Ritchie hesitated, too embarrassed to voice it. As pleasurable as this was, he yearned for more, to make love to the woman of his dreams.
"I understand," Isabella said softly. She released his cock and moved to the bed, asking, "You on top, or me?"
Ritchie couldn't wait any longer. He pushed Isabella down onto the bed. He'd fantasized about this countless times, but in reality, it was his first.
His inexperience showed. Despite several eager thrusts, he couldn't guide himself inside her.
Isabella let out a soft sigh and reached down to guide Ritchie, aligning him with her entrance.
This time, it went in smoothly. Ritchie felt his cock enveloped by a tight, velvety warmth, distinct from the sensation before.
He began thrusting relentlessly, his hands roaming over Isabella's body. It was his first time touching a woman, and he fumbled, unsure where to begin.
Isabella lay back, eyes closed, staring blankly at the ceiling. She silently endured, unsure if it was the pleasure of sex, the ache in her heart, or the sting of humiliation. But gradually, all those feelings were drowned out by a tingling sensation that seemed to rise from her very bones.
She was still new to this, and business had been slow, so her body remained highly sensitive. As her breathing grew heavier, her mind drifted, and soft moans escaped her lips— "Mmm… mmm… ah… ah…"
This time, the sounds were genuine, not the fake ones she'd used before.
"Not… so hard… ah… ah… ah…" Isabella pleaded.
Ritchie had no technique, driven purely by instinct as he thrust in and out, each movement plunging deep. His raw, forceful rhythm stoked her desire more than any skill could.
He didn't count his thrusts or notice Isabella's reactions beneath him.
"Ah… I'm dying… ah… ah… I can't take it…"
With a sharp cry, Isabella's body shuddered, a warm stream trickling down her thighs.
Ritchie, unaware of what had happened, kept thrusting with fervor.
Her passage, still sensitive from climax, sent Isabella, already drained and exhausted, spiraling into another wave of sensation. Her moans rose again.
"Mmm… mmm… ah… ah…"
Her face, already pale, grew even whiter, her mind foggy and dazed.
Half an hour later, she let out another startled cry.
Her moans echoed for an unknown time, the sharp, piercing screams of climax gradually weakening into faint, breathless whimpers.
Isabella could only curse her luck. She lay limp, utterly spent, having lost count of her climaxes, now struggling even to breathe.
Ritchie hadn't meant to push her so far. He was puzzled. Why hadn't his technique siphoned any life energy? Each time he channeled his power to draw it out, it only sent Isabella into more intense, writhing releases, with no benefit to him.
He felt no release himself, only a growing pressure in his abdomen and a swelling ache in his cock.
Seeing Isabella's body go still, Ritchie finally stopped. Inexperienced as he was, he knew continuing might be deadly.
As he withdrew, he saw the newspaper beneath her soaked through. The space between Isabella's trembling legs glistened, coated with sticky fluid that had poured from her.
There was no sense of conquest, not even satisfaction.
It was clear now that mortals and knights were too different. Their strength, endurance, and stamina were worlds apart.
A water bottle sat on the bedside. Ritchie didn't care if the water was clean. He took a sip and poured some over himself, softening enough to pull his pants on.
Glancing at the unconscious Isabella, he gave a bitter smile. This time, he'd lost big. Not only had he failed to find release, but now he had to carry her back to her home. He couldn't just leave her here.
Isabella's home was in the old town, a place Ritchie had passed by but never entered. This part of the district was rundown, lined with single-room shanties where the front door opened straight into a kitchen, and the back served as both bedroom and living room.
As he reached her door, a flurry of footsteps echoed from inside, and it swung open.
Two boys and two girls rushed out. The oldest was maybe ten, the youngest barely three or four.
"Sis! Sis! You're back! We're hungry!" the smallest one shouted, trailing behind.
The kids froze when they saw a stranger carrying their sister.
The eldest girl recovered first, her voice soft and hesitant. "Are you her friend? What's wrong with her?"
Ritchie stammered, unable to say he'd fucked their sister into a faint. Thinking fast, he said, "Did she eat today? She passed out from hunger."
"Yeah!" the youngest piped up. "We haven't eaten either. So hungry!"
Four pairs of pitiful eyes bore into him, and Ritchie felt his strength drain. He understood now why Isabella did what she did.
"Alright, I'll get you some food. What do you like?"
"Chicken!"
"Steak!"
Their demands left Ritchie grimacing. He could afford it, but he felt like a sucker.
Despite the war's strict rationing, money could still buy anything. After his family's small windfall, his mom had splurged on ham and sausages, so Ritchie knew where to find such things.
When he returned with bags of food, it was 8:15. He had to hurry as curfew hit at 9, and he wasn't keen on a night in lockup.
As he neared the alley to Isabella's place, harsh shouting and children's cries pierced the air. A lanky teen, maybe seventeen, with a shaved head and open shirt, stood at her door, swinging a belt and cursing loudly.
The noise drew eyes. Ritchie saw faces peering from windows, cold and detached, watching but doing nothing. No one dared step out or even crack a window.
The fear only fueled the teen's arrogance. From his rant, Ritchie pieced it together: he was Isabella's "protector."
Ritchie knew of these so-called protectors: thugs, leeches, shameless pricks who clung like rabid dogs, fighting dirty even when outmatched.
Ritchie suspected the classmates who'd hassled him before were backed by scum like this. Real thugs wouldn't bother with his family's small cash, but these greedy, shameless bottom-feeders would.
Feeling a strange kinship, he pried a walnut-sized chunk from the nearby wall. His recent training hadn't yielded much, but his strength had grown, and his hand-eye coordination was sharper than ever.
Like skipping a stone, Ritchie flung the fragment. It hissed through the air and struck the cursing thug's knee with a sharp crack. The leg snapped instantly.
A guttural scream pierced the night. The cries drew police attention.
Ritchie wanted no part of this mess. Glancing at the food in his hands, he figured he'd have to wait until tomorrow to give it to Isabella for her siblings.
Then it hit him: he hadn't paid her. She'd given herself to him, a classmate, for nothing. That didn't sit right. The money would have to wait until tomorrow too.
Back home, Ritchie took a cold shower, barely suppressing the restless heat in his body. Ignorance of a woman's touch was one thing, but knowing it made the longing worse.
After a restless night, Ritchie had a plan. At school tomorrow, he'd find Isabella and ask if she'd let him take care of her and his siblings.
Morning came with grueling training. Distracted, Ritchie nearly timed out on his weighted run and fumbled blocks, taking hits from the sticks.
When class finally started, he froze. Everyone was there except Isabella. She still hadn't shown by the end of the first period.
Something was wrong.
"I need a favor," Ritchie said to the class monitor, a beauty who'd also starred in his fantasies. Unlike Isabella, she came from money, her dad being a bank manager. They lived in a four-story garden apartment on Wendeng Street, high-end for the old town.
The monitor eyed him coldly. "What's up?"
"Didn't you notice? Isabella's not here. I passed her place yesterday, and something seemed off. Didn't think much of it then, but…"
Ritchie mixed truth with lies.
The monitor, assuming he was just another slacker, was surprised. As one of the class's few beauties, she and Isabella were close, part of a tight-knit group with other girls called the Rose Society.
"Alright, I'll cover for you. Go check. I'll follow soon."