The last of the rabbit pelts slipped free from the carcass with a satisfying whisper, and I carefully folded it alongside the others in my hunting bucket.
"That should do it for today," I murmured, wiping my hands on the rough cloth Lisa had provided.
I gathered my things, securing the bucket's leather strap across my shoulder. As I moved toward the door, I caught sight of Lisa organizing her own tools.
"Thank you for the lesson," I said, pausing at the threshold.
Lisa looked up, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The earlier flush had faded from her cheeks, but there was still something different in her eyes—a new awareness that hadn't been there this morning. "You're a quick learner, Hal. Much quicker than boys your age."
I smiled and raised my hand in farewell, and she returned the gesture, her fingers lingering in the air for just a moment longer than necessary.
As I stepped into the cool evening air, I couldn't help but feel satisfied with more than just the day's hunt. Lisa was four years my senior and I knew that in her eyes, I was still just a boy playing at being a man. But time had a way of changing perspectives, and I was patient. I had already planted something in her heart that no other boy or man had managed before. When I came of age, when my shoulders broadened and my voice deepened fully, I would simply need to awaken what was already sleeping there.
The path home wound through patches of silver moonlight filtering through the canopy above. I had spent far longer at Lisa's than intended, but the time had been well invested.
The warm glow of our cottage windows came into view as I crested the small hill leading to our property. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and I could make out the silhouettes of Mother and Rosaluna through the kitchen window. They were seated at our worn wooden table, sharing what appeared to be a late dinner.
I pushed through the front door, the familiar creak of the hinges announcing my arrival. The warmth of the house enveloped me immediately, carrying with it the savory aroma of Mother's cooking and the faint scent of the wildflowers Rosaluna often brought in from her afternoon walks.
"Oh, my boy, you're back," Mother called out, setting down her spoon and turning to greet me with a warm smile.
"I'm back," I replied, hefting the bucket slightly to show its contents. "And I brought quite a lot of game with me."
Rosaluna's nose wrinkled in disgust as she caught sight of the pelts. "Ugh, little brother, put that away! We're trying to eat here." She gestured at the table, where their bowls of stew sat steaming.
"Sorry, sorry," I said, making my way to the back of the kitchen where I set the bucket down beside our storage shelves.
The kitchen was small but well-organized, with copper pots hanging from hooks on the wall and dried herbs bundled in the corners. Mother had always maintained that a proper kitchen was the heart of any home, and she had made ours beat with warmth and the promise of good meals.
I washed my hands in the basin by the window before joining them at the table. Mother had already set out a bowl and spoon for me, anticipating my return. The stew was rich with vegetables from our garden and seasoned with the herbs Rosaluna cultivated with such care.
"You certainly took your time at Lisa's house," Rosaluna observed.
"She was teaching me proper skinning and pelting techniques," I replied, focusing on my stew to avoid her scrutinizing gaze. "It's more complex than I initially thought. There's a real art to it."
Rosaluna's expression shifted, and I caught the faint pout that crossed her features. "I could have taught you that..." she muttered, stabbing at a piece of carrot with perhaps more force than necessary.
I looked up at her, noting the slight downturn of her mouth. "Well, Lisa is more experienced in that particular area," I said gently. "She's been doing it for years, ever since her father started taking her on hunts. I thought it would be best to learn from someone who truly mastered the skill."
The pout deepened, and Rosaluna set down her spoon with a soft clink. "You shouldn't get too close to her, Hal. People might start getting the wrong idea about you two."
I considered her words for a moment, then decided this was as good a time as any to plant the seeds of what was to come. A smile tugged at my lips as I made my decision. "Actually, there wouldn't be anything to misunderstand. I'm seriously considering asking Lisa to marry me when I'm old enough."
The effect was immediate and dramatic. Mother's eyes widened with amused surprise, a knowing smile spreading across her face as if she had been expecting something like this. But Rosaluna... Rosaluna's fork clattered to the table as she shot to her feet, her chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor.
"W—W—what?!" She sputtered, her face cycling through several shades of red. "Did you just say—? You can't be serious!"
"Rosaluna, dear, calm yourself," Mother said with a gentle sigh, though her eyes still sparkled with amusement. She had always found our dramatic moments entertaining rather than concerning.
"But Mother, did you hear what he just said? And you're not going to say anything about it?!" Rosaluna's voice pitched higher, and she gestured wildly between Mother and me as if we had both lost our minds.
Mother took a measured sip of her tea before responding. "What exactly should I say? He's still young, and besides, Lisa is a wonderful girl. She's skilled, kind, and comes from a good family. If Hal has feelings for her, I see no harm in it."
"B—but..." Rosaluna's hands clenched into fists at her sides, and I could see her struggling with emotions she couldn't quite name or understand. The protective instinct she'd always had for me was warring with something deeper, something she wasn't ready to acknowledge.
"Sweetie," Mother continued in that patient tone she used when one of us was being particularly unreasonable, "you can't keep your brother by your side forever. He's going to grow up, just like you will. Eventually, he'll want a family of his own, just as you will someday. It's the natural order of things."
Rosaluna seemed to deflate at Mother's words, confusion replacing the initial shock and anger. She sank back into her chair slowly, her brow furrowed as she stared down at her hands. "I... I don't know..."
She picked up her fork again but only pushed her food around absently, clearly lost in thoughts she couldn't untangle.
I watched her carefully, recognizing the signs. Her protectiveness toward me had always been intense, even for a sister. But this reaction went beyond normal sibling concern. She wasn't ready to confront what lay beneath her feelings—not yet. That forbidden territory of her heart remained locked away, but I could see the first hairline cracks beginning to form in the walls she had built around it.
It was surprising—I'd never touched my sister the way I did with Mom. A few cheek kisses, the occasional peck, nothing more. Yet somehow, that alone had warped her perception of me.
But this time? No, this wasn't my doing. If Rosaluna was changing, it was her own doing. Not that I minded—I did plan to claim my lovely sister eventually. Just… not yet. She was still too young for my tastes.
And my tastes?
I glanced at Isabella as she ate, the curve of her lips, the way her fingers brushed her hair back.
Still as hot as ever.
[Isabella Eindoral] Love Gauge: [52%] 🩷
A 27% rise in four years might seem slow, but trust me—that was insane. And her behavior? Proof enough. The lingering touches, the way her breath hitched when I got too close…
Tonight, maybe I'll get lucky.
When night fell, I stretched out on the living room sofa—my "bed" for the past year. Rosaluna nearly begged me to sleep beside her, but I refused. Mom, of course, was relieved.
Lately, her nightmares always ended the same way—hot, wet dreams, my face burned into her subconscious. Not that it mattered where I slept. I always sneaked in when she trembled, when her whimpers called to me.
I waited, arms folded behind my head.
This sofa is a crime against comfort. Every night here was a battle against stiffness, against restless limbs. But sleep wasn't the goal tonight.
Then—there. A shaky breath from Mom's room.
I smirked.
Lucky me.
In one fluid motion, I was up, slipping through her door like a shadow.
She was trying to get sleep despite the nightmares.
The room was warm, moonlight pouring like molten silver through the half-shut blinds, and yet her body trembled under the sheets, thin beads of sweat glistening across her brow, her chest rising in short, irregular bursts.
Her face was drawn, lips parted, breath catching softly with each phantom cry in her sleep. Brows furrowed, lashes fluttering like she was locked in some kind of silent, desperate plea. I stood there for a while, watching her. Listening to the soft, incoherent murmurs escaping her lips—snatches of words, sometimes names, sometimes only strangled sounds.
I had wondered often, more than I wanted to admit, how she managed to function, living with these nightmares nearly night. The mind wears down with too much fear, too much repetition. But she hadn't collapsed yet. Because of me. I knew that. I had become her reprieve, her balm. I took the weight from her chest and gave her something stronger to feel. Something sharper. Something that replaced terror with need so intense, it burned everything else away.
She stirred again, breath catching on some unseen horror. A tremor ran down her body, her foot pulling hard against the sheet. I moved closer, quiet, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor. Her skirt had ridden up slightly in her tossing, baring the pale stretch of her legs. I reached down and gently tucked a stray lock of hair from her cheek, leaning in until my breath fanned her ear.
"Don't worry," I whispered. "It'll be over soon… mom."
She shivered at the sound, body responding even in sleep. That word—our twisted little invocation—her subconscious flinched and then melted under it. Her leg twitched again, muscles tightening and releasing. I smirked. She knew my voice. It had sunk so deep into her, into the folds of her mind and memory, that even whispered it could carve out pathways of pleasure. She dreamed of it. Of me.
I kissed her lips, soft and quivering, tasting the salt of her sweat. One hand slid up slowly, fingers curling under the hem of her skirt, lifting the soft fabric inch by inch. Her thighs were thick and warm, skin smooth beneath my touch, a lazy heat radiating from them. I knelt beside the bed and let my hands glide up and down her legs, slowly.
I pressed small kisses along the inside of her knee, trailing upward. My fingertips traced delicate circles over her skin, feeling every tiny twitch, every flicker of reaction.
"Nnnghh…" She whimpered, almost inaudible, brow twitching.
I smiled and pressed another kiss higher, then another, until her thighs were trembling under my lips. Gently, I nudged her legs apart, slow, savoring the way her body yielded without conscious thought. There—her inner thighs, soft and hot and slick with sweat. I mouthed along the seam of her flesh, dragging my tongue languidly against her skin, letting her taste build on my tongue.
Her hips rolled faintly, the nightmare melting away as something else took root, something needful and sweet. I kissed the skin beside her mound and slowly lifted her skirt fully, revealing the thin white panty stretched tight across her pussy. It was damp, soaked through enough that the outline of her folds was plain, the pale white hair beneath sticking slightly, strands peeking out lewdly.
"Mm… you should shave this one day, mom," I whispered into the heat of her thigh, lips brushing skin.
I wanted to see her beautiful pussy completely shaved one day.
I slid one hand up, fingers brushing lightly along the soaked fabric. She gasped, a breathy, broken sound. Her hips moved, her body arching instinctively into my touch. Still dreaming, but not the nightmare anymore. No—this dream was something darker, richer, laced with heat and want.
I pressed my thumb against the damp spot, massaging slow circles, feeling how wet she'd become already. Then I hooked my fingers under the waistband of the panty and began to peel it down, inch by inch. Her mound revealed itself, glistening even in the low light, the wet hair clinging to flushed skin. I licked my lips. Her pussy was gorgeous as always—hidden just behind the light curls, folds puffy and slick, parted slightly by the pressure of her arousal.
She whimpered again, hips shifting. I leaned in and kissed just above her clit, breathing warm against her soaked skin. Then I licked her—just a single, slow, upward stroke from her entrance to the hood. She moaned, high and soft, one leg twitching again. Her fingers clenched against the sheets.
That was it. She was here now, not entirely awake, but no longer lost to fear. My tongue circled her clit, teasing it gently as I spread her folds wider with my thumbs. Her taste filled my mouth, earthy and sweet, and I groaned against her cunt.
"S-shit… mmph—hahh…"
Her thighs closed weakly around my head as I licked deeper, letting my tongue probe into her soaked entrance before flicking back up to suck on her clit. I could feel her heat, her desperation, even in sleep.
I slipped a finger inside her—tight, so tight and warm—and she cried out, a hoarse, wordless sound. I pumped gently, curling inside her, tongue working her clit in lazy, expert circles. Her back arched, mouth falling open.
"Mmnn—aaah! Hhhnn…"
The bed creaked faintly beneath her, her legs trembling as I added a second finger, stroking her walls while my tongue flicked faster, hungrier. She was so wet, her arousal dripping down onto the sheets, onto my hand, onto my face. I moaned into her cunt, loving how she rocked against my mouth without even realizing it, instincts overriding dream logic. She needed this. Needed me.
It had been six fucking years—six years of my tongue working her folds, worshipping that aching pussy of hers twice a week without fail. A slow-burning addiction, mutual and irreversible. Her body had grown so attuned to it that now, the absence of my mouth made her physically restless. She'd squirm on the couch, shift in her sleep, grip the edge of the dinner table like her skin itched from the inside out.
Even now, with the quiet of the room heavy around us and the faint scent of her arousal already rising in the air, her fingers had slipped down into my hair without conscious thought. She stroked slowly, like she was petting something precious, her hips lifting slightly, thighs spreading wider, practically feeding herself to my mouth as I devoured her soaked cunt.
"Mnhh… aaahn, n-nooo…" Her voice quivered, that moan half-protest, half-confession, and her back arched helplessly against the sheets. Her body was spilling the truth, even if her words tried to deny it. The dreamy breathiness in her voice carried whispers of wet dreams I knew she'd had—moans muffled into pillows, thighs trembling in the dark.
But I didn't stop. I never stopped. I had work to do.
My tongue traced her folds with ruthless patience, licking in slow, curling strokes that circled her swollen clit without mercy. My fingers thrust inside her in a deep, measured rhythm, knuckles twisting slightly with each push, making her legs twitch every time I found that spot.
She was so fucking responsive.
My free hand slid up, fingers slipping beneath the loosened strap of her nightgown. The silky fabric gave way with ease, baring her breasts to the cool air and my hungry hand. I cupped one—full, soft, heavy in my grip. Each time I tried to hold her, that lush tit spilled out between my fingers like overripe fruit, begging to be squeezed.
"Hhnn~" Her moan melted into a breathy sigh, hips rising up to meet my mouth. A smile ghosted across her lips, sweet and dazed, eyes fluttering behind her lashes like she was drifting in some fevered pleasure dream.
She was so goddamn hot. Every inch of her.
I doubled the pace of my thrusts, curling my fingers harder inside her soaked pussy while my tongue swirled and flicked over her clit like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. The taste of her was addictive—salty-sweet, slick with desire, impossible to get enough of.
Her thighs tensed suddenly, muscles locking around my arm, but I didn't let up. My shoulder pressed against her leg, holding her open while I kept licking, sucking, thrusting. She was panting now, her moans spilling raw and desperate through clenched teeth.
"Aah—ahhhn, s…so good, mmhh~!"
Her voice cracked at the edge of every syllable, mouth half-open like she was trying to catch the pleasure as it left her body in waves. Her head thrashed gently against the pillow, flushed cheeks damp with sweat, strands of hair clinging to her temples.
The hand on her breast tightened, massaging in deep slow kneads until my fingers found her nipple. I rolled it, pinched just hard enough to make her body jolt, then tugged—at the exact same time my mouth sealed around her clit and sucked deep.
"AHHHnnhh!" She cried, voice rising in a beautiful shuddering pitch, her body convulsing against my mouth. Her orgasm ripped through her with sudden violence—her pussy clamped down on my fingers, pulsing, flooding my tongue with hot, thick release.
I drank her down like I was parched, like I'd waited years just to taste this again. Every drop of her slick was sacred, every spasm of her hips a reward I refused to waste. My lips stayed sealed to her until the aftershocks faded and her legs finally fell apart again, limp and twitching.
She breathed ragged, shallow, like she'd just run a marathon, and I watched her face slacken into sleep, a faint smile curling at the corner of her lips—soft, dazed, fully sated. A smile that meant she'd dream of this again tonight. And tomorrow. And the next.
My lips parted from her finally, sticky with her juice, and I dragged my tongue across them slowly, tasting every echo of her on my skin.
Be patient, Harold.
Just a little longer. A couple more years, and I'll do more than lick her. I'll finally claim her the way I've always needed to.
The way she already knows I will.