They stepped out the back gate.
The darkness Clare had seen from inside? It was just the absence of windows. This wasn't a proper hallway—more like a narrow junction between rooms. One led to the kitchen, another to a small bedroom, and the last gate opened out to a tiny yard—or rather, a dusty plain. No grass. No plants. Just a small shed-like structure tucked against the wall.
The bathhouse.
Jessia and Clare moved across the yard, stopping at the weathered little building. She pulled the wooden door open with ease, revealing a dark, musty room.
She stepped inside.
And Clare, without a second thought, followed.
Darkness swallowed him.
Jessia had already crossed to one side of the bathhouse, her hands moving with practiced confidence.Clare, on the other hand, reached forward blindly, hands out, trying to navigate without bumping into anything.
"Clare? Did you come in too?"
"Yes?"He winced.Oh shoot.He remembered too late—this place needed to be lit by lantern first.
Where the hell was it?
"Okay. Just stay where you are!" Jessia called back gently."I'll light the lantern first. Then you can walk."
He heard her fumble toward the wall, her fingers finding the hook, the matchbox.A soft rustle.
And then she turned, walking back toward the gate—when she suddenly stopped.
Huh? What's this?Clare's hand had suddenly latched onto something.Something—big, squishy, and quite possibly very erotic.Clare had a feeling he knew what it was…But something told him—it wasn't supposed to be this big.Something felt off.
Clare pressed into it—feeling it. Palming it gently.Trying to get the shape. The texture.The weight of what he was holding.
Jessia covered her mouth.A soft hiccup slipped past her lips—low and trembling.
Clare heard it… but didn't know what it meant.
He leaned in a little closer.His hand still resting on her.Still holding that soft, warm flesh.
He began tracing it, fingers following the natural curve…until he found a place where it dipped. A soft undercurve. A ledge.
He grabbed it—firmly.
A small moan escaped Jessia's lips.
"Clare, wh–"
He squeezed again.This time—too tight.
Jessia jerked, her body reacting instantly.
Her thighs snapped shut, trembling.
A sudden warmth spread between her legs.A thin trail of liquid oozed downward, soaking into the fabric of her unders.A wet patch bloomed on her apron, glistening faintly in the dim light.
Her inner thighs grew slick, and a faint drip traced the length of her leg.
She had leaked—not from fear or pain,but from that one tight squeeze.And now… she was dripping from both top and bottom.
Clare tried to get close, but something tapped against his foot—and he stumbled forward, falling right on top of Jessia.
His head bounced between her peaks.
He felt it. A squish.
Too soft. Too warm.
His hand flailed—landing on something hard.The lantern.
He grabbed it quickly, trying to lift it and look—but it was no use.Still pitch dark.
"Jessia? Jessia! Where are you?" Clare called out, confused.
Then—
A voice, muffled, low, almost buried beneath him.
"I... I'm... beneath you, Clare."
As Jessia whispered those words, something struck Clare like a thunderclap.His mind buzzed.
His heart skipped.
He froze.
Wait… so what he'd touched…That wasn't some bath loofah or bar of soap.It was—
Jessia?
Or more logically... Jessia's—
Clare blinked in the dark.His thoughts stuttered.
His mouth opened slightly as he tried to process it.
"...Wait. I'll get up."He braced himself, reaching his hands behind him to push upward.
But just as he pressed his palms down—
"Wait—not there! No!" Jessia gasped.
Too late.
As Clare's hands touched something he never meant to—never thought to—he never should've.
He had touched her down there—clearly.Not bare… but still through clothes.And unknowingly, his fingers had dug in.His fingertips almost glided, the fabric damp, the heat palpable—welcoming.
He didn't even fully realize what was happening as his fingers were almost engulfed by Jessia.
And then—
A moan.
Jessia tried to hold it back.Tried to smother it.But she couldn't.
She jerked—hard.Her body spasmed, twitching like some old machine kicking to life.
Her lower self—wet, heated, clenched—almost pulled Clare's fingers deeper, stretching around them, dissolving them into her through layer of soaked cloth.
She clenched down—hard.
Her own hands flailed, reaching blindly—searching for something, anything, to grip.Anything to dig into.
And unfortunately for Clare, her hands found his.
She grabbed tight—all fingers wrapping around his—and clenched.
Hard enough to tear the skin.
Her nails dug in, dragging through flesh like sharpened claws.
Blood welled and smeared across their connected hands.
Clare's breath caught as the pain hit—sudden and sharp.
He pulled back instinctively, the lantern slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor.Then, in a flush of embarrassment and shock, he rushed out of the bathhouse—heart pounding, thoughts scrambled.
Outside, the cold air hit him like a slap.He looked down at his hands.
Blood.
Thin streams running across the back of his palm—his skin torn in long, red scratches and gouges that looked like a wild cat had raked him clean.
But most of all…He felt his other hand was wet.
Wet—not from blood.But from something else.
He lifted it closer to his face.The scent hit him before the sight did—heavy, thick, almost intoxicating.
Not blood.This was something slimy… a little stringy… warm.
The smell alone made his head light.It wrapped around his senses like heat in a closed room.
His fingers twitched slightly.He pressed them together, then slowly opened them again.A thin web formed—slick, almost translucent, sticky.
Curiosity stirred inside him.His breath slowed.Drawn.
He brought the hand closer—beneath his nose.His tongue, already out, hovered dangerously near the wetness.
The scent was primal.Feminine.Raw.
The tip of his tongue hovered—just a breath away from tasting—
"Clare! Are you alright?!"
A voice—Jessia's—rushed from the bathhouse, cutting through the moment like a knife.
Clare jolted.
He snapped his hand away from his face, the lingering slickness still stretching in thin threads between his fingers.
"Oh! Oh yes—I'm good. All good!" he stammered, eyes snapping shut, face flushing red-hot with embarrassment.
He couldn't even look at her.
Jessia rushed forward, concern written all over her face.
She grabbed his hand gently, lifting it to inspect the damage.
"Oh no… it's already so bloody."Her voice softened with guilt."I'm sorry, Clare."
"N-nothing! It's—it's all my fault if anything…" Clare said quickly, eyes cast downward."I was the one who barged in… without warning. I should've waited. I apologize."
Jessia shook her head and brought his hand closer to her chest without thinking.Her breath ghosted over his knuckles as she inspected the cuts.
"You don't have to apologize, Clare," she said softly."It's not your fault. This has… nothing to do with that."