The suspension of the Wizarding Chess Tournament had returned a rare sense of tranquility to the bustling village of Hogsmeade.
Isabella pulled her heavy robes tightly around her as she stepped into the Hog's Head Inn. The polished wooden bar smelled faintly of hops and cedar, and a fireplace crackled in the corner, casting a warm, cozy glow over the space. Since it wasn't the weekend, there were only a few scattered patrons, making the pub feel cavernous and quiet.
Isabella's gaze swept the room, quickly locking onto her target in the far corner.
Jerry was sitting alone at a small round table, a steaming mug of Butterbeer in front of him. He wasn't wearing his school uniform; instead, he wore a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the firm lines of his forearms. He was leaning over, idly stirring the foam in his mug with a small wooden stick, lost in thought.
Isabella took a deep breath, clutching the cold crystal ball in her pocket. The restrictive sensation of the erotic garments beneath her robes sent a phantom itch across her naked skin. She tilted her chin up, adopting the arrogant posture typical of the Avery family, and began to walk. Her cute black leather shoes clicked against the old wooden floor—tap, tap, tap—the sound echoing clearly in the silent bar.
Jerry heard the footsteps and looked up. When he saw it was Isabella, a look of well-timed surprise crossed his face, which quickly morphed into a playful, knowing smirk.
Isabella ignored his gaze. she walked straight to his table but did not sit. She stood over him, looking down with cold indifference, her robes fastened shut like a dignified inspector who had happened upon a vagrant.
Her silence was a boulder dropped into the quiet pub, yet it failed to stir a single ripple on Jerry's face. He leaned back lazily, the old wooden chair letting out a strained creak. He didn't answer her; he didn't even look her in the eye. He simply picked up his Butterbeer and took a long, slow swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing.
Then, with an intensity and predatory focus completely at odds with his age, his eyes slowly traveled upward from her white-socked feet, inching up her robe-covered legs and waist, finally settling on her icy, haughty face. It was a look of pure disdain, as if he were appraising a piece of worthless junk.
This expression made Isabella's blood boil once more. She remembered the previous times this brat had used that same look while doing such arrogant things to her. The memory and the humiliation intertwined, causing a reaction in the body hidden beneath her robes. The G-string felt as if it were being dampened by a sudden rush of heat, the cord biting into the cleft of her ass with a teasing, agonizing friction.
Just as Isabella was about to lose her composure, Jerry spoke.
"Senior," his voice had the clarity of youth, but his tone was dripping with malicious mockery. "Don't you have any other clothes? You actually wore school robes to a date."
He let out a low chuckle, as if he found his own words hilarious. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. The movement caused the muscles in his thighs to tighten, and beneath his loose trousers, the silhouette of his half-erect member became strikingly obvious.
Isabella's expression didn't flicker, but a faint, icy hum vibrated in her throat. Her hand moved, her long fingers brushing against the silver Prefect badge on her chest. The movement was slow, possessing a graceful, almost ritualistic quality. With a soft click, the fastener was undone.
She didn't take the robe off. She simply let the heavy wool slide open, creating a narrow gap. This gap was like a stage curtain being pulled back, revealing just enough of the scenery within.
The black silk blouse, with its deep-V neckline plunging below her breastbone, cast a tempting shadow across her pale skin. Her full globes, shielded by nipple pasties, were squeezed together by the fabric to create a deep, ivory valley. With every breath, the silk rose and fell, reflecting the warm firelight like liquid mercury.
This "peek-a-boo" display was far more provocative than total nudity. The contrast between the dignified black robe and the debauched attire beneath radiated a forbidden, dangerous sexuality.
Jerry's grin widened. He let out a rasping laugh, his eyes filled with unshielded appreciation and possessiveness.
"I knew it," he said lazily. "A senior as beautiful as you, with a body like that... hiding it in those ugly school rags is a crime."
His words were flippant, yet they felt like a tribute. With one hand still supporting his chin, he made a casual flick with the other beneath the table. Like a magic trick, when his hand reappeared, he held a vibrant, deep-red rose. Droplets of dew clung to the petals, and it emitted a heavy fragrance. He pushed the flower across the table toward her.
"For you, the beautiful Miss Avery."
The rose lay quietly on the dark wood, looking entirely out of place in the rustic pub. Isabella looked away from the flower and back at his smirking face. As the daughter of the Avery family, she had received countless priceless gifts. A single rose shouldn't have mattered, yet a strange emotion bubbled within her. It was something foreign—the actual experience of a "date."
She didn't touch the flower. Instead, she sat down across from him with a regal, leisurely grace. The hem of her wide robes spread out like a black tide, completely concealing her legs. The moment she sat, the downward shift of her weight caused the G-string to bury itself even deeper into her moistening crack, sending a wave of humiliating heat through her core.
She folded her hands on the table, her posture flawless. Beneath the table, however, her legs pressed together tightly in an attempt to stifle the throbbing ache between her thighs.
"You're buying me dinner," she said, her voice flat and cold. "Does that mean I can order anything I want?"
Jerry's smile deepened. He made a "be my guest" gesture and leaned back. "Of course. Everything you consume today is on my tab."
Isabella didn't hesitate. She didn't even look at the greasy menu. She turned toward the bleary-eyed, white-haired man behind the bar and rattled off a list of outrageously expensive dishes.
"A medium-rare Victorian Dragon-steer steak with black truffle sauce. A bottle of the oldest vintage Elven Cherry Mead. And for dessert, roasted pumpkin with longan honey and candied fairies."
These were items no one would expect at the Hog's Head. Candied fairies, in particular, were a high-tier delicacy Jerry had only ever tasted in the Hogwarts kitchens. But the sleepy bartender merely glanced at Jerry; when Jerry nodded, the man disappeared into the back.
Isabella felt a surge of petty triumph. She wanted to humiliate this arrogant brat by draining his pockets. However, Jerry only laughed. He waved at the bar again.
"And for us, barkeep... fifteen mugs of Butterbeer. The strongest batch you've got."
Fifteen? Isabella frowned. What is he doing? Trying to drown me?
Soon, the steak and mead were served, along with fifteen mugs of thick, frothing Butterbeer that smelled sharply of alcohol. They crowded the table, pushing the poor rose to the edge.
"Eating alone is boring," Jerry said, pulling two smooth, bone-carved dice from his pocket and tossing them idly in his palm. "Let's play a game."
He slammed the dice onto the table. "Truth or Dare. Simple rules. We take turns rolling; the lower number loses. The loser drinks a mug and chooses either a Truth or a Dare." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a hiss like a snake's tongue. "And of course... the winner decides the question or the dare."
Isabella's body tensed. She could feel the trap being set. Her icy gaze swept over the fifteen mugs before returning to Jerry's challenging face. She let out a cold snort.
"Childish tricks," she said, her voice like cracking ice. "You think a nursery game scares me?"
She reached out—not for the beer, but for the dice beneath his palm. She took them with an air of dominant authority. "Give them here."
Jerry raised an eyebrow and let go. Isabella picked up one die with two fingers, looking at it as if it were covered in filth. She held it up to the firelight, checking for lead weights or hollow centers. She even squinted at the pips to ensure they were uniform. She was telling him: Don't try your sleight of hand on me.
Satisfied they weren't rigged, she clicked them onto the table and leaned back, crossing her arms. "Fine. If you want to play, I'll play. I'll go first."
"My turn first," Jerry countered, tossing them casually and letting them fly. They rolled across the wood: a three and a four. Seven.
Isabella flicked the dice back to herself and tossed them lightly. They spun and settled: a six and a five. Eleven. She won. She looked at him expectantly, a cold smirk of victory on her lips.
"Dare," Jerry said without a second of hesitation, as if losing were beneath his notice.
This lack of reaction irritated Isabella. She wanted to see him squirm. She took a sip of her cherry mead, maintaining her cold Prefect persona above the table. But beneath the table, her right foot—clad in its white sock and black shoe—slid forward and gently tapped Jerry's shin.
Jerry looked down. Isabella hooked him again with her toe, signaling him to look under the table. Then, using her heel, she wordlessly pushed off one of her shoes. She reached down into the shadows, hooked the cuff of her sock, and peeled it away, revealing her well-maintained, shapely bare foot. Her toes were rounded like pearls, her nails trimmed and glowing with a healthy pink sheen.
She took that bare, pale foot and slid it directly between Jerry's legs, pressing her toes firmly against the massive, throbbing tent in his trousers.
She looked him in the eye and silently mouthed two words: "Lick it."
Jerry looked at her commanding, humiliating expression and broke into a knowing, wicked grin. He didn't resist. He ducked his head, sliding down beneath the table as if to "pick something up." The few other patrons didn't notice a thing.
The dark space under the table became a private world. Isabella could only see the top of Jerry's head. A second later, a warm, wet, sliding sensation enveloped her toes.
It was his tongue.
Jerry extended his hot, nimble tongue and began to lick every single one of her toes with focused intent. He traced the silhouette of each toe with the tip, then took the entire digit into his mouth, sucking with the soft flesh of his palate and cheeks. When his tongue slid into the gaps between her toes, it sent a wave of paralyzing itchiness straight to her scalp.
Slurp... squelch...
The wet sounds of his tongue devouring her skin echoed in the cramped space. Isabella felt her body turning to mush. Heat flooded from her core, soaking the G-string until the cord was slick and sliding. Her breathing turned ragged; she had to lift her glass and take a long drink to hide her flush and her parted lips.
Finally, just before she let out a moan, Jerry emerged from under the table. His lips were wet and glistening, a string of saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth. He looked satisfied, like a man who had just finished a feast.
He grabbed a mug of Butterbeer and drained it in one go.
"Your turn, Senior," he said, wiping his mouth and sliding the dice back to her.
This time, Isabella rolled a mere four.
Jerry, with a casual flick, landed a six. She had lost.
Isabella was a woman of her word. She picked up a mug of the strongest Butterbeer and downed it without a second of hesitation. The cold, potent liquid slid down her throat, igniting a fire in her belly. She then sliced a small piece of tender, juicy steak, chewing slowly to suppress the rising dizziness of the alcohol.
"Truth," Isabella said coldly. She wanted to see what kind of pathetic question this brat would dare to ask.
Jerry's smile turned wicked. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that exploded in her ear like a bomb. "Senior... tell me the truth. Are you soaking wet down there right now?"
The question was like a sharp slap across her face. Her cheeks flushed a violent red, and a flicker of panic crossed her sapphire eyes before being replaced by an even deeper frost.
"No," Isabella replied, her voice as flat as a tightened string, desperately trying to mask the chaos in her heart.
Jerry let out a low, guttural chuckle. He didn't argue. Instead, he jerked his chin toward the underside of the table, his meaning crystal clear.
"This is 'Truth,' Senior. No lying allowed," he murmured, his voice thick with threat. "Unless... you want to stand up and let me inspect the wet patch on your seat?"
That sentence utterly demolished Isabella's final line of defense.
She was wet. Very wet. Ever since he had used his tongue to devour her toes, pulse after pulse of warmth had flooded from her core, soaking the G-string and the cord buried in her ass until they were a muddy mess. If she stood up now, the smooth leather-look cushion of her chair would undoubtedly bear a glaring, damp watermark. The mere thought of that image made her toes curl in shame.
Isabella looked into Jerry's grey eyes—eyes that seemed to peel back her skin and see every secret—and her face turned a shade of red so deep it looked ready to bleed. Without a word, in a posture of total humiliation, she gave a microscopic nod.
"Haha, I knew it," Jerry laughed triumphantly. "Since you lied on your first try, Senior, here is your punishment... have another drink."
As he spoke, two palm-sized fairies made of translucent sugar flapped their wings, huffing and puffing as they carried a fresh mug of Butterbeer to the table, replacing the empty one. More sugar-fairies followed in pairs, refilling every empty glass until the dense array of alcohol was restored to its original state.
The dual stimulation of humiliation and alcohol made Isabella's gaze turn frantic. Without a word, she grabbed the fresh mug and tilted her head back, gulping it down in a single go.
This time, she didn't even bother with the steak. She snatched one of the sugar-fairies that hadn't flown away yet and stuffed it into her mouth, her teeth "crunch-crunching" through the sweet confection as the sugary syrup exploded against the malty burn of the beer. She slammed the empty mug onto the table and glared at Jerry with bloodshot eyes. Before he could speak, she snatched the dice and hurled them.
Twelve. A perfect double-six.
She pushed the dice toward him, her eyes screaming, Your turn.
Jerry shrugged and tossed them. A three and a one. Four. He had lost.
"Still Dare," he said, remains as casual as ever.
Isabella smiled. It was a cold, cruel smile of pure satisfaction. Finally, her chance for revenge had arrived.
She glanced left and right to ensure no other patrons were watching. Then, she picked up an empty mug and slid it beneath the table, positioning it between her thighs. She leaned forward, pretending to tie her shoe, hiding her entire upper body beneath the table's edge.
In the dim shadows, Isabella's face was burning as she hiked up her robes. One hand pressed down her leather skirt while the other reached into the junction of her thighs. She parted her legs, feeling the cord of her G-string—saturated with her own juices—tightly binding her wet petals.
Using two fingers, she hooked the string and pulled it to the side. With a slight push of her hips, a jet of golden, sweet-scented heat sprayed out.
Splash... hiss...
the hot liquid struck the glass walls of the mug, creating a wet sound that made her ears ring with shame. To mask the noise, she scuffed her feet against the floor. A cloud of warm vapor rose, filling the small space with a mix of cherry mead and the pungent musk of a woman's arousal. Isabella felt her bladder empty, the suppressed urge transforming into a rushing tide that brought waves of numbing pleasure to her core.
She stopped after filling the mug halfway. Straightening back up, her face was as red as a ripe apple, but her eyes were glowing with a terrifying intensity. She pulled the mug of warm urine from beneath the table and placed it directly in front of Jerry.
The liquid was a pale gold, still steaming slightly, emitting a strange, sweet, and musky scent.
"Drink it," she said, her voice trembling with a mix of vengeful joy and hidden fear.
The mixture of urine and beer looked just as irritating to Jerry as Isabella's arrogant face. He cursed her as a "bitch" in his mind, but his face maintained its reckless smirk. He lifted the cup toward her, a trace of contempt in his eyes.
Beneath the table, the ancient runic ring on his right forefinger flashed once. An invisible ripple of magic expanded and vanished. In a speed invisible to the naked eye, the golden liquid was sucked into the pocket dimension within the ring. The mug was instantly refilled with clean, fresh beer.
Jerry tilted his head back, making a grand show of drinking. His Adam's apple bobbed as he made loud "gulp-gulp" sounds. A moment later, he slammed the empty mug down and ran his tongue over his lips, looking perfectly satisfied.
Isabella noticed nothing. Her carefully planned humiliation felt like a punch into a pile of cotton. The sight of the boy's ruined pride never came; instead, he seemed to have enjoyed it as if it were a game.
A chill ran down her spine. If she lost again, what would this shameless monster demand of her? But she steadied herself. At worst, she would just keep choosing Truth. He couldn't force her.
She rolled again. Ten. A solid roll.
Jerry tossed the dice with his usual indifference. A two and a three. Five. He lost again.
"Your luck today is quite poor, Mr. Rosier," Isabella sneered, her victory smile unmasked.
"Nothing for it. A bet is a bet," Jerry said, spreading his hands like a man with nothing left to lose.
Isabella already had her new, devastating punishment ready. She leaned across the table, mimicking his low, predatory tone. "My dare is... right here, right now, take off your pants and masturbate for me. I want to watch you finish."
She wasn't done. She wanted a more specific, more humiliating tool for this "dare."
Isabella leaned down and snatched her soft, crumpled white sock. Thwack! She slapped it onto the table between the mugs and the leftover food.
"Use this!" her voice rasped with excitement and shame. "Put it on before you start. Then, cum inside it. I want to see."
Jerry looked at the white sock, then at Isabella's face, which was flushed with an unnatural, feverish red. He burst into a loud laugh. "Senior... you really know how to play."
Without a second of hesitation, he began to undo his belt. The metal buckle gave a sharp clink. He didn't strip entirely; he just pulled his trousers and underwear down to his mid-thighs. His massive, terrifying member—completely out of proportion with his age—sprang out without obstruction.
Even sitting down, the half-erect spear was of a staggering size, the tip already weeping a bit of clear excitement. It was like a beast being awakened, filled with a primal, oppressive vitality.
Jerry picked up the warm white sock and looked at Isabella. Then, right in front of her, he stretched the opening and—as if handling a precious treasure—slid it over his massive meat-spear. The white cotton was instantly stretched to its limit, the fabric turning translucent as it outlined the monstrous shape beneath.
The small space beneath the table was instantly charged with a perverse atmosphere. The swish-swish of the sock against his flesh created an erotic rhythm. Jerry's breathing turned heavy. In his hand, the shaft visibly thickened and hardened, straining against the poor sock until it was almost paper-thin.
Isabella sat across from him, her entire body stiff. She could clearly see his hand through the gap, gripping the sock-covered monster as it moved rhythmically up and down. As the pace quickened, she could hear the "squelch-squelch" of the pre-cum soaking into the fabric.
Her own breath broke. She couldn't look away, watching this brat desecrate her personal garment with his own body—all because of an order she had given to humiliate him.
"Move your hand. Don't block my view," she commanded, trying to regain some semblance of control.
Jerry's hand slowed. "Senior, it's no fun if you're the only one winning," he panted. "How about we change the rules? From the next round on, the loser must choose Dare. Deal?"
Isabella's heart skipped. Must choose Dare? That meant no more hiding behind Truth.
"If you can't handle the heat, don't play," she hissed.
"Fine. Then next time, if you lose, you just have to drink three mugs of beer to complete the dare. That's fair, right?"
Jerry offered a condition that seemed heavily in her favor. Three drinks for a dare? Isabella weighed it in her mind. It was a good trade. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she slid her foot forward and stepped firmly onto the hand Jerry was using to stroke himself.
She could feel the thick shaft beneath her sole, pulsing with hard, rhythmic life. The sensation made her core tighten once more. She nodded. "Fine!"
The moment the word left her lips, she slammed her foot down with all her weight!
"Ngh!"
Jerry sat bolt upright, a muffled groan trapped in his throat. His hand was pinned against his cock, and the sudden, intense stimulation caused his entire body to convulse.
Squelch!!
A hot, thick torrent of seed erupted, slamming into the layers of the overstretched white sock. The force was so great it knocked him back against his chair. Inside the sock, the warm liquid pooled rapidly, turning the toe into a soggy, semi-transparent weight that made "squish-squish" sounds. The area beneath the table was instantly filled with the heavy, musky scent of male hormones and fresh come.
Jerry panted heavily, his face slick with sweat, his eyes glowing. Slowly, he withdrew his still-throbbing—yet barely diminished—shaft from the soaked sock. He placed the heavy, dripping garment onto the table like a trophy of war.
Isabella stared at the sock, which was dripping with thick white slime. Her mouth felt bone-dry, her tongue still tasting of candied fairies. She watched as Jerry folded the sock carefully and stuffed it into his pocket before casually pulling up his pants as if he had just performed a mundane task.
The next round began. This time, the Goddess of Luck turned her back. The dice settled. Isabella had lost.
According to the new rule, she had to drink three mugs. Isabella didn't argue; she picked up the first mug and downed it. The cold liquid suppressed the fire in her heart. However, as she set down the first empty glass, she thought she heard a tiny plop from Jerry's side, like something small hitting the water.
She ignored it. The alcohol was starting to slow her thoughts. She downed the second mug.
When she picked up the third, something was wrong. A scent distinct from the malty Butterbeer—a scent of male musk and raw fluids—drifted into her nostrils. She frowned, assuming it was a hallucination, and took a massive gulp.
As the liquid level dropped, the smell grew more pungent. When she reached the final swallow, a wet, soft, and warm object slid from the bottom of the mug.
Thwack!
It landed squarely on her face. It was the sock.
The sock soaked in his fluids was now stuck like a wet rag against her elegant cheek and lips. Thick, slimy liquid began to trail down her skin. The gag-inducing scent of his come, mixed with the malt of the beer, struck her brain like a hammer.
"Gah... BLEGH!"
Isabella's eyes went wide, the alcoholic fog instantly vanishing. She ripped the thing off her face and threw it to the floor. Her stomach did a somersault, and she leaned over the edge of the table, dry-heaving violently.
The dual impact of humiliation and disgust pushed her to the edge of sanity. She was about to flip the table and end him, but Jerry was faster. He tossed the dice onto the table again.
Click-clack.
The crisp sound of the dice was like a commanding officer's whistle.
"Senior, if you choose 'Truth' again, I'm done playing," Jerry said, leaning back lazily with a smile that suggested he saw through everything. "This time, it's not me who can't handle the heat." He emphasized the words "can't handle the heat" with biting irony.
Isabella's chest heaved. Looking at his punchable face, she wished she could blast him into fragments with a curse. Her fingers turned white as she gripped the dice. In the split second before she let them fly, a perfect revenge fantasy played out in her mind: she would roll a twelve, watch his smug face crumble, and then drag him like a dead dog to the back alley. There, amidst the trash and empty kegs, she'd strip him bare and make him walk back and forth in the freezing wind like a stray mutt, before lighting up the sky with a flare to expose his shriveled nudity to the world.
The dice stopped. A three.
All her fantasies vanished. Jerry stood up without even checking the score. He rounded the table and grabbed her wrist with a grip so hot and powerful she couldn't pull away.
"Let's go, Senior. It's time for your Dare."
He dragged her through the greasy air of the pub toward the creaking wooden back door. With every step, Isabella's heart sank. Horrific possibilities—each a hundred times more lewd than her own revenge fantasy—flashed through her mind. Her palms sweated; her knees felt weak.
The door swung open, letting in a gust of cold wind smelling of wet earth and rot. Jerry pulled her into the pitch-black alley, kicking the door shut behind them. The only light was a faint yellow glow from the distant street. He pinned her against the rough, mossy brick wall.
Isabella braced for the worst. But Jerry simply tilted his head up and pressed his lips against hers.
The expected brutality didn't come. Jerry's kissing was like his lewd games—far too skilled for his age. His tongue didn't ram blindly; it pried open her teeth with calculated aggression, flicking across the roof of her mouth to send sparks of electricity through her nerves. He sucked on her tongue, exchanging saliva with wet, messy slurps that made her ears burn.
Isabella's hands, originally meant to push him away, went limp against his chest. Her robes felt like an obstacle. Jerry felt it too; he broke the kiss but kept his lips grazed against hers while his hand slid down her spine, deftly undoing the ties of her robe.
The heavy black garment slid to the ground like a discarded husk, pooling at her feet. In the dim light, the leather harness—barely covering the essentials—left her virtually naked in the biting air. Her small nipples, hardened by the cold and the arousal, poked through the gaps in the leather straps.
Jerry didn't stop. His warm, calloused hand covered her bare stomach and wandered upward like a branding iron. He reached behind her, tracing the groove of her spine down to her firm, rounded buttocks. He didn't rush; he simply kneaded the mounds of flesh through the smooth leather skirt with rhythmic intensity.
"Nngh..." An uncontrollable moan escaped Isabella's throat.
The friction caused by his kneading pushed the G-string cord deeper into her sodden, overheated cleft. With every press of his fingers, a wet squish-squish sound echoed from her drenched folds. Isabella was lost. Her logic had been reduced to ash by lust and alcohol. She began to instinctively tilt her hips, grinding against him, begging for deeper contact.
Suddenly, he stopped. He pulled back, creating a gap between them. In his hand was the red rose from the table. He placed it gently into her trembling fingers.
"Senior," Jerry's voice was calm, almost polite. "You look beautiful in this. You don't need the coat." He looked at her heaving body with clear eyes. "Thank you for coming tonight. It was an honor. I'm leaving soon for a mission with the Border War-band... so... goodbye."
He bowed perfectly, turned, and reached for the door.
Just as he was about to vanish back into the noise of the pub, a soft, warm sensation pressed firmly against his back. It was Isabella. She hugged him from behind, her small but developing breasts pressing unreservedly against his spine. Simultaneously, the magical illusion of her leather outfit vanished in a shimmer of light.
Isabella was now entirely naked. She dropped the rose and the crystal ball, which shattered on the cobblestones. The proud Prefect had discarded all her disguises. She spun him around and slammed him against the bricks with a heavy thud. Now, it was she who had him trapped.
"You bastard!" she rasped, her hot breath hitting his ear. "You think you can just wind me up and run?"
Jerry didn't resist. He actually smirked. That smug "I told you so" look ignited the final fuse of her rage. Without another word, Isabella claimed her prize. She propped one hand against the wall and reached down, tearing open his trousers. She yanked his pants and underwear down to his knees, exposing his massive, re-awakened shaft to the cold air.
She knelt and took the thick, pulsing spear into her mouth. Her movements were clumsy, even a bit rough—her teeth occasionally nicked the base—but she didn't care. She was venting her frustration, her tongue and throat struggling to accommodate the monstrous weapon of this brat.
Gulp... squelch...
The wet sounds filled the alley. Under her stimulation, the meat grew with terrifying speed, swelling until it hit the back of her throat, making her gag.
Isabella released him. Her lips were swollen and glistening with spit. Then, she performed her most daring act yet. She turned around, propping her hands against the cold wall, and aimed her naked, rounded rear directly at him.
"Get inside me," she commanded, her voice husky with undeniable authority. "Now. Immediately."
She spread her legs, pushing her swollen, juice-drenched slit toward him. Her petals were engorged, pulsing as they leaked clear love-nectar.
Jerry didn't move. After a few seconds of silence, Isabella looked back to find him simply admiring her defenseless back and arched ass.
"You... you bastard!"
Humiliation flared again. Isabella gritted her teeth and took matters into her own hands. She turned, grabbed his iron-hard cock—the heat of it searing her palm—and guided it toward her soaking entrance. She parted her cheeks and rubbed the massive head against her sensitive opening, shivering at the blunt contact. Then, she sank her hips back with a determined thrust.
PLOUCH!
Without a hint of foreplay or tenderness, the oversized beast was forced into her tight, virgin passage.
"AAAH...!"
A tearing pain, coupled with an incredible, stretching fullness, forced a scream from her lungs. Her body arched, her fingernails clawing white marks into the brick. She bit her lip, waiting until she could fully swallow the length, until his base slammed hard against her soft buttocks.
Even though he was just a teenager of average height, Isabella had him pinned against the wall using her own developing body. Jerry's toes actually left the ground; he was essentially skewered, his weight supported entirely by the thick rod buried deep inside her.
It was an absurd, highly stimulating position. Isabella finally felt like the one in control. As the pain faded into a sense of unprecedented fullness, she felt him pulsing inside her, every throb grinding against her internal walls.
She began to move. She ground her hips in a slow, circular motion, using her weight to twist the giant shaft within her tight tunnel.
Squish... nngh...
"Too slow..." Jerry whispered in her ear with a teasing chuckle. "Is that all you've got, Senior?"
That was all the provocation she needed. She stopped the circles and began to bounce with primal ferocity. She propped her weight on the wall and hoisted her hips up until he nearly slipped out, then slammed back down.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
Her buttocks struck his thighs with a sharp, rhythmic sound. Huge amounts of fluid were squeezed from their union, running down her thighs in glistening silver threads in the dark.
Just as she was reaching the peak of her self-imposed rhythm, Jerry's body buckled. He let out a long sigh of mixed pain and pleasure, his arms tightening around her waist. Isabella felt her internal walls being bombarded by powerful pulses. Thinking he had surrendered, she stopped, panting heavily with the satisfaction of victory.
Jerry gently pushed her off, the shaft exiting her muddy body with a loud pop. He didn't dress immediately; instead, he picked up her discarded robes. The cold wind gave Isabella goosebumps. She leaned against the wall, legs shaking, as he approached her with an expression she had never seen before—something almost tender.
He draped the soft wool over her shivering shoulders, carefully wrapping her in the warm fabric. Then, he took her hand—her fingers still white from gripping the wall. He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket. Inside was a simple silver ring set with a tiny, glimmering black diamond.
Without a word, he slid the cold ring onto her ring finger. It was a perfect fit. He bowed his head and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.
"Thank you, Senior. If I don't come back from this mission... please don't forget me."
The moment the words left his lips, Isabella's body stiffened. She didn't hug him. Instead, her hand whipped through the air and struck Jerry's face with a resounding crack.
"You bastard!" she screamed, her eyes instantly welling with tears of rage and humiliation. "I... I was a virgin! That... that only happened because of a spell backfire during a duel with my cousin! That's the only reason I wasn't... wasn't whole!"
She babbled the explanation incoherently, her knuckles white as she clutched her robes. She looked at his face, which was turned away from the force of the slap, and her tears finally spilled over.
"If you dare die... I will kill everyone you've ever known! You bastard!"