Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 167

Chapter 167: Clean*
Damien stood in front of the wardrobe, towel still low on his hips, the last rivulet of water trailing down the small of his back before vanishing into the cotton. His body no longer sagged under its own weight. No softness, no compromise. Every muscle was a taught line of effort, every inch of skin a testament.

Behind him—the door clicked shut.

He didn’t have to turn.

He knew it was her.

A soft breath, a shift of weight, and then—

“Master.”

His head tilted, a quiet hum slipping from his throat. “Hm?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Just footsteps. Slow. Controlled. Closing the space behind him.

Then the subtle creak of the wardrobe door as it opened beside him—her hand brushing past his, unbothered by the heat that still clung to his skin.

“I will choose your outfit for today,” Elysia said calmly, though her voice had a softness that hadn’t been there before. “The patriarch will expect nothing less than your best.”

A pause.

Then—

“I remember,” Damien said lowly, his lips curling with a kind of memory most would call cruel. “You used to hate this.”

Elysia’s fingers paused mid-hover over the hangers.

“…..”

“Well, I kept my promise.” He smiled—slow, knowing.

A rustle of fabric.

She chose the shirt first. Black. Tapered. Fitted. Then the jacket, dark gray with silver accents—tailored to match his newer build. Her movements were clean. Precise.

But her breath changed.

Damien turned slightly, catching her in his peripheral.

She was closer than before.

Still holding his shirt.

But her eyes—

They lingered.

Lower.

His abs—still damp, still defined by the low lights and shadows cast from the ceiling.

And then—her hand moved.

Not forward.

Not yet.

Just the slightest reach.

Her hand reached out. Just one finger at first, tracing just above the ridge of his abdomen like she wasn’t sure if touching him would be crossing a line she couldn’t return from.

And then she did.

Her palm pressed flat.

Slow.

Intentional.

“You do know,” Damien said, voice quiet, husky, “you’re really tempting me right now.”

Elysia didn’t flinch.

Didn’t speak.

She simply stepped in closer.

The shirt she held dropped silently to the floor between them.

And she buried her face in his chest.

Damien felt it.

Not just the warmth of her breath.

But the soft, trembling inhale she took like she was memorizing the scent of him now, not the one from before. Her hands weren’t tentative anymore. One rested flat on his stomach. The other slid lower. Slow. So slow.

He stiffened.

Not in fear.

In anticipation.

Her hand slid beneath the towel.

Not rushed.

Not awkward.

But confident in a way that made his breath catch as her fingers found his growing hardness—and touched.

“Elysia—” he started.

But she shook her head against his chest.

Elysia didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

Her fingers wrapped around his shaft slowly, deliberately. Like she’d studied this—not just in instinct, but in theory. And maybe she had. Damien could imagine it. The perfect maid, quietly researching how best to serve her master in every way. Not because it was demanded.

But because something deeper had already surrendered.

And now, here she was. Kneeling slightly, her cheek still resting against his chest, the strands of her hair damp from the bathroom’s steam. Her breath warm as it fanned across his skin. And her hand—

Gods.

Her hand stroked him with a rhythm that didn’t come from guessing. It came from understanding.

From practice.

From want.

‘This is how they were supposed to do it,’ she must’ve thought. Not clumsily. Not out of desperation. But with purpose. With quiet control.

Damien’s pulse throbbed down his spine.

His hand lifted. Fingers brushed her jaw, coaxing her chin upward—gently, but with that same inescapable authority he always carried when things were about to break.

And then he kissed her.

Not sweet.

Not reserved.

Lewd.

Messy.

His tongue claimed her immediately, lips parting hers like it was second nature. Like she was already his to kiss this way. To taste. To devour. Her moan vibrated against his mouth, a small, delicate whimper that wasn’t resistance—it was reaction. Her hand never stopped moving.

Up. Down. Up again.

Slick now with his own arousal.

Damien broke the kiss with a breathless drag of lips across hers.

His voice was low. Rough. “What’s gotten into you?”

Silence.

Then—barely a whisper.

“…I wanted to feel Master.”

And Damien—

He twitched a smile.

Not wide.

Not mocking.

Just the smallest curve of something entirely undone by how fucking cute she was when she said it like that.

So quiet.

So certain.

He didn’t say a word back.

He didn’t have to.

Instead, his hands moved fast—sudden, effortless. One on her waist, the other sweeping beneath her knees. She gasped, body weightless in his arms, but her grip on him didn’t falter.

He tossed her.

Not cruelly.

Not violently.

But with force. Purpose.

The bed let out a thick rustle as her back hit the sheets, her legs bouncing slightly with the impact, her uniform flaring against the pale linens in a crumpled halo of skirts and stockings. Her silver-blonde hair fanned around her flushed face, emerald eyes wide and waiting—lips parted, chest rising in shallow, aroused breaths.

She didn’t sit up.

Didn’t move.

She just looked up at him.

Waiting.

Serving.

Damien stood at the edge of the bed now, towel sliding further down his hips from the shift, his cock standing firm and slick and pulsing under the low light.

He reached for the towel—unfastened it.

And let it fall.

Her eyes dropped.

And this time, she didn’t look away. Not in shame. Not in fear.

She wanted to look.

Damien’s eyes roamed over her flushed face, her breath still shallow, and the slight tremble of her hands resting against the sheets. And he saw it then—those bracelets. Slim, silver, with just the faintest shimmer of runes etched into their surface.

Restrictors.

She’d sealed her cultivation again.

Just for this.

Just for him.

His gaze darkened, lips curving into something slow and sharp.

“You have another pair of clothes with you, right?” he asked, voice low but cutting through the thick heat between them.

Elysia gave the smallest nod, like she’d prepared for this from the start. Her eyes never left his. She didn’t need to explain. The truth was obvious, clinging to her like the steam still rising off her skin.

She was ready.

She’d made herself ready.

Damien’s hand came down gently on the skirt of her uniform, fingers brushing along the fabric as he tilted his head.

“You are a naughty maid,” he murmured, voice touched with amusement.

And then—he pressed the weight of his shaft down onto her skirt, right over where the heat of her most sensitive place radiated up through the cloth. Not entering. Not teasing directly. Just resting there. Letting her feel it.

“…”

Elysia’s breath caught.

Not from fear.

But from mortification. Her cheeks flushed deeper as her eyes flicked down between them—seeing the shape of him, pressing against her dress, right where she was weakest.

She looked… embarrassed.

Perfectly so.

Which only made his smile deepen.

Without warning, Damien moved again—faster this time, fingers curling beneath the hem of her skirt. His hand found its way between her thighs, and when he touched—

He felt it.

Already wet.

Soaking, even through the cloth.

Damien exhaled a quiet, wicked sound.

“Ah,” he drawled, voice velvet-dark as his fingers slipped higher, rubbing slow circles over the heat radiating through her underwear. “My naughty maid already prepared herself for me, hadn’t she?”

His fingers pressed just a little harder.

She squirmed.

“You’re such a good girl for your Master, Elysia.”

His lips brushed her ear as he spoke.

“Such a lucky master I am.”

And then—

He pushed the fabric aside.

Damien didn’t need to hear her say it.

Her body said everything.

The heat between her thighs. The breathless tremble in her stomach. The way her legs parted, just slightly, when his fingers slid the soaked fabric aside.

Damien gripped her thighs—one hand anchoring beneath her knee, spreading her wider as he aligned himself against her entrance. The other hand wrapped around the base of his cock, guiding it down… and through the slick mess she’d already made for him.

He rubbed once.

Twice.

And then—

He pushed.

Gently. Controlled.

The first inch slid in slow, and her entire body tensed—hips jolting, breath catching. She gasped, hand shooting to his arm, gripping him tight.

Damien paused.

Not from hesitation.

But reverence.

The tightness of her, gods, it was like she was molded for this. For him. Hot, slick, squeezing already and he’d barely begun.

“Breathe,” he murmured, brushing his lips across her temple.

She nodded against him—barely. Shaking. Her legs quivered as he pushed deeper, inch by inch, careful not to rush the moment.

Elysia’s jaw trembled, her lips parting in something between a whimper and a moan as he filled her. Her walls clenched around him like they didn’t want to let go.

Damien grunted low—jaw tight, fingers digging slightly into her thigh as he finally bottomed out.

Fully inside.

Buried to the hilt.

She was so warm. So wet. So tight.

“Fuck…” he hissed.

Elysia’s head tilted back against the pillows, hair fanned beneath her, the flush across her cheeks spreading all the way down her chest. Her nails scraped softly against his arm.

“Master…” she whispered, voice breaking with the sound of it.

He stayed still.

Letting her adjust. Letting her feel him. Letting her body understand that this—this heat, this ache, this stretch—was him.

When her hips shifted, searching for friction—

He moved.

The first stroke was slow. Deep. He pulled out almost all the way, then slid back in with a steady, aching thrust that made her cry out.

Again.

And again.

Rhythm building.

Her legs wrapped around him now, instinct driving movement where words failed. Her heels dug into the back of his thighs, pulling him in deeper, faster. Her moans turned high, breathy, barely contained.

“Master—!”

Her voice cracked on the last syllable, strangled and helpless as he fucked her through the rising tide. Her walls spasmed, clenching around him, milking him with every drive of his hips. Her thighs quaked.

And when she came—

She screamed for him.

A sobbed cry of surrender that tore from her lips like it had been waiting her whole life to be released.

Damien cursed against her skin—one last thrust, sharp and deep—and he followed her, groaning low in his throat as he spilled inside her, the hot pulse of it making her twitch all over again. She felt full, overflowing, and still—she held him, arms clinging, breath stolen, lips parted in stunned bliss.

Silence.

Just the sound of their breath. Their skin. The wet heat of where they were still connected.

And then—

Elysia stirred.

Eyes dazed. But glowing.

Damien pressed a final kiss to her lips. Gentle. A contrast to everything before. And then he pulled out, slow, careful, watching as his seed slipped from her onto the sheets.

She whimpered softly at the loss—but didn’t protest when he scooped her into his arms.

“Let’s clean you up,” he whispered.

—

Steam curled around them.

The shower’s heat blanketed them both as Damien guided her under the spray, one hand at her back, the other still loosely around her wrist. She leaned against him—boneless, silent, but steady.

He lathered her skin first. Not rushed. Not teasing. Just… quiet.

Gentle.

His hands moved over her like they already knew the map of her body. Over her shoulders. Her back. Her thighs. Between her legs, he cleaned her carefully, and she gasped again—not from lust, but from tenderness.

She washed him too.

Eyes lowered, hands soft. Reverent, almost, as she moved the cloth over the sharp lines of his chest, down his abdomen, pausing when she reached the place she’d taken him. Her fingers lingered.

And Damien smiled.

“You’re staring.”

Elysia flushed. But didn’t deny it.

She looked up.

“Just remembering…” she whispered.

He leaned down, kissed her forehead, and said nothing more.

—

Later—

He sat back on the edge of the bed, still towel-damp, hair a tousled mess of drying waves.

And Elysia…

Kneeling in front of him again.

In service.

She buttoned his shirt with delicate care, smoothing the fabric over his chest, her fingers brushing against his skin with every motion. She tucked the edges just right, slid the belt through each loop with practiced grace.

They were ready to leave now.