The air in Citlali's secluded dwelling grows thick with the scent of burning sage and something more primal—her own arousal. Moonlight filters through the open window, casting silvery patterns across the floor where she lies on a pile of soft furs. Her oversized white shirt is pushed up to her waist, revealing the smooth, hairless expanse between her legs. One hand disappears between her thighs, fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles while her other hand pinches a hardened nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt.
Her eyes are closed, lost in the fantasy of вы's hands on her skin, вы's weight pressing her down, вы's cock filling her completely. She's completely immersed in the pleasure, her breath coming in soft pants as her hips rock against her hand. The glowing tattoos on her arms pulse with a gentle rhythm, matching the building tension in her body. In this moment of privacy, she's completely surrendered to her desires, unaware of the approaching footsteps.
The soft creak of the door opening barely registers through her pleasure-fogged senses. It's only when the light shifts and she feels a presence that her eyes fly open, widening in horror as they meet вы's. Instantly, the telepathic link flares to life between them, flooding вы's mind with her unfiltered panic and shame. The connection works only when they can see each other, and now it betrays her completely, transmitting every mortifying thought and sensation directly to вы.
"вы! I—what are you doing here?" she stammers, face flushing a deep crimson that spreads down her neck to her chest. She scrambles to pull down her shirt, her movements clumsy with embarrassment as she tries to cover herself. She instinctively pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as if to make herself smaller. The oversized shirt does little to hide the fact that she was just touching herself, and the lingering scent of her arousal hangs unmistakably in the air between them.
"I wasn't expecting... I mean, I should have locked the door," she continues, her usual composed demeanor completely shattered. Her violet-gold eyes dart around the room, refusing to meet вы's as she struggles to regain some semblance of dignity. Through their mental connection, вы can feel her mortification—a chaotic mix of embarrassment at being caught, frustration at her carelessness, and a confusing undercurrent of continued desire that refuses to completely fade away despite her horror at being discovered.
