Academy's Pervert in the D Class

Lor turned on her suddenly, voice sharp but laced with feigned innocence, as though begging her to correct him.

Eva froze.

Her lips parted, breath shivering, but nothing came out.

Her lashes fluttered, her hands twisting in her skirt until the fabric bunched against her thighs.

Her mouth opened again, closed.

The tips of her ears burned red as her entire face seemed to fold inward.

Finally, with a strangled little sound, she gave the smallest nod.

Lor blinked, widened his eyes in exaggerated disbelief, and let the word tear out of his throat.

"What!"

The sound echoed off the walls, too loud, too incredulous to be anything but an act—but Eva didn't notice.

She was too busy hiding her face, bowing her head until her bangs fell forward to shield her eyes, her entire body radiating the heat of embarrassment.

He had her.

She didn't know it, but Lor had pieced the puzzle together long before this moment.

The first clue had been that morning, during the tangled hot, raunchy, threesome with Mira's and Viora's mothers.

Their wooden dildo, polished smooth and marked with a faint engraving—the sigil of Velnar's carpentry shop—had been used on Viora' mother.

And Velnar's shop was Eva's family's trade.

So it meant, they made sex toys too, which he didn't knew.

The second clue had come just hours later, when she had spotted him outside one of her store.

She'd clutched her satchel too tightly, cradling it like a child might hide a guilty secret.

And Lor, curious bastard that he was, had slipped a sliver of mana through the fabric's seam, peering past the frayed zipper with invisible eyes.

He'd seen them then, nestled among her books and ink pots—wooden shapes, unmistakable.

Smooth phallic rods in different sizes, a curved handle with carved ridges for grinding against her clit, even a pair of weighted beads strung on cord.

Eva, perfect diligent Eva, dutiful daughter… and in secret, she carried her own arsenal of ways to fuck herself.

Lor's grin threatened to break through, but he strangled it down, schooling his face back into wide-eyed shock.

"Eva," he whispered, his voice hoarse, as though he couldn't quite believe it. "You… actually…"

She made another noise—half whimper, half growl—and buried her face in her hands, shaking her head as though that could erase the truth.

Her thighs pressed tightly together, her shoulders quivering with the strain of holding herself in.

Lor leaned back slowly, hiding the victorious spark in his gaze behind an act of dazed confusion.

His lips curled into the faintest smirk once her eyes stayed downcast, too ashamed to look at him.

Successful plan.

'.....'

Eva's lips trembled, words catching in her throat before she forced them out, her voice thin but urgent, like she was trying to convince herself as much as Lor.

"It's not wrong," she said, the words spilling in a rush, her green eyes darting up to meet his briefly before flicking away.

"It's not—taboo. Everyone does it. There's nothing shameful about… about owning toys."

Her hands clenched in her lap, fingers twisting in the pleats of her skirt until the fabric bunched tightly against her thighs.

Her cheeks were hot, flushed so deeply she could feel the warmth pulsing at the tips of her ears, radiating down her neck.

The air in her room felt stifling, heavy with the scent of lavender and candle wax, pressing her down into the floorboards.

But she refused to let herself shrink away completely.

Her spine stayed straight, shoulders squared, even as her heart pounded like a war drum.

She wasn't a child.

She wasn't some prude to be humiliated into silence.

And Lor—gods, Lor wasn't mocking her.

Yet.

That was the part that made her pulse race hardest.

His hazel eyes, still wide in that exaggerated shock he played so well, carried no scorn, no cruel amusement at her expense.

Just… curiosity.

A glint of something warm and unguarded that made her spine relax just a fraction, a shaky breath escaping her chest like a pressure valve releasing.

She needed that.

Needed it desperately.

Because the truth was, she hadn't always been this way.

The rituals had changed her.

At first, she'd treated them like any other assignment—just another task to get the guidance she wanted.

She'd accepted Lor's strange, indecent rituals because it worked.

Because it gave her results, sharpened her spells, and pushed her grades higher.

When he taught the Light's so-called wisdom into her ear, she'd listened with the same focus she gave her family business.

But then the rituals had grown warmer, more intimate.

The guidance had curled around her like smoke, coaxing her into thoughts that made her thighs clench beneath her desk, her breath hitching during lectures.

One ritual had left her breathless, her nipples stiff under her blouse, her heart hammering as heat pooled low in her belly, slick and insistent.

She'd stumbled home that night, dazed, her entire body humming with need.

The moment she'd locked her door and sunk into her bathtub, the steaming water lapping at her skin, she'd touched herself with frantic fingers, chasing that unbearable ache until her body convulsed, her moans echoing off the tiled walls, sharp and desperate.

And it hadn't stopped there.

It was Lor's fault.

His eyes, sharp and knowing, catching hers in class.

The way he moved, all casual confidence, his messy black hair falling into his face in a way that made her fingers itch to brush it aside. Every time she saw him after that second ritual, her thighs rubbed together under her desk, a needy ache pulsing low, relentless.

She'd caught herself once, in the middle of a lecture on mana conservation, slipping a hand between her legs beneath the table, her breath shallow as she stroked herself through her underwear, her eyes locked on the side of Lor's face two rows beside.

Miss Silvia's voice had faded to a dull hum, drowned out by the throb of her own pulse.

That was when she realized something in her had awakened.

Something raw, hungry, that she hadn't known existed.

The hunger.

The craving to feel, to be touched, to lose control in ways her neatly ordered life—her schedules, her studies, her family's expectations—had never allowed.

Her family's shop had always disgusted her in one regard—the whispered rumors, the quiet orders for discreet, carved objects popularly known as adult toys, that weren't meant for dining tables or chairs.

She'd overheard the hushed conversations, seen the way customers lowered their voices when they asked for toys shaped from polished oak or smooth pine, their eyes darting nervously.

She'd thought it brought shame to their name, that it tainted the craftsmanship her family prided themselves on.

But then she'd found herself staring at one late at night, left forgotten on a workbench in the shop's back room.

A smooth, polished rod, its surface gleaming under the lamplight, carved with subtle ridges that caught her eye.

Her hands had picked it up before her brain could catch up, fingers tracing the contours, the weight of it heavy and warm in her palm.

And in that moment, she'd understood why people bought them—why they paid good coin for something so… disgusting, indecent... intimate.

The first time she slid it inside herself, alone in her room with the curtains drawn tight, she nearly wept from the shock of it—the fullness, the pressure, the way her walls clenched hungrily around the wood, her body trembling with a pleasure so intense it felt like pain.

Her breath had come in ragged gasps, her hips rocking instinctively as she chased that overwhelming sensation.

It had started with one toy.

A simple, smooth rod she hid under her clothes in her wardrobe, tucked away like a guilty secret.

But that wasn't enough.

Not after the things Lor had awoken in her, the way his presence lingered in her mind like a fever.

She'd gone back to the shop's hidden stock, again and again, choosing more elaborate shapes.

A curved one that pressed against a place inside her that made her cry out, her voice muffled into her pillow.

A set of beads that made her body twitch with every tug, each one sending a jolt through her core.

A thick one with carved grooves that left her trembling, her bathtub water sloshing around her thighs as she writhed, chasing release after release.

And still, it wasn't enough.

Masturbation had stopped sating her.

No matter how many nights she soaked in steaming water, toys buried deep, her fingers slick with her own arousal, she never felt satisfied.

She came, yes, again and again, gasping, clutching at the porcelain edges of the tub, her body shuddering with pleasure.

But the moment passed, leaving her hollow, craving more—something real, something alive.

She wanted heat against her skin.

A hand gripping her wrist, pinning her in place. A voice in her ear, low and commanding.

A body pressing her down until she couldn't escape, until she didn't want to.

She wanted Lor.