Chapter 125: Can You Add These Two Cuties to Your Fuck List?

In the center, was a wide bed, big enough for three or four.

The frame was pale polished wood shaped like spreading branches; the mattress was layered in soft green and cream linens, piled with pillows stuffed with cloud-cotton and flower petals.

A single sheer canopy of gossamer hung above it, drifting in the slight breeze from an open skylight.

Roselyn released my arm and hopped onto the bed first, landing on her knees with a bounce that made her breasts jiggle under the crop top.

She patted the space beside her eagerly.

“Come on, winner. Let’s get down and dirty.”

Isabelle climbed up more carefully, kneeling at the edge, hands folded in her lap like she was still processing everything.

Wait, did she run too? How did she get here so fast? Was she more eager for this than I thought?

Claire and Clay settled on the far side—quiet, watchful, violet hair spilling over their shoulders.

Only Roselyn looked truly hyper, though; he eyes glittering, the tail-end of her braid almost twitching, her thighs shifting restlessly against the sheets as she stared at me like I was her favorite idol in the flesh.

“Ehehe! Show me what you’re made of, Benjamin Mark…” Roselyn grinned wide, all teeth and mischief, bouncing once on the soft bed.

The motion sent a quick ripple through her body—her crop top stretched tight across her chest, the black fabric already clinging from earlier sweat, outlining the exact shape of her small, firm breasts.

Her nipples poked out hard, two dark points pressing insistently against the material like they were trying to tear through.

I blinked, trying to focus past the heat crawling up my neck.

“No, wait; why are those two here?” I pointed at the twins also sitting on the bed, as if they had every right to be there.

Claire and Clay hadn’t said a word since we entered the room, actually.

They sat side by side, completely identical except for their hair: one with a neat violet bob that framed her sharp cheekbones, and the other with longer strands falling straight past her shoulders to brush the tops of her breasts.

Both wore the same dangerously short flaring skirts of dark purple, quite pleated and barely long enough to cover the curve where thigh met ass.

Every tiny shift of weight or draft from the skylight made the hem lift just enough to tease the shadow underneath, but never quite reveal the panties.

The fabric clung to their hips, molding to the gentle swell of their mounds before flaring out again, promising everything and showing nothing.

Their tops were somehow worse.

Thin purple strips wrapped around their torsos like bandages, crossing over their chests in tight, overlapping bands.

The material was stretched so thin it looked painted on—every breath pulled the fabric taut, squeezing their pert breasts upward until soft flesh bulged slightly at the edges.

Their nipples stood out clearly through the cloth: small, stiff peaks tenting the purple, dark enough to show as shadowed circles beneath.

The wraps left most of their midriffs bare, exposing flat stomachs and the delicate dip of navels. Sweat from the earlier excitement still gleamed on their skin, making the purple look almost wet in places.

They wore the same small dark cover shoes as Isabelle—simple, almost dainty, laced up the ankle—but Roselyn was barefoot, toes curling against the wooden floor as she rocked impatiently on the bed.

“Ah, Claire, Clay,” Roselyn turned to them, still beaming like this was the best night of her life, “you also want to taste human cock?”

Both twins flushed violently.

Color rushed from their cheeks down their necks, turning pale skin a deep rose.

The one with the bob cut—Claire, I guessed—grabbed her sister’s arm tight.

“N-nothing of the sort!” she snapped, voice higher than usual. “We only want to make sure Roselyn is not being used!”

“Y-yes! What she said!” The longer-haired one—probably called Clay—squeezed her eyes shut and yelped, shoulders hunching as if she could disappear into herself.

Roselyn laughed, loud and bright.

“Liars! You’re just horny too.” She turned back to me, with her eyes sparkling. “So you have it. Can you add these two cuties to your fuck list?”

I swallowed hard.

My gaze moved over them slowly, helplessly.

Roselyn first: small stature, maybe a head or so shorter than me, but packed with lean muscle from all that fighting of hers.

Her single braid hung thick and dark down her back, the tip brushing the small of her waist.

Dark skin glowed under the crystal light—smooth, warm brown everywhere, flushed deeper across her cheeks and chest.

Her crop top rode high, baring the toned plane of her stomach and the faint lines of abs that flexed when she breathed.

The black shorts were obscene—tight enough to outline the exact shape of her pussy lips, the seam running straight down the center, pressing inward so the plump outer folds were clearly defined.

A small damp spot had started to darken the crotch, right where her clit should be.

She shifted her weight on the bed, and the fabric pulled even tighter, camel-toe blatant and unapologetic.

Then Isabelle, sitting a little behind her sister, looking nothing like the calm, professional secretary she had been all day.

Her twin green buns sat high and perfect, a few loose strands framing her flushed face.

Big green eyes darted between me and the floor, with those lashes long and trembling.

Plump pink lips parted slightly, breath coming quick and shallow.

Her short skirt hugged her hips, the hem sitting so high that the barest bend would expose everything.

The fabric clung to her thighs, accentuating the gentle flare of her hips and the soft curve where ass met leg.

Her top was light, almost translucent in the glow—her small breasts was tightened enough to strain the neckline, the small cleavage a shadowed valley between them.

When she shifted nervously, her thighs pressed together, a faint tremor running through them.

And the twins—completely identical in every way that mattered.

Cute heart-shaped faces, wide violet eyes now glassy with embarrassment and something hotter.

Small mouths open in little O’s of protest. Their skirts were illegally short—short enough that I could see the crease where thigh met groin when they stood straight, yet somehow still hiding the final secret.

Their slender legs stretched long and smooth, toes curling inside those dark shoes.

The bandage-tops crushed their breasts together and upward, nipples so hard they looked painful, poking out like little bullets begging for attention.

Every breath made the purple fabric slide slightly, revealing more of the soft undercurve.

Maybe after this I really would die from cuteness overload.

My heart hammered so loud I was sure they could hear it. Heat pooled low in my stomach, heavy and insistent.

I had only been here a few hours—barely enough time to catch my breath—and already my body felt like it was on fire from all the glimpses, the movements, the casual near-nakedness of this place.

Every fairy I’d seen today had chipped away at my restraint until I was standing here, in a bedroom that smelled faintly of warm flowers and skin, asking for things I never would have back home.

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