CHAPTER 175: APPLE

Lor stepped out of the bathroom, steam trailing him like a soft, obedient cloud before it frayed and curled into the hallway’s cooler air.

He nudged a plush towel onto the marble floor with his toe, dragging it over his skin in long, rough swipes, the fabric soaking up the lingering rose-sweet scent of bathwater, Nellie’s kisses, and the faint salt of their shared heat.

His exhale came out half-laugh, a sound he didn’t plan but couldn’t contain, warm with the glow of a day that had unfolded perfectly.

Nellie’s room felt different now, as if the light had shifted closer to the floor, as if the pale blue rug had memorized the weight of their bodies.

He spotted his shirt draped over a chair, its linen cool against his still-warm skin as he shrugged it on, buttons half-done in a lazy rush.

His trousers followed, the belt threading through loops with the quick, practiced flick of muscle memory.

Each motion landed with a quiet click of satisfaction, his body humming with exhaustion and a deep, private joy—like a boy who’d just heard the world whisper yes to him, again and again.

His eyes caught on a red apple perched on the low table by the window, its polished surface glinting in the slanting afternoon light, just imperfect enough to feel real.

His stomach growled, a sudden reminder of how the bath—and the hour before it—had burned through him, leaving him hollowed out and ravenous.

He crossed the room, picking up the apple by its stem, his thumb brushing the smooth skin once, twice, before he bit into it.

The crunch echoed, sharp and bright, filling the quiet room.

Juice burst across his tongue, sweet and cold, a jolt of life that made his eyes half-close in pleasure.

He chewed slowly, tilting his head back to let the sunlight crown him, its warmth a faint echo of the bath’s embrace.

Another bite, bigger this time, and a rivulet of juice escaped, tickling his chin.

He laughed under his breath, the sound almost spilling over as he imagined Nellie catching him like this—shirt half-buttoned, hair damp, lips glossy with apple-sweetness.

His thumb swiped the juice away, his grin widening at the thought.

He ate the apple down to its core, turning it in his fingers, savoring the last snap of flesh before crossing to the small brass pedal bin near her desk.

The core dropped with a soft thud, the lid clinking shut, a small, final note in the room’s stillness.

...

Then it hit.

Not pain, but a soft, spreading absence, like a tide pulling back from shore.

Lethargy bloomed from his edges, curling through him like ink in water—cool, oddly pleasant, but too heavy to resist.

His vision blurred, the light in the room tilting sideways, as if the sun itself had slipped off its axis.

His knees softened, unmoored, like someone had smoothed them flat and set them wrong.

He reached for the chair’s back, fingers grazing empty air, finding nothing to hold.

Huh,

he thought, but the word felt detached, belonging to a moment already gone.

His body folded, slow and inevitable, the rug rising to meet him with a warmth that felt too gentle for the wrongness of it all.

The world swung—once, twice—like a pendulum that had forgotten its center.

From somewhere far off, the steady patter of water reached him—Nellie’s shower, a distant rhythm like a clock counting seconds he couldn’t grasp.

The sound settled on his chest, heavy, pressing.

Then it slipped away.

Darkness didn’t fall—it arrived, soft and certain, pressing its hands over his eyes and pulling him under.

__________

The dream slipped in without edges, soft and disorienting, like stepping into a room that refused to hold its shape.

Corners melted, walls bowed inward then out, breathing with a life of their own.

A pink haze bled across the air, glowing faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat trapped in stained glass.

The floor beneath Lor wasn’t solid but a slick, obsidian pool, shifting like liquid midnight, cool and alive against his bare skin.

He floated, weightless, his body untethered from gravity.

His hands rose not by muscle but by will, each movement trailing pale wisps of light that dissolved as quickly as they sparked.

The air hummed with an unseen charge, and his pulse quickened, sensing her before he saw her.

That presence.

It wasn’t sound or shape but a sensation—cool breath grazing his cock, invisible fingers sliding beneath the skin of his belly, teasing the nerves there.

His body stirred without permission, a shameful shudder rolling through him, his arousal hardening against the phantom touch.

The memory of that first dream, the one that had left him gasping in his bed, flooded back, and his breath caught, torn between dread and desire.

The haze thickened, coiling into form.

Petals of pink light wove together, sharpening into a figure—a woman, her body both too real and impossibly ethereal, curves and shadows spilling from her glowing frame.

Her hair twisted upward like smoke, curling in the air, and her eyes burned with a fierce, hungry pink that pinned him in place.

She crouched between his thighs, her presence a weightless pressure that made his cock twitch violently.

Cool lips dragged over his shaft, a mouthless kiss that sent a jolt through him, his hips jerking before he could stop them.

Wetness pooled, dripping in impossibly slow rivulets, vanishing into the void below.

Lor’s breath hitched, a ragged sound swallowed by the dream’s endless expanse.

Her touch was relentless, a rhythm only she understood—tightening, loosening, teasing with a precision that made his head spin.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Her hands weren’t hands but tendrils of light, stroking his length with a focus that was both cold and searing.

Each brush started cool, then bloomed into wet warmth, like rain on overheated skin, pulling a low groan from his throat.

He wanted to resist, to shove her away, to wrest control from this dream that held him captive.

But his thighs trembled, parting wider for her phantom mouth, betraying every ounce of his will.

"Good Boy"