"You cool with that, Jona?" Lorette asks, her gaze glinting with mischief—an illusion of choice veiled behind smoky lashes. Some people, whether by expression or motion of the body, are hard to say no to. She's the type to have both, because her bounty earned is a bounty well-rewarded.
I nod, swallowing thickly. There's no saying no to Lorette. She's the kind of woman who smiles while setting a trap, just to see if you'll step in willingly. And I had. Eyes open.
"Drink five shots of dew in succession," she announces, already sliding ten neatly arranged shots across the table toward Natasha and me. "Whoever drinks more gets to spin next."
I stare at the glasses, their pale, milky contents shimmering under the warm lights of the dining room. They seem innocent enough, but I know better. White sparks of fizz-like energy waft from the surface too, as if enticing me to treat it like a soda.
I barely drink, much less socially. This would be a first in many ways. My instinct tells me to play it safe. Let Natasha win. I'm not here to prove tolerance or dominance. Just here to cook, be polite, maybe laugh a little.
Maybe.
"Psst," Yulia leans in beside me, whispering behind a teasing hand. "You have to beat Nat. She's a lightweight." And there it goes. That plan's out the window. I'm already getting nervous without even downing a shot yet.
"Okay, I'll try," I whisper back, nodding. She flashes a wink and sends a flying kiss in my direction. Supportive sabotage.
My gaze returns to the shots. Something is commanding about them—like each one contains a challenge wrapped in silk. The aroma is floral, but grounded. It carries a subtle tang, not unlike mead, but creamier. Was this fermented? Distilled? Brewed in secret under moonlight? The methods escape me.
"Ready, big boy?" Natasha taps my shoulder with a grin that says she's already won. It's charming in a way—her confidence so unshakable it borders on adorable.
I smirk, raising the first glass to her. "To your dare."
The drink slides down my throat with a smooth, chilled sting. It hits just right—cool at first, then warm as it blooms in my chest. My limbs prickle with energy, and I feel the first ripple of whatever dryad magic this dew still contains. I glance briefly at Lorette. Her knowing smirk widens.
If the aphrodisiac effects linger, this night is about to get… complicated.
"Pwah!" Natasha lets out an exaggerated sigh, already flushed. Her sapphire eyes shimmer like gems under the dim light, dazed and twinkling with delight. "One down, ehehe…"
"You sure she's gonna be okay?" I glance toward Yulia and Lorette, unsure if I should be worried or impressed. Being invited to a handful of guys' nights gave me some tells whether someone is good with their liquor or not; and one of them is the fact that appearance barely counts for
"She'll be fine," Lorette replies, her voice smooth with confidence. "Worst case, she falls asleep somewhere comfy. The drink's harmless. Just... potent." Potent?
Natasha raises her second shot like a toast to no one in particular and downs it without hesitation. Her cheeks redden further, her blonde hair slightly mussed from her enthusiastic swaying. I've heard of wine moms—Natasha feels more like a milk goddess, tipsy on her offerings.
I match her pace, lifting my second glass and tipping it back. Again, the taste floods my senses—sweet, creamy, almost yogurt-like, with an aftertaste that tugs at something deep in my core. Invigorating. Confusing. Sweltering.
Natasha hums, her shoulders bobbing as she slouches forward. Her chest, impossibly plush, presses against the edge of the table. Even half-squished, her breasts still rival Yulia's in sheer scale.
"This liquoooor ishh sooo good…" she slurs, swaying side to side.
Lorette chuckles, leaning closer. "Told you. It's light on the surface but hits like a truck under the hood."
I nod, quietly impressed—and slightly concerned—as Natasha grabs her third glass and tosses it back like a champ.
I follow with my third. The burn has lessened now; my body warming up, flush rising up my neck. With each shot, the effects deepen. My blood feels carbonated, restless beneath the skin.
"Fourth down," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. The heat has begun to pool in less appropriate areas, too. A low throb behind my zipper reminds me what this drink truly is—a stimulant. Not just magical, but primal. Hairs stand on end.
Then I feel it—a light touch brushing against my shin. I freeze. It was a foot. Bare. Smooth. Positively tantalizing.
It travels slowly, teasingly, up my leg under the table. I glance at Yulia. Then at Lorette. No clues. No tells. Which of them? They were both watching over us, smiling inconspicuously.
That ambiguity is dangerous. Who's doing this? More importantly, now, of all timings?
Across from me, Natasha groans. Her head lolls back, then forward again. "I can… still… drinnn…" she mumbles, glass wobbling in her grasp.
I gently take it from her, downing it in her stead. Just to be safe. Then, for good measure, I finish the last of my five—and hers. Seven shots total. This isn't normal or strong liquor too, it's otherworldly vices; a dryad's, nonetheless.
The result is instant. My skin simmers. My heart races. The room shifts—not with drunken tilt, but with a fog of heat, lust, and rising tension. My thoughts scatter like confetti. Coherent ideas fall apart in my mind.
And the worst part? My body is too awake. My length throbs, full and undeniable, beneath the fabric of my pants. This is… a problem. A big one that can't easily be fixed.
"I… don't think I can keep playing," I mutter, slowly standing. My balance holds, but just barely. "Where's your bathroom…?" Lorette rises gracefully, smiling like she knew this moment would come. "This way."
"How're you feeling, big boy?" She leads me past the kitchen, down a narrow hall. I can't map the path in my head—my senses are too overwhelmed. The throb between my legs is distracting, shamefully so. "What'd you think, you fox?" I shut the door behind me, lock it, and lean over the sink.
"She's crazy, that one..." Cool water splashes across my face. It works, but not enough. So I do it a little more than I usually would while doing deep breaths. Breathe. Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound of the faucet and the exhaust fan are the only things grounding me. My chest heaves with effort. My fingers fumble with my belt. When I finally free myself, the pressure releases in a near moan. Air on skin has never felt so relieving.
I sit on the toilet, elbows on my knees, trying to will myself back to normal. It's fine. I just need five minutes. Ten, max.
Then—footsteps. Soft, unsteady. Giggles follow soon after. Not Lorette's sultry cadence. Not Yulia's musical pitch. Not Sky's lower tone. Which means…
Wait, hold on. Did I lock the door?
The knob clicks and the door eases open. A large pair of clothed chests bounces into view first before the person it hung from.
Natasha slides in, laughing quietly to herself. "Ahaha, everyone's just so... nice..."
"Ahaha—oooh?" Her eyes blink wide, then sparkle with recognition. "Jonaaa…" She sees everything in an instant. No hiding it. My full ten inches of arousal was on full display.
"That's a big lollipop," she says, eyes wide with innocent wonder and tipsy amusement. Her finger points, her voice singsong and childlike. There's no judgment—just curiosity. While some men find this type of reaction a turn off, Natasha's charm was off the charts; her vulnerability in correlation with mine gave me a thrill that can't be easily replicated.
"S-sorry," I stammer, standing hastily. I fumble to tuck myself in, struggling to zip up. "I didn't mean to—uh, I'll go, let you use the bathroom." I move to pass her, but she stops me with a hand on my chest. Soft. Warm.
"No, no, it's okay," she says sweetly. That drunken lilt in her angel-like voice is devilish.
We're not even touching fully, yet I feel the pressure of her body. Her chest—god, her chest—is so full that it brushes my stomach without her needing to take another step.
"I'm feeling… pretty hot from those shots," she murmurs. Her eyes half-lidded, her voice honeyed and slow. She licks her lips, steam practically rising off her skin. "So this biiig popsicle," she says, drawing out every syllable, "can cool me down, right?"
A shiver rolls down my spine. Her breathing was ragged; most likely from the dew.
We're still in Lorette's home. The other girls are just a hallway away. But the thrill, the risk—it all swells inside me like a tide.
"Will it, Jona?" she whispers, her voice a blend of motherly affection and teasing desire.
There's something utterly disarming about her right now. That moe gap—the contradiction between her mature aura and childlike charm—erodes my restraint like salt on ice.
I'm melting.