Academy's Pervert in the D Class-Chapter 62: moment

Mira leaned down, kissing his forehead, her lips warm, lingering just a moment.

"You’ll learn. Just don’t wall yourself off. And try not to make any more girls scream tonight—unless it’s from joy." Her eyes twinkled, teasing.

"Gross," Lor muttered, but his lips curled faintly, a wry smile breaking through.

She rose, tugging the blanket over his shoulder, her touch gentle. "Good night, my impossible son."

"Night, Mom."

The door closed with a soft click, leaving Lor in silence, staring at the ceiling.

The sheets still held Kiara’s scent—her perfume, her sweat, the electric pulse of her mana, lingering like a ghost on his skin.

Her words echoed, sharp and cruel: loser, not hot, far from it, scrawny, awkward, nothing.

Each cut deeper, a clean incision through his chest.

She’d called him a shadow, dismissed him like he was beneath her notice.

She could’ve been gentle.

She chose cruelty.

If he came across as a bit of a "loser," it’s not hard to see why Kiara might not have been into him.

But her rejection stung, a raw wound that burned hotter than he expected.

Her face flashed in his mind—dark bangs framing blazing eyes, full breasts straining her blouse, plush thighs parted, black lace teasing.

His body tensed, too hot, too full of her presence, the memory of her voice, her scent, her defiance.

His hand drifted down, fingers curling around his cock, stroking slowly at first.

He imagined her not mocking but kneeling, her sharp face softened, lips wet and parted, pride cracking under lust.

Her blouse unbuttoned, breasts spilling out, her thighs straddling him as she leaned in, her breath hot, her hands replacing his.

"You’re not nothing," she’d whisper, her voice low, husky, her fingers tight around him, stroking with purpose.

His hips jerked softly under the sheets, his strokes quickening, the ache cresting as he pictured her lips brushing his tip, her tongue teasing, her eyes locked on his, desire burning where fury had been.

His breath hitched, moans soft but raw, the sheets rustling as he moved faster, the fantasy vivid—Kiara’s thighs wrapping around him, her pussy wet against his skin, her moans matching his.

The tension built, his cock throbbing, the heat overwhelming.

He came with a low groan, hips bucking, cum spilling over his hand, warm and slick, his chest heaving with spent breath.

He lay still, the room quiet, his body heavy, the sting of her words lingering as his hand glowed and got clean.

He didn’t hate Kiara.

But he wouldn’t forget.

Sleep took him in silence.

.

.

.

It was a holiday—one blessed day of rest after the grueling spell precision battle that had wrung every drop of mana from the academy’s students.

But Lor was feeling lazy.

He woke lazily on the holiday morning.

His body sprawled starfish-like across his bed, blanket twisted around one ankle, the sheets still faintly scented with Kiara’s perfume from last night’s storm.

A long yawn escaped as he shuffled to the bathroom, brushing his teeth with one eye half-open, his black hair a tousled mess.

Barefoot, he padded downstairs, stomach grumbling, the promise of his mother’s cooking pulling him toward the kitchen.

Then.

All of a sudden he noticed something unusual.

He stopped short at the threshold, his hazel eyes widening.

Miss Silvia sat at the dining table, her perfect posture a stark contrast to the cozy chaos of his home.

Her glasses were fogged slightly from the steam rising off her tea, her white jacket clinging tightly to her generous chest, the fabric outlining her curves.

Her auburn hair was pinned in a professional twist, a few strands slipping loose to frame her flushed cheeks.

Her pencil skirt hugged her thighs, legs crossed at the knee, her expression flustered but striving for polite professionalism.

She was the last person Lor expected to see in his house, her presence a jolt that sent his pulse racing.

They hadn’t noticed him yet.

"I don’t know what to do with this kid, Miss Silvia," Mira was saying, pouring another cup of tea, her smile warm but teasing.

"He sleeps like a log and eats like a bear. And his laundry—don’t get me started. Sometimes I wonder if he’s even trying to pass."

Silvia laughed nervously, fingers fumbling with her cup’s handle, her breasts shifting under her jacket. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

"Ah, well, it’s not that bad... Lor’s doing... fine. His written work’s improving, and his mana and spell precision, you have seen the improvement yesterday. But there’s room for growth. If he applies himself more... he might surprise us."

"Oh, surprise me, please," Mira said, rolling her eyes dramatically. "I’d be thrilled if he could pass."

Silvia nodded, lifting her tea to sip—but misjudged the angle.

The cup tipped, hot liquid spilling down her blouse, soaking the thin fabric.

"Ah! Oh—no!" she gasped, jumping in her seat, grabbing a napkin too late.

The tea spread across her chest, the wet fabric clinging to her skin, outlining her bra and the soft flush of her breasts beneath.

Her cheeks burned crimson, her hands frantically dabbing, the jacket gaping slightly as she moved, revealing a hint of lace.

"Clumsy me," she muttered, flustered, trying to cover herself, her thighs shifting, skirt riding higher.

Mira’s eyes drifted to the stairs and noticed Lor.

"Lor!" she called, waving him over, her voice bright. "Come here. Look who came to see you."

Lor blinked, frozen mid-step, his loose shirt rumpling against his chest.

"Miss Silvia...?" His voice was a mix of surprise and nerves, his hazel eyes flicking to the damp patch on her blouse, then away, heat rising to his face as he tried not to stare at the way her breasts pressed against the wet fabric.

Silvia adjusted her glasses with a damp hand, cheeks flushed, forcing a strained smile.

"Good morning, Lor. I hope I’m not interrupting your day off. I wanted to discuss your recent academic performance with you personally. Performance data is more effective when shared directly with students instead of involving parents." Her voice wavered, her fingers tugging at her blouse, trying to hide the clinging fabric.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is fre𝒆w(e)bn(o)vel