Free Web NovelChapter 16: Siren Stronghold [ 12 ] [R-18]
"Working on your inner thighs, what else? It’s a common area for tension buildup in soldiers."
She didn’t respond. Her breathing had gone ragged. Short pulls of air through parted lips. The tentacle pressed against her inner thigh, high enough to be dangerous, and the Charm effect radiated through the contact point like a drug entering the bloodstream.
[Target’s resistance decreasing. Current receptivity: 47%.]
Her hips rocked. Just once. A single, involuntary motion that she immediately tried to suppress by pressing herself flat against the table. But he’d felt it. She knew he’d felt it.
"Captain Valdross."
"...Don’t say my name like that."
Nacho tilted his head. "Like what?"
After a brief pause, she replied, "Like you know something. It’s strange."
"I don’t know anything. I’m just a masked freak doing miracles with his hands. Isn’t that why you came here?"
Is she catching on that I can read her thoughts? Nacho thought.
She buried her face in her arms. The tentacle pressed higher, nudging against the seam of her pants, right where the fabric pulled tight.
"This is... this isn’t a normal massage."
"No shit. I’m using advanced techniques. Very advanced."
"That’s not what I..." Her voice hitched as the tentacle pulsed with warmth against her inner thigh. "That’s not what I meant."
"Tell me to stop and I stop."
The invitation hung in the air. He didn’t mean to pressure her or trick her. It was almost like an open door that she could walk through or walk away from.
Yet she said nothing.
The tentacle traced along the seam of her pants, following the stitching like a road map. Her hips lifted off the table. Not much. A centimeter. But enough to create space between her body and the surface, and in that space was permission.
His hands left her shoulders and moved to her sides, thumbs pressing into the muscles along her ribs. She was breathing hard now, the military composure stripped back to reveal something raw underneath.
He honestly felt a little bad for her... She reminded him of the hard working women he had seen back when he worked as a crook.
But he didn’t dare ask her about her past. At least, not yet.
The tentacle pressed flat against her, right between her legs, separated only by the fabric of her pants. The warmth pulsed through in waves, each one stronger than the last. Her whole body shuddered.
"This is..." She swallowed. "This is completely inappropriate."
"So leave."
She didn’t leave.
The tentacle moved in slow circles, grinding against her through the cloth. Her hips matched the rhythm without her permission, rolling in tight motions against the pressure. The table creaked.
"Oh gods," she whispered.
"My name’s Nacho."
"Will you stop talking?"
"Heh."
She let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan. The tentacle increased its pressure, and her back arched off the table. The undershirt rode up, exposing the hollow of her lower back, the dimples above her waistband, the strip of skin that no armor could protect.
His fingers traced that exposed strip. Light. Barely there. She shivered like she’d been touched by lightning.
"Take them off," she said into her arms.
"Take what off?"
"Don’t make me say it."
Nacho straightened his back like a professional. "I genuinely don’t know what you’re referring to. There are several items of clothing currently on your body."
She lifted her head and shot him a look that could melt iron. "My pants. Take off my pants."
"I thought we had rules."
"The rules have been amended."
"Amended..." Nacho repeated, holding back a laugh. "That’s very official. Do I need to sign something?"
She dropped her forehead back into her arms. "I swear to every god in every plane, if you don’t stop talking and start moving, I will break your fingers."
Nacho shrugged. "I can’t give massages with broken fingers. It’s a pretty bad business decision on your part."
But his hands were already at her waistband. He hooked his thumbs into the sides of her military-issue pants and pulled them down. She lifted her hips to help, which told him everything about where her head was at. The fabric slid past her thighs, over her knees, and off her ankles. He folded them and set them on the chair beside the table because he was, if nothing else, a professional.
Underneath, she wore standard-issue undergarments. They were plain. The kind of thing that was designed specifically to not be attractive, and yet the way her body was tensed against the table, every muscle in her legs defined and trembling, made the plainness irrelevant.
The tentacle returned to her inner thigh. Skin to skin this time. No fabric barrier. The warmth hit her directly, and she cursed into her arms. Something in a language he didn’t recognize.
"Language, Captain."
"I said I will end you."
"Ah... This masked freak is hurt."
The tentacle slid up her thigh in a smooth, continuous motion. It traced the edge of her undergarments, following the line where fabric met skin. She pressed her thighs together, trapping it. Then slowly, deliberately, let them fall open again.
[Target’s receptivity: 68%. Charm effect amplifying. Resistance declining at accelerated rate.]
His hands worked her lower back, pressing into the muscles flanking her spine while the tentacle did its work below. The dual sensation was doing exactly what he’d designed it to do. Overloading her ability to focus on any single point of contact.
Every time she tried to track what the tentacle was doing, his hands would find a new knot. Every time she sank into the relief of his fingers, the tentacle would pulse against the crease of her thigh.
"You’ve done this before," she said. frёeωebɳovel.com
"Massages? Yeah. It’s my job."
"...That’s not what I mean."
Nacho smirked. "I know what you mean."
The tentacle hooked the edge of her undergarments and tugged. Gently. A question, not a command. She went still. Her breathing stopped entirely for three seconds.
Then she reached back with one hand and pushed them down herself.
Nacho watched the last of her armor come off. Not the physical kind. The kind she’d been building for years, layer by layer, rank by rank, scar by scar. It slid down her legs and fell to the floor, and Captain Rhea Valdross of the Third Legion, Ironcrest Division, was bare from the waist down on a massage table in a converted storage room in a slum inn.
He could feel the shame radiating through Mind Fortress. Not shame at what she was doing. Shame at how badly she wanted it.
The tentacle pressed flat against her. Directly, without any fabric or pretense. The heat made her gasp and clench around nothing.
"Aaah~" Her voice cracked, embarrassment settling in. "That’s..." frёeweɓηovel.coɱ
"That’s another one of my advanced techniques," Nacho said, and got even more into it, having decided to completely corrupt her.
