Chapter 4: Mirelle, the Head Maid With a Past
The sound of heels clicking down the polished marble hall made Ragga's cock twitch to attention before he even saw her.
He turned—and there she was.
Mirelle.
The Head Maid.
Tall. Regal. Dangerous.
Her body was sin incarnate: long legs wrapped in black stockings, hips wide and powerful, waist deliciously narrow under a tight black corset that framed her magnificent tits perfectly — a valley of cleavage so deep he could have drowned in it.
Her silver hair was pinned up tightly, a few rebellious strands teasing down her neck, begging to be yanked free.
Her emerald eyes — sharp, cold — pinned him in place.
Every step she took radiated authority... and hidden, burning heat.
"Fucking hell, she's hotter than the webnovel described..." Ragga thought, his cock stiffening painfully under his silk trousers.
He leaned casually against the wall, the arrogant smirk of a noble bastard plastered across his face.
"You look tense, Head Maid," he drawled. "Need some... assistance?"
Mirelle's steps didn't slow.
In one swift, elegant motion, she slapped him hard across the face, the sound echoing off the high ceilings.
SMACK.
Ragga's head snapped sideways.
For a moment, he stood frozen — stunned, tingling, cock throbbing even harder.
The slap stung. His cheek burned.
His cock twitched in his pants.
And then he looked back at her.
Mirelle stood perfectly composed, arms crossed under her heavy breasts, breathing hard.
But her eyes...
Her eyes said:
Try again.
Push harder.
Make me break.
"Oh, you want to play rough?" Ragga thought, licking his lips slowly.
"I'll fucking break you."
He followed her.
Mirelle led him through the winding halls of the mansion, not speaking, hips swaying hypnotically with every step.
Every few seconds, she would glance back at him over her shoulder — a flicker of challenge in her emerald eyes — and Ragga would meet her gaze with a wolfish grin.
The tension between them was electric. Thick. Sexual. Dangerous.
Finally, she stopped before a tall oak door, pushing it open without knocking.
Inside: her quarters.
Lavish, but spartan.
A massive bed draped in crimson sheets.
A full-length mirror.
A wardrobe full of scandalously tight maid uniforms.
And there, on the far wall — a sword rack.
A soldier's room, hidden beneath silk and lace.
Mirelle closed the door behind them, locking it with a soft click.
Then she turned to face him.
"You forget yourself, young master," she said coolly.
Her voice was low, rich, vibrating through Ragga's bones.
"Perhaps," he said, stepping closer, close enough to smell the faint trace of vanilla and steel on her skin.
"But maybe... that's exactly what you want."
Her eyes narrowed dangerously.
He reached out — slow, deliberate — and ran the back of his fingers down the bare skin of her arm.
She didn't flinch.
But her nipples hardened visibly under the tight black fabric of her corset.
Ragga smirked.
Got you.
Without warning, Mirelle grabbed his wrist — hard, bruising — and twisted it behind his back, slamming him against the wall.
Her body pressed against his, soft breasts mashing against his chest, hot breath against his ear.
"You're playing a dangerous game, young master," she hissed.
Ragga's cock throbbed violently, trapped between their grinding hips.
"Dangerous? Fuck yes. Worth it? Hell yes."
He pushed back — grinding his stiff cock against her belly, letting her feel every inch of his hunger.
Mirelle gasped, barely audible, her body betraying her.
Her grip loosened.
Ragga seized the moment — yanking his wrist free and spinning her around, pinning her against the wall instead.
Now it was his turn to press his body against hers, trapping her.
"You slapped me," he whispered, his voice dark and full of promise.
"You started this."
Her breathing hitched.
He reached up and slowly — so slowly — unfastened the top of her corset, peeling it open.
Mirelle's heavy tits spilled free, glorious and natural, crowned with stiff, aching pink nipples.
A long, thin scar ran down her back — old, faded — a mark from another life.
Ragga's eyes softened for a moment.
"What the fuck happened to you...?"
But then she growled — low, dangerous — and shoved him backward.
"Enough," she snapped, yanking her corset back up roughly.
Her face was composed — but her flushed skin, trembling hands, and rock-hard nipples told the real story.
She wanted him.
She hated herself for it.
She was scared to fall.
Ragga smirked.
He would make her beg for it.
But not yet.
That night, Ragga couldn't sleep.
The image of Mirelle's heavy tits, her flushed cheeks, her trembling hands — it haunted him.
His cock refused to go down.
He laid back on the silk sheets, stroking himself slowly, eyes closed, imagining her moaning under him, riding him desperately, scratching his back as he pounded into her again and again.
Cum shot across his abs and chest in thick, violent spurts.
Still, he couldn't stop thinking about her.
"You're mine, Mirelle. You just don't know it yet."
A sound caught his ear.
Crying.
Soft. Broken. Full of need.
He sat up, heart racing.
The sound came from down the hall — from Mirelle's room.
He crept to his door, cracked it open.
In the dark, he heard her voice.
"Ragga..."
"Please..."
Whimpering. Begging.
Masturbating.
He could hear the slick, wet sounds of her fingers working between her thighs, the desperate gasps of a woman trying — and failing — to deny herself.
Ragga's cock twitched violently at the sound.
He grinned wickedly.
Soon, Mirelle.
Soon you'll be crying my name... not alone in the dark... but in my bed.
Under me.
Around me.
Begging me never to stop.
He closed the door softly.
And smiled into the dark.