Chapter 160: 160: Academy Life Starts XVII (Birthday celebrations part Ten)

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"It’s my first time too, you dummy. I don’t know. But I will tell you when it really feels good," she said in a shy voice, then added, softer, "and I will also tell you where to be gentler. You are pushing too hard inside me. Can you slow down a bit? I want it to last longer. Don’t rush it."

John slowed his rhythm. Suddenly, an air bubble came out of her pussycat. It made a fart-like sound.

They laughed. The laughter was a bridge between them, stronger than any spell. He kissed her again, learning to match her cadence, to keep his eagerness tucked behind patience. She kissed him back, learning the small catches in his breath that meant there , the slight, grateful sound he made when she threaded her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.

They paused because pausing was part of the beauty. Foreheads together again, sharing air, they spoke in little pieces.

"Tell me if you want to stop," she said. "Any time."

"I will," he promised. "You too."

"I will."

The promise, spoken twice, turned the room into a safe circle.

They moved again —no rush, no clatter— letting the thin quilt reshape under their knees and elbows. The window let in a ribbon of cooler air that kissed the sweat at John’s temple. Sera brushed it away with her lips. He felt that all the way down to his stick, where steadiness lives. It became harder.

His hands learned more of her, always with the door of a question before each new room. The slope of her shoulder. The warm hollow just below her throat where a pulse spoke steady as a metronome. The soft gate of a sigh when he put his mouth near her ear and said her name. In return, Sera explored him with the care of a healer, the curiosity of a scholar, the playfulness of someone who had watched him walk through too many dangers with a face set like a door. She kissed John’s chest along his nipple. She pressed her palm to the center of his chest, right over the hidden well of quiet gravity he carried. The void hummed, but softly, like a cat that had chosen not to hunt tonight.

"Here," she whispered, smiling against his chest. "I feel your storm resting."

"It listens to you," he said, surprised by the truth of it.

"It listens to you ," she said. "I just remind you that you are not alone in the room."

Outside, a cart rolled by; Ina’s clock gave a gentle click; the cat on the shed roof turned once and chose its final spot for the night. The world shrank to breath and small sounds.

They kissed again while John kept pushing inside her —slower still— finding a rhythm that felt like water on stone: patient, shaping, sure. His fingers learned how long to linger; hers taught him when less was kinder than more. When hands began to wander toward places that would be stories tomorrow if they weren’t careful, they asked again.

"I should rub here?" he breathed. Touching her pussycat.

"Here," she said, and guided him.

"And—"

"Yes. But slowly."

The candle bowed, its flame leaning to the side as if politely turning away. In that gentled light, the scene grew even more tender. The quilt held them; the room seemed to hold its breath in respect. When heat finally rose enough to blur thought, they did not topple over the edge of caution. They set their pace to something steady, checking in with words and touches — an arrow shot and counted, not a fire thrown and forgotten.

The night drew its curtain there.

What followed belonged to the two of them: the hush before, the chorus of small yeses, the soft and sweet noises people make when the world narrows to skin and trust and the shape of someone’s shoulder under your palm. When the quiet grew deep and the laughter from downstairs turned to the soft hush of sleeping walls, they found each other fully — without spectacle, without haste, with that odd mix of shyness and certainty that makes a first time dear instead of loud.

John picked up the pace. He was about to finish. He says, "Sera, I am almost done. I will push harder. Bear with it."

She moaned loudly, "Ohh John. You are too good. It’s so deep and hard."

John grabbed her hand in a lock with his hands. He pushed deeper and harder. After two minutes John yelled, "It’s coming out. It’s coming. Sera, Sera, you pussycat is so warm."

Finally John was near his end. With a final push he gave in. His stick released inside her pussycat. A warm, thick and sticky liquid came out. It filled her pussycat and there was more. A jet-like stream came out of her. It covered John’s stick and the rest came out her pussycat. Both cum together. Her cum was much more than John. Her pussycat released and both her and John cum out. It rolled down into her ass like a stream. Some were on John’s thighs. Both strengths are gone. They felt a bit weak.

A few moments later —no clocks, just the sense of later— they lay side by side, the quilt pulled to their waists, the candle a stub throwing a small gold coin of light against the ceiling. Sera’s braid had loosened; a few strands made their own choices across her cheek. John loved it more than he would have thought possible, the evidence that she could be unanxious near him.

He traced a fingertip down her forearm, mapping the tiny, nearly invisible hairs that stood up when the night air cooled. She watched him with a smile that lived near tears, the good kind, the kind that comes when a hard day ends in gentleness and pleasure.

"Are you warm enough," he asked.

"With you?" Her smile deepened. "More than enough."

They watched the curtain shift. Downstairs, a bottle knocked softly as the wood cooled. Sera’s hand went to his cheek again, thumb sweeping absent circles along his jaw.