even touching his junk—just the memory of her gaping, dripping cunt and the sound of her begging a ghost to keep fucking her.
Nights later, he was back at the door before he'd even admitted to himself he was walking.
When she came this time, she actually whimpered, and the sound sent a jolt through Phei's entire body.
He left before she finished cleaning up. Went back to his room. Lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
It happened again on Saturday.
And the following Monday.
And Wednesday.
And Saturday.
A pattern emerged. Three times a week, minimum. Sometimes four if she was particularly stressed or if Harold was traveling. But she never, ever missed Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday.
Always between 1:00 and 2:00 AM. Always the library. Always the same routine: computer porn, masturbation, orgasm, cleanup.
She'd wipe down the chair with tissues from the desk drawer.
Delete the browser history with practiced efficiency.
Close all the windows.
Shut down the computer.
Adjust her robe.
Check her appearance in the small mirror she kept in the desk drawer.
Then she'd slip out of the library like a ghost, padding silently through the mansion back to the master bedroom where Harold slept, oblivious.
And Phei never missed a single show.
Not once in two months.
He told himself he was gathering information. Learning their patterns, their weaknesses. That's what you did when you were at war, right? You learned everything you could about the enemy.
But that was bullshit and he knew it.
The truth was simpler and so much worse: watching Melissa lose control, watching her be human and desperate and vulnerable, was the only power he had over her. The only secret he held that she didn't know about.
It was pathetic. Creepy. Wrong on every possible level.
But he couldn't stop.
Every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday, like clockwork, Phei would wake up around 1:30 AM—or more accurately, would lie awake waiting for 1:30 AM—and make his way down to the library.
And every time, she was there.
Sometimes she'd watch the same video multiple times. Sometimes she'd browse for twenty minutes before finding something that worked. Once, she'd been so frustrated she'd actually cried while touching herself, tears streaming down her face as she came.
That night had fucked with Phei's head for a week.
He learned things he never wanted to know.
Like how Melissa preferred rough porn—the kind where the woman was being dominated, held down, used. How she bit her lip when she was close. How she always, always whispered "please" right before she came, like she was begging some invisible partner.
He learned that Harold and Melissa's marriage was apparently as dead in the bedroom as it was everywhere else. Two months of watching, and Harold never once joined her. Never walked in.
Was probably passed out drunk in their bed while his wife got herself off in the library.
Phei should have felt disgusted. Should have felt guilty.
Instead, he felt... something else. Something darker. Something that whispered in the back of his mind that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as powerless as everyone thought.
Knowledge was power, right?
And now he had knowledge that could destroy her.
Not that he'd ever use it. What would he even do? Tell Harold? "Hey Uncle Harold, just wanted you to know your wife masturbates to porn three times a week in your library while you sleep."
Yeah, that would go over great.
No, this secret would stay locked in his head, a small victory in a war he was losing on every other front.
Just him and Melissa and the library at 1:30 AM, three times a week.
Monday. Wednesday. Saturday.
Like fucking clockwork.
Present Day
Phei sat on his bed, the Charm Speech ability humming in his throat, and realized something that made his heart race.
Today was that day...
In less than three hours, Melissa would be in that library again. Alone. Vulnerable. In a "heightened emotional state" as the system so clinically put it.
Aroused.
The system had said Charm Speech worked best on targets who were already emotional or horny.
Well.
Phei knew exactly where to find a horny target.
And he had 23 hours and 42 minutes left on his ability.
"Holy shit," he whispered to his empty room.
This was insane. Absolutely fucking insane.
But it was also perfect.
He didn't have to approach her during the day when she was cold and cruel and in control. Didn't have to try to seduce her when she was surrounded by the rest of the family, when any failure would be witnessed and weaponized.
He just had to wait until 1:30 AM, when she was already touching herself, already desperate, already human.
When she was already halfway to where he needed her to be.
The worst that could happen? She'd scream. Call for Harold. Phei would be beaten, thrown out, his life destroyed.
But his life was already destroyed. And he'd already decided to die.
So what was left to lose?
Phei looked at the clock: 10:47 PM.
Less than three hours.
"Fuck it," he said to the empty room, his new charming voice making even those words sound almost pleasant. "Let's see if this is worth a damn."
He lay back on his bed, fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling.
Waiting.
Time was indeed the essence...