The Nipple Sensitivity Class and a Mysterious Green Bottle

No, no, no. This can't be happening.

"So the second I said 'status window,' this thing just... appears?"

"In what world is a status window not skills, current HP, mana—or at the very least Strength and Agility? That's basic common sense!"

I flailed my hand wildly through empty air, trying to grab hold of a window that refused to be caught. And there it was, plastered in the corner: Sensitivity, Libido, and beneath them, neatly quantified, my Climaxes and Masturbation count.

A mixture of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠indignation, fury, and every other emotion imaginable surged up at once, and where it all finally landed was simply tears. Not sadness, not even frustration—just crying. I sank to the floor and whimpered pitifully, wallowing in my sorry lot in life.

"Haa..."

After about five minutes of sobbing, I pulled myself together and got back on my feet. Then I caught sight of the mirror, and reality punched me in the gut all over again. My tear-streaked face in that mirror was, irritatingly enough, genuinely beautiful. A devastatingly pretty face—the kind that would turn heads even if you threw on the first ragged thing hanging in your closet and walked downtown.

"Right. And what exactly would crying accomplish?"

I knew that bastard's personality. I knew what he was doing, and I knew how the story ended. At the very least, that put me ahead of everyone else here. So whatever it took—I was going to survive.

And then, one figure flickered through my mind. The only person in this novel, besides me, who never fell under hypnosis and resisted our master to the very end—the heroine of this story, Rosalie. I had to find her. Black hair, and reddish-orange eyes with a burning ember glow.

Whatever else was true, I was living inside a fantasy novel now. I took another deep breath and thought it over carefully, and I realized there was one more reason I needed her. As I'd been racking my brain over where I'd seen a status window like this—some doujinshi, some hentai manga—one thing had slipped past me: at the end of every chapter of this novel, the author appended a status summary labeled "Rosalie's Status." It matched this one almost exactly. I couldn't be certain, but the contents were the same. Why did that window exist, and how? I was still turning the question over when time had already flown by.

When I saw the hour had come, I forced down a deep breath, did my best to steady the heartbeat hammering through my whole body with some self-hypnosis—no, no, self-encouragement—and opened the door.

This time I made it out on time and lined up neatly in front of the door. Once Emilia confirmed everyone had emerged, she led us off toward the annex we'd visited earlier.

Unlike before, I didn't gawk or resign myself to my fate. Instead, I combed every detail of the mansion's grounds. Where the trees stood, where the security cameras were mounted—everything. And as we walked, my resolve hardened even further than it had that morning.

This time, I was going to throw myself into the class. Not because I was a pervert, and not because I enjoyed it—because scoring above the class average would raise my maid rank and move me to a different dormitory. My current rank was D-Rank, the absolute bottom. At C-Rank, I'd be granted a measure of freedom, including outdoor access, and that was what I'd set my sights on.

Of course, every promotion came with a "privilege" for whoever ranked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠first—a night spent in the Master's bed—but that was irrelevant. I would rather die, quite literally. I had exactly one goal: break into the top 33%, get promoted, and escape this mansion. And somewhere along the way, true to form for this kind of story, I'd need Rosalie's inhuman strength.

With my plans sorted out in my head, the walk passed quickly, and I soon arrived at the annex and entered Wing B. This time, the room contained nothing but mats and a single container of gel. For this lesson, all you needed was gel and your hands.

And its content was...

"This lesson is the Nipple Sensitivity Class listed on your schedule. If everyone follows along, it's quite simple. Please do your best to mirror me."

"Those of you with inverted nipples, the staff behind you will assist—simply ask for help."

I slowly peeled off my top and was carefully spreading gel over my chest when Emilia strode over and reprimanded me.

"Glay, today's lesson focuses solely on nipple sensitivity, not the breasts as a whole. There's no need to apply that much."

Only a sigh escaped me on the inside. Whenever I tried to say I didn't want to do something, it would blow over quickly—and the moment I actually tried to do something right, I inevitably botched it. It reminded me of the way my teammates used to look at me during group projects back in college, and that made it all the more bitter.

Shoving the bitterness aside, I copied the demonstration Emilia showed us. Starting at the areola with your index finger and thumb, slowly take hold of the nipple, move it up and down, and savor the sensation gradually. Then, once you've gone through a fair amount of that, stand your index finger upright and flick the nipple gently, then press down lightly with your thumb and rub along the areola in slow circles.

Some of the women were already dripping and collapsing to the floor before a single cycle was even complete. Just how sensitive were these nipples? While everyone else jerked and gasped and soaked themselves one by one, gradually finding their rhythm, I felt nothing at all. It was a little ticklish. That was it.

So it went—ten minutes... twenty minutes... an entire hour passed, and still I couldn't feel a thing.

"Seriously... why is it only me?"

At that, Emilia came over, placed a hand on my shoulder, and whispered.

"Glay, don't return to the dormitory afterward. Please remain here for a short while."

I felt a little wronged. Sure, if I'd slacked off or been screwing around, fine—but I'd spent an entire hour rubbing gel into my breasts and working them over, and felt nothing. Wasn't that this damn body's fault, not mine? Still, failing to properly adapt to the lesson was an established fact, so I gave a quiet nod. Seeing that, Emilia gave me a faint smile and rose from her seat.

She stepped back up onto the low platform, removed her top, and pointed to each part with her finger as she instructed the class.

"Now, for those of you who may have been doing this incorrectly—watch closely and commit this to memory."

"This is the nipple. This is the areola. And this—I don't have them myself, but most of you do—are the Montgomery glands."

"Those of you who have them should care for them diligently and keep them clear. Our Master prefers them absent rather than present, you see."

Every time I looked at Emilia's body, I was struck by how remarkable it was. Nipples a delicate shade of pink, standing up prettily. A pussy so clean and flawless it could serve as an anatomical reference. Breasts neither too large nor too small. Skin white as if slathered in sunscreen, hair glossy and lustrous. In the real world, she could have been a heavyweight in the idol or modeling industry.

The women sitting through the lecture each wore different expressions as they took in that body. There was the one gazing up at Emilia's figure with undisguised admiration. There was the one glaring with a jealousy so raw it was visible from across the room. And there was the one who'd apparently been a lesbian even before the hypnosis took, throat bobbing as she swallowed, her face flushing red. Each reaction was her own.

So ended roughly thirty minutes of theory on the breasts. After tidying up, everyone filed out—everyone except Emilia and me.

Once they were gone, Emilia pulled one of the cleared mats onto the floor and sat me down on it.

"Glay?"

"Yes? Ah—yes!"

"Relax. This time, I'll be helping you not as your Head Maid, but as Emilia."

With that, she quietly slipped off my top, rose from her seat, and settled in behind me again.

"I'll touch you slowly, so if anything feels strange, tell me at any time~"

In a voice just a touch softer than usual, she began to caress my nipples with slow, deliberate care. At first it was just light circles, her fingertips skimming over the areola, her nails grazing my nipples with the faintest of touches. She repeated this several times, then took my nipple between her index finger and thumb—pinching lightly, rolling and stretching it, even pressing it inward—while the time slipped by.

Her soft, supple breasts pressing against my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back felt wonderful, but still, nothing whatsoever was coming from my nipples. About an hour must have passed. Emilia, who had moved nothing but her hands the entire time, was drenched in sweat—and still I felt nothing.

Emilia wiped away the perspiration and rose to her feet.

"Haa... You're the first woman I've ever met who can't feel anything through her breasts, even to this extent. I performed the very caressing our Master so enjoys, and you felt nothing at all."

"Shall I get you pregnant next, and express your milk?"

That last remark sent a chill up my spine, though I didn't let it show. Here, carrying a child was an extraordinarily precious thing—a route to rising in status and entering the concubinage. Of course, if you conceived by some other man, the ending would be anything but pleasant.

I know—a mansion full of nothing but women, and I'm talking about other men? But by the novel's count, there were exactly four males in this estate. Marlin Aspen, its master. Marlin Apel, his only child. Pople, the second-in-command who ran the company established to sustain the mansion. And finally, Adrian—Rosalie's boyfriend, and the single biggest reason she could neither leave nor defy her master.

Adrian had so far been mentioned by name only, and Pople never emerged from his executive office, so the only ones whose faces I might actually glimpse were those two Marlins.

In any case, with things drifting this way, my failing grade was all but confirmed, and I was steeling myself to aim for the next promotion cycle when Emilia handed me a small green bottle with a faint fluorescent sheen. A little vial filled with white powder.

"Sprinkle this on your nipples and it should help. Consider it a special gift, given after what I saw from you in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dildo class and the effort you showed today—you are not to mention this to any of the other maids."

It seemed she'd given me something rather valuable, so I bowed deeply and, at her gesture to go, made my way back to the dormitory.

Back in my room, I popped the lid open. A powder with a scent not unlike peaches filled the inside. It was an item that had never once appeared in the novel—not in any description or scene—so I hesitated for a moment, but in the end I decided to try it. Escaping this mansion as quickly as possible was my goal, after all.

Following the instructions on the label to the letter:

The last page looked like someone had grabbed it with hands still coated in the earlier gel, then stuffed it away in their clothes, smearing the writing. Roughly the rest of the usage was legible, so I followed along.

Emilia's body was one thing, but mine was every bit as magnificent. An areola gazing up at the ceiling, and full breasts that wouldn't fit in a single hand. Sprinkling white powder over a chest like that felt like dusting sugar snow over a strawberry cake.

About ten minutes passed after I'd finished. I fiddled with my nipples, scratched them, pinched them—nothing. No sensation, no strange change. Nothing.

"Hmm... So even this stuff doesn't work, huh."

Half-giving up, I flopped onto my bed.

(Tingle)

A strange feeling, like ants crawling across my breast.

"What the... is it just my imagination...?"

Knowing nothing, I sank into a deep sleep. Completely unaware of what awaited me in the dead of night.