The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 112 A masochist

As Jolthar walked through the corridors of the estate, his steps were steady, his mind focused on seeking rest after the long journey. He moved with the calm confidence of someone who had long grown accustomed to scrutiny. He met Pascal and gave him the wild boar meat they hunted. Next he asked him to prepare milk. After talking to Pascal, Jolthar was on his way to his room.

The dim light of the hallway reflected off the polished stone walls, casting soft shadows that danced with his every step.

Then, suddenly, his pace slowed.

Ahead of him, standing in the middle of the corridor, was Elara.

She was dressed—or, rather, barely dressed—in a transparent robe that clung to her body like a second skin. The sheer fabric left little to the imagination, revealing her curvaceous figure in stark detail. Her bosom was prominently outlined, her nipples pressing visibly against the delicate material, and the robeʼs loose folds did nothing to conceal the soft curve of her thighs or the faint shadow of her womanhood.

She held one hand to her mouth, her cheeks flushed as though she were embarrassed to be caught in such a state.

But Jolthar wasnʼt fooled. He could tell by the sparkle in her eyes and the deliberate arch of her back that her innocence was an act—a calculated attempt to draw his attention.

”Oh, Jolthar!” she exclaimed, her voice lilting with mock surprise. ”When did you arrive?”

Jolthar tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral. ”Just now.”

His tone was clipped, disinterested. His eyes flickered briefly to her face before looking past her, as if the curves she proudly displayed werenʼt worth a second glance.

Elaraʼs lips curled into a subtle pout, her pride stung by his apparent indifference.

Most men would be scrambling to hide their reactions, unable to look away, but Jolthar… Jolthar acted as though she were invisible. She straightened her posture, pushing her chest forward to emphasize her ample bosom, hoping to provoke some kind of response.

”I was on my way to the bath,” she said, her voice soft and suggestive. ”So Iʼm not properly dressed.”

”I can see that,” Jolthar replied dryly.

He moved to step around her, his demeanour cold and detached, but Elara blocked his path. She placed a hand on his arm, her touch light and lingering, her head tilted in a feigned display of concern.

”Jolthar,” she said, her tone now softer, almost pleading. ”What happened to you? Why are you ignoring me?”

”Because Iʼm tired,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. ”And I need a bath, too.”

Her lips parted, a flicker of desperation crossing her face. ”Why donʼt you join me?” she asked, leaning closer.

Joltharʼs eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger but in mild amusement at her persistence.

”Ah, no need,” he said, the edges of his eyebrows standing, looking at her as if she was stupid, his voice as cool as ever. ”I donʼt want to disturb my peaceful bath.”

With that, he stepped around her and continued down the hallway, his pace unhurried, as if their interaction had been nothing more than a brief inconvenience.

Elara stood frozen in place, her fists clenching at her sides as she watched him leave. The sound of his footsteps faded into the distance, and the flush on her cheeks deepened—not from embarrassment this time, but from anger.

Storming back to her chambers, Elaraʼs mind raced with anger and frustration.

How dare he ignore me? Me! The one all men fall over themselves to please! She slammed the door behind her, startling Myron, who was lounging on a chaise, a goblet of wine in his hand.

Without a word, she stalked over to him and straddled his lap, her lips crashing onto his in a fiery kiss.

Myron, surprised but certainly not unwilling, dropped the goblet as his hands moved to her waist.

She tore off her robe with a ferocity that matched her mood, tossing the sheer fabric aside before working on his tunic with impatient hands.

”Elara—” Myron began, but his words were cut off as she pressed her lips to his again, her movements urgent, almost frantic.

They tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, her anger fuelling their passion. For Elara, this wasnʼt about desire—it was about reclaiming control, asserting her dominance, and burying the sting of Joltharʼs rejection.

Myron was on the bed with her riding on top of him; she moved back and forth, grinding herself against him. She was like a temptress, moving her hands all over her body, running through her hair. Her moans were becoming louder and noisier by the second.

AAAAHHH!!!

”Elara,” Orimus had come, and he called out for her.

Just then Orimus had come, and he stopped before the door, and it wasnʼt locked.

And he could clearly hear the unmistakable sounds of passion emanating from within.

AAAHHH!!

He paused, seeing that the door was not locked; it was slightly open. His ears caught the breathy moans and whispered words spilling into the hallway.

His heart clenched painfully in his chest.

Orimus loved Elara, though he had never told her. She had always been an enigma to him—a woman he admired, desired, and yet could never truly have. But what twisted the knife even further was the truth he could never deny: he loved watching her with other men just as much as he loved her.

He stood there, his hand curling into a fist at his side as he listened, his mind torn between jealousy and dark satisfaction. Her voice, the way she moaned Myronʼs name, the soft gasps and cries that followed—it all seared into his soul, a torment he couldnʼt bring himself to walk away from. He liked being humiliated by her, a masochist he is.

”Orimus, come inside and lock the door,” Elara shouted from inside.

Orimus knew it was wrong, knew he was a fool for standing there, but he couldnʼt stop himself. His love for her was both a curse and a compulsion and no matter how much it pained him, he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

He entered the room.