Chapter 148: +18 Wake Up- Villetta & Shirley, Charlotte.

You dismiss your clothing into inventory with a thought, the fabric dissolving into motes of light that vanish into nothing. Both women watch the casual display with different expressions: Villetta with knowing amusement, Shirley with wide-eyed fascination that quickly shifts to something hungrier as your bare form joins them on the mattress.

You kiss Villetta first, pressing your lips warmly to hers. Her hand finding the back of your neck and pulling you deeper. Her tongue meets yours with confidence, the dark-skinned amnesiac entirely comfortable with this morning ritual. When you break away, you turn to Shirley, cupping her flushed cheek before kissing her with equal thoroughness. The orange-haired girl melts into it, a soft whimper escaping against your mouth.

"Good morning to you too," Villetta murmurs against your jaw as you settle between them.

Your hands find both their breasts simultaneously, palms cupping warm flesh. Villetta's are firm and full, her dark nipples hardening instantly beneath your fingers. Shirley's are softer, paler, her pink peaks tightening as you roll them gently. Both women press into your touch, Villetta with quiet confidence and Shirley with breathy little gasps.

You position yourself against Villetta's slit, already slick and ready, and she shifts her hips to accommodate you. The angle is perfect as you slide into her with one smooth thrust. Villetta's breath hitches, her inner walls gripping you with familiar tightness.

"There you are," she whispers, wrapping one leg around your hip. "Right where you belong."

You begin a steady rhythm inside her while your hands continue working both sets of breasts. Shirley arches into your palm, amber eyes half-closed with building pleasure. Villetta matches your movements with rolls of her hips, her composure holding even as her breathing quickens.

After establishing the pace, you shift Shirley's position. She goes willingly as you lift her leg over your shoulder, bringing her glistening lips to your mouth while you continue thrusting into Villetta. The arrangement requires some adjustment, but you manage it.

Shirley cries out the moment your tongue touches her. Her hands grip the sheets on either side of her head, orange hair splayed wildly across white linen. "Oh god, Blank, your mouth is-"

She doesn't finish the sentence. Your tongue traces her folds with the same thoroughness you showed others earlier, finding every sensitive spot while your hips maintain their rhythm inside Villetta. The duet of both women creates a symphony of sounds: Villetta's low groans, Shirley's higher pitched moans, the wet sounds of your mouth and your body moving.

Villetta reaches up to stroke Shirley's hair, the gesture protective and intimate. "Let go, Shirley," she encourages, her own voice strained with pleasure. "He won't let you fall."

Shirley's thighs tremble against your ears, her body climbing rapidly. You can feel Villetta tightening around you as well, her inner walls fluttering with approaching release. The morning light filters through the curtain gaps, painting golden stripes across tangled limbs and flushed skin.

"I'm close," Shirley pants, fingers finding Villetta's hand and squeezing desperately. "Both of us, I think"

Villetta nods, biting her lip. "Yes. Both of us."

You ease your rhythm inside Villetta while your tongue slows against Shirley, pulling back just enough to keep the orange-haired girl hovering at the edge without tipping over. Shirley whines, her hips chasing your mouth, but you carefully deny her.

"Not yet," you murmur against her thigh before returning to Villetta.

The dark-skinned soldier gasps as you increase your pace, driving deeper with each thrust. Her athletic body responds magnificently, inner walls clenching rhythmically around you as her breath comes in sharp staccato bursts. You grip her hips, angling yourself to hit the spot that makes her spine arch off the mattress.

"There," Villetta hisses through clenched teeth. "Right there, don't stop."

You grant her request. Your hips snap forward while Shirley trembles beside you, denied and desperate, her fingers twisted in the sheets. Villetta's composure shatters completely, a guttural moan tearing from her throat as her entire body seizes around you. Her legs lock behind your back, pulling you as deep as possible, wave after wave crashes through her.

Only when Villetta's tremors begin subsiding do you turn your full attention to Shirley. Your tongue finds her with renewed purpose, aggressive and unrelenting. Two fingers join your mouth, curling inside her with precision to not break her hymen.

Shirley screams. Not a polite moan or a breathy gasp but a genuine shriek of overwhelmed pleasure that fills the room and probably the corridor beyond. Her thighs clamp around your head, body convulsing so violently that Villetta has to hold her shoulders to keep her from rolling off the bed.

"Let it out," Villetta whispers, stroking Shirley's sweat-dampened hair. "He's got you."

You extend both their climaxes with gentle slowing movements, tongue easing Shirley through every aftershock while your hands find their breasts. You knead Villetta's firm dark peaks while your other palm cups Shirley's softer pale flesh, fingers circling nipples as both women come down from their respective heights. Shirley whimpers with each diminishing wave, while Villetta sighs contentedly beneath your touch.

When they've both stilled, you meet Villetta's dark eyes. "Your protective instinct toward Shirley is interesting. A shift from how you used to carry yourself."

Villetta considers this, her hand still resting on Shirley's shoulder. "She needed someone. I happened to be here."

"I wonder if you'd extend that to others as well."

Something flickers behind her gaze, a consideration rather than a deflection. "Perhaps. If they needed it."

The cleaning cantrip washes over all three of you. You dress with a thought, fabric materializing from inventory. Shirley stretches languidly, making no move to cover herself.

"I should get dressed," she says, though her tone suggests no urgency whatsoever.

"I'll escort you to your room," you offer. "Or you could borrow one of Villetta's maid outfits for the day. The half-cup style."

Shirley's blush returns full force, amber eyes darting to Villetta's wardrobe. "Walk through the halls naked? With you?"

"The children are already in the dining room. I heard them earlier."

Villetta props herself on one elbow, watching Shirley with amusement. "The outfit would suit you. The orange against the black fabric."

Shirley chews her lip, caught between embarrassment and something bolder. "Which would you prefer?" she asks you, voice small but curious.

Villetta reaches into her wardrobe without waiting for your answer, pulling out a fresh half-cup maid outfit in black with white trim. She holds it up against Shirley's pale skin, assessing.

"Try it," Villetta suggests. "If you hate it, you can always change."

Shirley takes the outfit with trembling fingers, holding it against her body experimentally. The half-cups would frame her breasts without covering them, the short skirt barely reaching mid-thigh. She looks at you for guidance, amber eyes wide and trusting.

"It will be interesting seeing four of the Code Geass women in the half-cup maid outfits today," you say with a light smile. "If you decide you like it, the manor will add it to your wardrobe permanently."

Shirley's blush deepens at the implication that she, Villetta, Euphemia, and Milly will all be wearing the same revealing outfit together. Villetta chuckles, low and warm.

"Four of us? That should be quite the sight at breakfast," Villetta says, stretching her arms above her head. "Though Kallen might need convincing. She's been favoring that bunny suit."

"She might agree if I ordered her, though I think I'll leave the choice to her." you reply, already moving toward the door. "I'll give Shirley some privacy to dress."

"Thank you," Shirley says, clutching the maid outfit to her chest with both hands. Her amber eyes follow you to the doorway with something between gratitude and lingering want. "I'll see you at breakfast."

Villetta catches your arm before you leave, pulling you down for one last brief kiss. "Go see Charlotte," she murmurs against your lips. "That girl needs someone to look at her like she matters."

You step into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind you. The manor hums with morning activity now. Voices drift from the main hall below, the clatter of dishes and Nemu's bright laughter echoing up the stairwell. The enchanted windows have shifted to full daylight, casting long golden rectangles across the stone floor.

Charlotte's room lies at the far end of the magical hallway, that gives the newest member of the household both a little privacy and distance. You walk the corridor at an unhurried pace, passing closed doors behind which other members of your household prepare for the day ahead.

You reach Charlotte's door and pause. A faint sound reaches you from within. Not distress, exactly, but the particular quality of someone steeling themselves. The creak of a wardrobe being opened. The whisper of fabric against skin.

You knock twice, then open the door without waiting for a response.

Charlotte Dunois stands before her open wardrobe, frozen mid-motion with one hand on a hanger. She wears nothing yet, her slender body pale in the morning light filtering through half-drawn curtains. Blonde hair cascades down her bare back, blue eyes wide with surprise as she turns to face you.

Her wardrobe has been stocked according to her mentality. Garments hang in neat rows: transparent negligees in pastel shades, fantasy armor pieces that cover almost nothing, anime-style outfits with strategic cutouts and thigh-high slits. Each garment technically qualifies as clothing while serving purely aesthetic purposes.

Charlotte's hand trembles slightly on the hanger she holds. It contains a white negligee so sheer it might as well be made of morning mist, with delicate lace trim that would conceal nothing.

"I was just," she starts, voice catching. Her eyes dart to you, then away, then back again. "I haven't decided yet. What to wear."

She hasn't covered herself. Hasn't reached for a sheet or turned away. Her posture is rigid, shoulders pulled back with military precision, but her fingers betray her. They grip the hanger with white-knuckle intensity.

"Good morning, Charlotte," you say.

She swallows. "Good morning." A pause. Her gaze travels down your clothed form, then returns to your face with visible effort. "You visit everyone before breakfast. Milly mentioned it."

The statement hangs between you, loaded with implications she hasn't yet processed aloud. Charlotte's blue eyes hold yours with that particular blend of calculation and vulnerability that makes her uniquely compelling among your household.

"I haven't been visited yet," she adds, and the way she says it reveals more than she intends. Not accusation. Not relief. Something far more complicated.

"You look beautiful standing there," you tell her, and the words land like a stone dropped into still water. Charlotte's blue eyes widen fractionally, her rigid posture faltering for just a heartbeat before she catches herself.

You don't move toward her yet. Instead you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with unhurried appreciation. "Alicia and Prim were the first two I visited this morning. Before sunrise, actually. Then I visited one or two girls at a time, each encounter taking however long it takes. I just left Shirley and Villetta."

Charlotte's grip on the hanger loosens slightly. Her analytical mind is already working, you can see it in the way her eyes track your words like data points being plotted on a graph.

"I have yet to visit Euphemia, Kallen, or Neia," you continue. "That's with Yor and Fiona out of the mansion entirely, and the household still growing. I could copy myself, attend to everyone simultaneously. I refuse to."

Her eyebrows rise at that. The contradiction between overwhelming power and deliberate limitation clearly intrigues her strategic mind.

"I savor each visit," you say simply. "Even when the timing is tight. Even when breakfast is calling. Each of you gets my actual attention, not a distributed fraction of it."

Charlotte sets the hanger back in the wardrobe, her fingers releasing it with visible deliberation. She turns to face you fully, still naked, still not covering herself. "So I was... toward the end of your list."

"I don't know yet if You're an early riser or prefer sleeping in. You were toward the end because I refuse to rush you. If you manage to get dressed and make it to breakfast before I visit, you have my permission to taunt me about taking too long. I'll be earlier the next day."

Something shifts in her expression. Not her composure breaking, exactly, but a recalibration. The white-knuckle tension in her shoulders eases by degrees as she processes that his delay was consideration rather than neglect.

"That's a strange way to run a household," she says, voice carrying a note of something that might be the beginning of humor.

"It's my way."

You step forward slowly, giving her every opportunity to retreat or object. She doesn't. Your hand finds the small of her back, warm against cool skin, and you guide her toward the bed with gentle pressure.

"Sit," you tell her. "Lie back. You'll feel calmer after you've received your morning kisses."

Charlotte allows herself to be guided, lowering herself onto the mattress edge and then reclining with stiff formality. Her blonde hair spreads across the pillow, blue eyes fixed on the ceiling as though refusing to watch what comes next.

"Same rules as last night," you add, settling between her thighs. "Virginity stays intact."

Her breath catches. "I remember the rules."

You press your lips to her inner thigh first, feeling the muscles jump beneath your mouth. Charlotte's hands find the sheets, fingers twisting into white linen with familiar white-knuckle intensity. But when your tongue parts her folds, the sound that escapes her is not fear or calculation. It is a sharp involuntary gasp that strips away every layer of strategic distance she has built.

"Oh," she breathes, the single syllable echoes her vulnerability.

Her thighs tremble against your ears. You Kiss and suck at her thorough and patient, finding the places that make her breath stutter, the spots that turn her calculated silence into helpless little sounds she clearly wishes she could suppress. Charlotte's hips roll once, twice, before she catches herself and goes rigid again.

You don't rush her. You simply continue, tongue tracing slow patterns while her composure cracks piece by piece.

Slow circles keep Charlotte hovering at the precipice without pushing her over. Her thighs tremble against your ears, the muscles in her stomach clenching and releasing in visible waves. Each time she approaches the edge, you ease back just enough to deny her, letting the tension build until her entire body vibrates with desperate need.

Charlotte's fingers twist deeper into the sheets. Her breathing has become ragged, punctuated by soft involuntary sounds she clearly cannot control. "Please," she whispers, then catches herself, jaw clenching as though furious at her own mouth for forming the word.

You don't respond verbally. Instead you slow further, tongue barely brushing her most sensitive flesh, and wait.

Her blue eyes finally drop from the ceiling to meet yours. The look in them is extraordinary. Every layer of strategic calculation, every wall of analytical armor, every carefully constructed distance has dissolved. What remains is raw honest need, stripped of pretense or defense. Charlotte Dunois looking at you with nothing between her desire and your mouth.

You grant her what she cannot ask for aloud.

Your tongue presses firmly against her clit while two fingers curl inside her, careful of her virginity, and Charlotte shatters. Her back arches violently off the mattress, a cry tearing from her throat that she immediately tries to suppress by biting her finger. Her inner walls clench rhythmically around your fingers, her hips bucking against your face as wave after wave crashes through her.

You ride her through it, tongue easing her through every aftershock while your free hand finds her breast. You cup the soft weight, fingers circling her nipple as her body continues to tremble. Charlotte's hand falls away from her mouth, replaced by gasping breaths that fill the quiet room.

When the tremors finally subside, you shift upward, pressing kisses along her stomach, her breasts, the hollow of her throat. Your hands map her body with unhurried thoroughness, palms sliding across her flushed skin, fingers tracing the curves of her waist and hips. Charlotte lies beneath you like something unmade and remade, blue eyes unfocused and wondering.

"There you are," you murmur against her temple.

She doesn't respond with words. Her hand finds the back of your neck and pulls you down into a kiss that tastes like surrender and something approaching gratitude. When she finally releases you, her breathing has steadied but her eyes remain glazed.

The cleaning cantrip washes over both of you in a ripple of pale blue. You dress with a thought, fabric materializing from inventory.

Charlotte blinks up at you, still sprawled across her bed, blonde hair tangled and wild. "That was," she starts, then stops, swallowing. "I wasn't expecting it to be like that."

"I'm looking forward to seeing what you choose from your wardrobe for your first day at the magical school," you tell her, straightening your collar with casual ease. "Don't worry about it. The school and village have gotten used to my women wearing revealing outfits."

Charlotte's eyes widen. "The village sees what we wear?"

"The small bronze-age village has adapted remarkably well."

She stares at you for a long moment, processing this new data point with the same analytical intensity she applies to everything. Then something shifts in her expression, not quite a smile but close.

"I have three other women to check on before breakfast," you say, moving toward the door. "Take your time choosing."

"Blank," Charlotte calls after you. You pause at the threshold. Her blue eyes meet yours, still carrying the aftermath of her shattered composure. "Thank you for explaining. About the order. About why you were late."

She pulls a sheet over her naked body, a gesture that feels more like modesty returning than shame. "I'll try to beat you to breakfast tomorrow."

You smile and leave her to dress.