Chapter 846 - 845 - Sofia’s Decision to Meet Him Tonight
The moment the words left my mouth, Sofia’s body locked.
Her brown eyes, wide and wet, went distant. The hallway, the students, the scattered books on the floor — all of it faded. Her mind, dragged backward by the crude question, pulled her through a thread of memory that she had been trying to bury since the night it happened.
The mirror world. The connection through the academy’s magical network. She had been in her dormitory, preparing for sleep, when the image had appeared in her mirror. Uninvited. Unwanted. Vivid.
A thick woman. Blonde. Heavy-breasted. On all fours. Being pounded from behind by a man whose face she couldn’t see clearly but whose body — whose cock — was unmistakable. The shaft, thick and veined, driving in and out of that woman’s pussy. The wet, slapping sound. The moans. The way the woman’s ass ripened with each thrust. The way she screamed. The way the cum, when he finished, poured from her pussy like a broken faucet.
Elena’s mother. The woman who had birthed the girl who made Sofia’s life a living hell. Being fucked. On camera. Through the mirror.
And now the man from that image was standing in front of her. Same violet eyes. Same presence. Same cock, which he was currently stroking while groping the dark elf’s breast with his free hand.
Sofia’s mouth gaped. Her jaw, unhinged by the collision of memory and reality, hung open. Her body, trembling, was locked in place. Her legs, which should have been carrying her away, were rooted to the stone floor.
"What?" she said. The word, barely a sound, was the sound of a woman whose voice had been stolen.
I stroked. My hand, on my cock, moved. The shaft, slick with the dark elf’s cum and my own, was hot. The head, dark and swollen, leaked pre-cum. The motion, slow and deliberate, was a show. A performance. For her.
I came.
The load, thick and white, arced through the air. The stream, heavy and accurate, hit Sofia’s chest. The fluid, warm and viscous, splattered across her uniform. The white seed, stark against the dark fabric, spread. The drops, running down her chest, soaked through the material. The scent, musky and raw, hit her nose.
"I will wait for you tonight in my room," I said. The words, delivered with a smile that was visible even behind the mask, were a promise. A command. An invitation.
I vanished.
The teleportation, instant and silent, swallowed both me and the dark elf. The space where we had stood was empty. The air, disturbed by the magic, settled. The hallway, which had been the stage for the encounter, was quiet.
Sofia stood. Alone. Her hand, moving slowly, went to her cheek. The motion, instinctive and dazed, was the motion of a woman checking if she was awake. Her fingers, finding her face, felt the warmth of her own skin. Real. Not a dream.
Her hand moved down. To her chest. To the spot where the load had landed. The fluid, thick and wet, was there. The white seed, soaking through her uniform, was warm against her skin. The scent, rising from the stain, filled her nose.
She looked around. The hallway, which had been crowded moments ago, was emptying. The students, filtering into their classrooms, were gone. The stragglers, at the far end, didn’t notice her.
She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. The cloth, white and clean, was pressed against the stain. The fabric, absorbing the fluid, darkened. The seed, transferred from her uniform to the handkerchief, was captured.
She cleaned. The motion, mechanical and automatic, was the motion of a woman performing a task she had done before. Spills. Stains. Messes. The muscle memory of a commoner who had spent her life cleaning up after others.
But this mess was different. This mess was on her body. On her chest. Near her heart.
She finished. The uniform, still damp, was presentable. The stain, faded but visible, was a shadow on the dark fabric. She looked at the handkerchief. The white cloth, stained with my seed, was in her hand.
She brought it to her nose.
The inhale, deep and involuntary, was not a conscious action. Her body, acting on instinct, drew the scent into her lungs. The musk, thick and male and raw, filled her nostrils. The smell, which should have been repulsive, was not. It was familiar. The same scent she had smelled through the mirror. The same scent that had clung to Elena’s mother’s body. The same scent that had made her, despite the horror and the confusion and the wrongness, feel something warm in her belly.
’This is his. This is the load that I saw pouring inside of her. Inside of Elena’s mother. The woman whose daughter bullies me. Whose daughter calls me a half-breed. Whose daughter tells everyone I am worthless. And now... now her mother’s lover’s seed is on my chest. On my handkerchief. In my nose.’
’What is wrong with me?’
The thought, which should have been followed by disgust, was followed by something else. A warmth. A tingling. A sensation that started in her chest and moved downward. Through her belly. To her pussy. The lips, hidden beneath her uniform, swelled. The heat, building between her thighs, was unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
She hugged the handkerchief. The cloth, pressed against her chest, was warm. The seed, soaking through the fabric, was close to her skin. The intimacy, the closeness, the connection to a man she did not know but had watched fuck another woman through a mirror, was overwhelming.
’He said tonight. His room. He said he would wait.’
The thought, which should have been dismissed, was not dismissed. It sat in her mind. Growing. Expanding. Filling the space that her friends’ cruelty had emptied.
’He saw me. He saw how they treat me. He saw the girl call me a half-bred commoner. And he did not look away. He did not pretend not to notice. He saw. And he... he said...’
’"Starting with you."’
The words, recalled from the encounter, echoed. Starting with you. As if she was first. As if she was important. As if she was not a side character in someone else’s story but the beginning of her own.
She stood in the hallway. The handkerchief, pressed against her chest, was her anchor. The scent, filling her nose, was her compass. The warmth, spreading through her body, was her map.
’Meet him tonight.’
The thought, final and firm, was a decision. Not a rational one. Not a logical one. The decision of a woman who had been used and discarded and mocked for so long that the attention of a man who saw her — who truly saw her — was worth more than caution.
She bit her lip. The gesture, unconscious, was the gesture of a woman making a choice. The teeth, pressing into the soft flesh, left a mark. A small, white indentation that faded as the blood returned.
She picked up her books. The stack, scattered on the floor, was gathered. The handkerchief, folded and tucked into her pocket, was close. The stain on her uniform, hidden by the angle of her arm, was concealed.
She walked. Toward her classroom. Toward the life that was waiting for her. Toward the night that was coming.
’Tonight.’