Academy's Pervert in the D Class

Kiara.

Her tears, glistening in the moonlight.

The orb, pulsing with power.

The choice she'd made, her hand closing around it as she turned away from him.

The memory shredded his arousal, his cock softening instantly, his stomach turning with a sickening lurch.

"Goddammit!" Lor yelled, flinging himself back onto the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight.

The bra tumbled from his hand, landing softly on the sheets beside him like a mockery, its delicate lace a stark contrast to the turmoil in his chest.

He lay there for a beat, staring at the cracked ceiling, his chest heaving once, twice, his breath uneven.

Then his gaze shifted to the corner of the room, drawn to the attic hatch—a small, unassuming panel in the ceiling, barely noticeable unless you knew where to look.

With a grunt, Lor pushed himself up, climbing onto his desk with a practiced ease.

He nudged the panel loose, the wood scraping softly, and reached inside, dragging down a plain wooden box, its clasp glinting faintly in the morning light.

He carried it to his bed, sat cross-legged, and opened it, the hinges creaking as the lid lifted.

Inside lay his secret.

Dozens of pieces of fabric, folded and stacked with meticulous care—panties, thongs, bras, stockings, a collection of silk, cotton, and lace.

Each piece was a trophy, a memory, a conquest etched into the threads.

His cock stirred again, a slow, insistent throb as he reached in and pulled one out at random.

A silky red thong, barely larger than a handkerchief, its fabric smooth and cool against his fingers.

He remembered where he'd gotten it—Mrs. Valen, the baker's wife.

She'd bent over too far while setting bread into the oven, her skirt riding up to reveal a glimpse of red peeking over the waistband.

Weeks later, he'd been invited inside their home for a fresh loaf, and while she was distracted at the counter, he'd slipped upstairs and found her laundry basket.

The thong had burned in his pocket the whole walk home, a stolen thrill that had him hard before he even reached his room.

He could still picture her flour-dusted cleavage, sweat making her blouse cling as she worked, her curves soft and inviting.

Now, he imagined her bent over the counter, her skirt hiked up, the thong pushed aside as he fucked her, her gasps muffled by the hum of the oven.

His cock twitched hard, straining against his trousers.

He set it aside reverently, his fingers lingering on the silk, and pulled out another.

A lacy black bra, large-cupped and delicate, its intricate patterns catching the light.

This one had belonged to a noblewoman who frequented the market, her nose perpetually upturned as she sneered at peasants and overpaid for fruit just to toss it aside.

Lor had hated her smugness, her disdain, but the sight of her curves in her tailored dresses had stirred something else in him.

One day, he'd followed her carriage, slipping into the estate's garden under cover of dusk, where laundry lines swayed heavy with silks and lace.

He'd stolen the bra out of spite, but later, lying in bed, he'd jerked off imagining her bent over her velvet bed, her snooty face twisted in pleasure as he took her from behind, her tits spilling out of the very bra he now held.

The contradiction thrilled him—the power of reducing someone so haughty to nothing but flesh, her pride shattered under his touch.

He reached deeper, pulling out a pale blue pair of cotton panties, wider and simpler than the rest.

These were Nellie's.

He had stolen them after one of their "study sessions."

He'd gone home that night and pressed them to his face, breathing her in, the sweet, clean scent of her driving him wild as he jerked off two times before sleep claimed him.

Her shy smile, her nervous laugh, her freckles dancing across her nose—they lingered in his mind with every stroke, even now.

Holding them, he felt a flicker of warmth, a tenderness that softened the edges of his hunger.

Nellie's sweetness made the collection feel… almost innocent.

Almost.

He stared at the collection, his chest swelling with a dark, quiet pride.

This was him.

The real Lor.

Not the boy Kiara thought she loved, not the vessel of some fake Guiding Light, not the loser the class mocked.

He was the collector, the pervert, the one who took, who claimed, who built a shrine of victories in silk and lace, each piece soaked with stories only he knew.

His fingers traced the edges of the fabrics, the textures grounding him, pulling him back from the hollow ache of Kiara's departure.

He folded Miss Silvia's bra carefully, sliding it into the box on top, the white lace a new crown for his collection.

For a moment, just a moment, he felt proud, motivated, centered again.

This was the use of his collection—whenever the world pressed too heavy, whenever doubt or loss threatened to swallow him, he came here, to this secret hoard, and remembered who he was.

With a breath that almost felt steady, he slid the box back into the attic, the panel clicking shut with a soft finality.

He dusted his hands off, the gesture grounding him further.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, his voice firm in the quiet. "Time for breakfast."

He stripped, splashing cold water from the basin over his face and chest, scrubbing until the dull ache in his chest quieted, the ritual of washing pulling him back to the present.

He buttoned into his white academy shirt, the fabric crisp against his skin, and tugged on trousers still faintly creased from the day before, fastening his belt with a quick, practiced motion.

His reflection in the window wasn't perfect—hair slightly mussed, eyes shadowed with fatigue—but it was enough.

He was enough.

He headed downstairs, the smell of hot food wafting up to meet him—bacon sizzling, bread fresh from the oven, the faint tang of herbs.

For the first time since the night before, he felt a flicker of something like hope, a sense that maybe, just maybe, he could face the day without breaking under the weight of it all.