The Secret She Desperately Hid from Me
❤️45 The one person I least wanted to catch me. He saw every last bit of my shameful state. An extreme masochistic climax. The vision of Rosalía thrashing wildly, squirting endlessly, shattered with a crunch and scattered away.
"Haa… haa…."
Looked like the secret observation ended there. That was the extent of the secret she'd desperately tried to hide. Fuck, I jerked off so goddamn hard. So much that I wanted to grab my dick right then and pump out every sticky drop from the base of my balls. I could probably masturbate to this scene looping in my head for the rest of my life. Honestly, if there was a permanent save button, I'd hit it dozens of times. Tch. Wonder if Descartes has the video saved.
It was shocking, sure. But also so lowbrow and vulgar it was stimulating. Like a trashy late-night variety show with no NG cuts. A third-rate AV actress rolling in the mud because it won't sell. My woman, Rosalía—no one else—did that undignified, disloyal shit. The her before she met me. Or the her facing the entire world except me.
Rosalía's inner world had already exhausted every emotion; nothing was left. Shame or embarrassment? Things she'd never feel in her lifetime, like a listless patient hooked to an IV. A heart that refuses to beat even for a moment without the IV drip of love. Even if you shoved an immortality elixir or mountains of gold in her face. Even if you showed her a sight brimming with romance and beauty enough for a lifetime. Even if the world ended tomorrow and we became slaves to aliens. She'd just yawn indifferently. People's dreams, wishes on shooting stars—she could pluck them from the water's surface anytime and make them real. But it's too much hassle, so she doesn't. All life felt fragile as feathers before her. She could crush everyone underfoot, but she chased only my happiness.
The world's every brilliance was a subway long gone down the tracks. Too swift a light for her eternally tardy, lazy self. And yet, the one thread she clung to desperately, thrashing to hold onto—it was the present. The radiant light trying to bind her to the now. Me. Love was the sole value in her world. Her true nature: utter apathy without it. But before me, she became a soft, warm girl like a cashmere sweater basking in winter sun, flipping through romance novels all day with lewd fantasies.
Every spot her fingertips touched was plush and cozy, filled with warm heat. Rosalía's pounding heart made even the insides of her love handles deliciously hot—it felt so good. And that woman of mine was doing something she absolutely shouldn't.
Like pissing all over a pristine snowdrift. Third-rate, trashy, lowbrow, braindead. A self-deprecating body gag, tossing her own worth into the dumpster for audience laughs. Like watching some bottom-barrel variety or comedy show from a country obsessed with sex. She'd thrown her dignity to the floor to match my tastes. If it weren't for my netorase play, she'd never even give that sleazy Brant the time of day. But for me, she had to chat him up plenty and swallow his dick juice.
What cost-performance. One netorase ticket dug up Rosalía's rock-bottom black history. Got a ton of perfect teasing keywords too: 'pussy pervert', 'flower pussy', and 'abalone'. Tomorrow, first thing when I see her face, I'll whisper them in her ear. Her brain'll probably freeze like a glitched machine. Then, the moment she gets the meaning—poof—steam'll whistle from her pink scalp like a teapot, face ripening tomato-red.
'K-K-Karn! You bastard!!' Pow! Pow! Thwack! She'd go berserk, pounding my shoulder with those tiny fists. That adorable reaction she shows only me. Just thinking about it made me grin. I was already looking forward to it. Lately, her devoted netorase reports had me on the mental backfoot. Time for some wholesome stress relief.
'Look forward to it. Heh heh… my pretty flower pussy.'
Tomorrow, soon as we meet, I'll grab that plump, wet pussy and just….
But then. That one text window the System had popped up moments ago.
Route deviation possibility confirmed.
Wasn't the main quest and ending going smoothly? I replayed her second netorase report from when she visited my room over the weekend.
…Huh? A chill raced up my spine. An ominous dissonance. One puzzle piece missing. I wracked my sex-addled, fatigued brain to fill the gap.
Rosalía came to report netorase to me just yesterday. The most recent event. And the vulgar studio vision I'd just spied on was from way back in the past.
"…Huh?"
A sinister, depressing, yet thrillingly fucked-up emotion crashed over me. I shouldn't think further. But doubts piled on relentlessly, seizing my mind.
There was a lie mixed in yesterday's report. The video she showed was pretty old. In the next presumed vision, Descartes was already bored of Rosalía. To hook up with the saintess, he casually passed her off to Brant for cleanup.
So then. If. That massive load coating my cock yesterday. The bite marks on her soft tits and perky nipples, the obsessive red hickeys on her nape and slender collarbone. Those clear proofs she belonged to her master. If those weren't from Descartes.
But from Brant?
Fuck. That made way more sense. She'd bluffed to me. The bet being winnable? A blatant lie. Descartes hadn't even used her lately. And would trash prince like him enjoy leaving such rough traces? Sex scandals could backfire on him.
Recently, the one fucking her most was Brant. The psycho obsessed with owning her. Probably the one who'd dumped the most cum in her womb: that greasy muscle pig.
It'd been off from the start. Descartes is nuts for the throne. The schemer isolating the saintess and building academy backing—he wouldn't knock up Rosalía for a bastard scandal. Woman's a player, but true to original MC, his head works fine. No way he'd get serious over a toilet.
So Rosalía had lost the bet from the jump. Zero chance of winning. The moment I wrote that vulgar netorase ticket, her ending as Descartes' toy was sealed.
She bluffed. To make the report more stimulating for me. And to hide the secret.
Now that I'd spied the whole secret, the scariest scenario was one: Rosalía accidentally getting knocked up by Brant. That flood of cum yesterday. She'd seemed to give up resisting. Cum enough to blanket my cock. Already met her egg and implanted?
The fan service reward? If she rushed out after that call to collect it? Blushing, breath quickening at "Descartes called." Tail wagging to meet master after so long. Kicked me to the curb 'cause she missed his monster cock and went to spread for it?
"…Haa."
Fucked. My dead dick twitched cluelessly again. Anxiety sparked the ignition. So hot. Gonna leak precum again. Such a horrific fantasy.
Brant is serious about Rosalía. Bends over for third prince just to fuck her as his bride. …What if she really gets stolen? Not by Descartes, but Brant.
Now I got why the System warned. This ain't play. It's real netorare.
The girl who saw all existence in grayscale openly despised only him. Tried to drown the bastard at the first ball for making a noble lady cry, delayed our reunion so extra hated. What if constant fucking turns to real pregnancy?
Her apathy cracks only around me. Negative emotions count as emotions. That 0.1% bullshit chance it flips positive. Satisfied by his bodybuilder bod, stamina, sincere conquest sex. Heart flips too. Forgets me, spreads recklessly like probabilistic pregnancy tests, ends up under him mewling till she hits jackpot.
Brant takes responsibility, they drop out happily. Marries into Eisen marquis as lady of the house. Perfect cleanup for Descartes. But for me, knowing it's play? Losing my one woman.
Bloomhart count takes me as live-in? My shining dream of freeloading forever shatters. Sequina's wanted dark mage, saintess special commoner. My picky merchant mom who bought her title? No way she'd accept a drifter. Stuck running lingerie shop instead of shutterbug! Insane.
My cursed high walls got aroused again by this doomsday delusion. The revolving door she mentioned yesterday. My princess spreads shamelessly on standby, I open the door. Brant struts in as guest. Round and round. My woman gulping his cum lying down. Next saintess, ex-tower lord. Dizzying.
Leagues beyond Descartes' toy treatment. Brant's serious. He's plotting to knock her up, use the kid to force marriage into Bloomhart.
Fantasy floored the accelerator. Custom wedding lingerie, holes punched at tits and pussy. Pregnant Rosalía, belly bulging from Brant's seed, wearing that trashy getup. Getting married soon. Not Rosalía von Bloomhart. Brant von Eisen's wife. Rosalía von Eisen.
Penalty locked in—no ending reached, permanent. Clueless dick hardened raging at the horrific netorare delusion. Too anxious, terrified—my deranged brain forged the worst escape: masochism defense mechanism. Convert despair to fetish. Even I was shocked.
Suddenly, I was rationalizing like a true netorare maso nerd. 'I wanted this. I really love my woman getting stolen.'
Felt like someone orchestrated it all. An unseen brush painting me in. Extreme loss and despair twisting to electric pleasure. Standing on a checkmated board someone meticulously set.
Yet I couldn't stop imagining losing what's dearest. Beyond the poison vial glass in my head. Rosalía in my lewd wedding lingerie turns to me. Head down sadly, soft moist lips moving.
'Sorry, Karn.'
"No… ? This too, all of it play…? Still time to rewind, right?"
I muttered blankly into the air.