Never in my life have I felt so humiliated. I was never forced to do anything, let alone sex. One part of me wants to run away, curl up and cry until tears run dry. The other part whispers: this is exactly what I signed up for. This is what I chose.

  I am dragged in front of a strange-looking chair. The only thing I can figure out is that I should place my virginity on the white handkerchief so prominently displayed on the black leather bench.

  The two soldiers stare at me, then shift their gaze to the Prime Minister—wordless, waiting for permission to push me onto the bench. A sick chill twists in my stomach. My pulse pounds in my ears. I’m truly frightened, not just of what they might do, but of how easily I’ve become something to be ordered, moved, handled.

  Steeling myself for the inevitable, I swing my leg onto the bench and hug it. "Face up, dear," Lyra corrects me in a soft voice, the only soothing presence in this dungeon-like environment.

  She helps me turn around, and out of the blue, her mouth captures mine. My heartbeat spikes, each pulse roaring louder than the last. Then her tongue slips past my lips, hungry, searching, and my entire body responds like a coiled spring suddenly released.

  Her kiss hits like a surge of heat, a release so powerful it shatters every dam I didn’t know I’d built. The tension—slow-burning since I first laid eyes on her—now floods through me, wild and unrelenting. It’s not just passion. It’s possession. I’m drowning in desire, and I never want to come up for air.

  I kiss back fervently, like fire catching dry leaves—instantaneous, devouring. Our mouths move together in messy harmony, melding, tasting, claiming. She gasps against my lips and I drink in the sound, every flicker of breath heightening the ache that's been simmering below the surface.

  Her breasts presses into mine, fierce and unapologetic, as if she'd waited lifetimes for this exact friction. Her hands squeeze in between, fingers fondling my nipples.

  It sends electricity coursing through my veins, leaving me aroused and wet. Any distance feels unbearable, I long to wrap my arms around her waist to squeeze her even harder, only to find that both my arms are taped tightly onto the armrests.

  I'm startled, a surge of panic flashing through me as I realize what's happening. But Lyra's kiss—deep, intoxicating, almost hypnotic—keeps me anchored in pleasure rather than consumed by vulnerability. My heart hammers against my ribs as cold leather cuffs tighten around my ankles, each click of the buckles sending shivers up my spine. My legs are spread wide open—almost a full 180 degrees—leaving me completely exposed, balanced precariously between terror and exhilaration.

  I sense Lyra’s reluctance when she finally pulls away. Then I see Keyang standing between my legs, dangerously close.

  I hadn't noticed how elderly he truly was when my attention was fixed on his penis. Now front and center, his wrinkled skin, atrophied muscles, and abundant age spots become apparent.

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  His face wears a menacing, self-satisfied smile that dripping with superiority. I immediately realize why they positioned me face-up on the bench—he wants to see my face when he takes my virginity. He craves to witness every flicker of fear, every tear, every trace of pain .

  But I won't give him that. Not the pleasure, not the power. If this is happening, then I choose how I carry it. I won't recoil. I’ll meet it head-on. Not with dread—but with defiant self-control.

  He moves even closer. I feel something brush against my bottom. Warm and soft, pressing against the lips of my vagina. It moves backward and forward, rubbing against me. But I am too tight, and it isn't hard enough to penetrate.

  He steps backward, appearing slightly embarrassed. The nurses quickly kneel before him, attempting to arouse him further. However, his gaze fixes on Lyra expectantly, as if she alone holds the key to his happiness.

  Lyra leans against the side of the bench, her hands resting on my tummy, ass raised high as she flashes him an inviting smile. He quickly positions himself behind her, takes aim, and thrusts forward.

  From my position, I can't see exactly what's happening. But something transformative is clearly taking place. Keyang's expression shifts from frustration and shame to delight and pride. He quickens his pace while Lyra whimpers seductively. I feel my juices flowing just by hearing her moans.

  When he pulls out of her, his member has grown visibly longer and thicker, with the foreskin pulled back to reveal a pink, round head that looks tender. It's as if Lyra's vagina is some kind of pump, or an all natural, healthy Viagra with no side effects. No wonder they call her the Night Witch.

  Keyang is suddenly full of vigor. He stands tall and walks with big strides. Yet, I sense Lyra also gained something in the exchange. Her satisfaction wasn't entirely physical. There's a gleam in her eyes, and she furrows her brows in thought, as if she's just discovered something revealing and important.

  Before I can turn my attention to Keyang, he already stands in front of me. He grips his shaft, now hard like steel, and pushes forcefully between my labia. I feel strong pressure and a stretching sensation, but no pain, as I watch the pink, round head disappear inside me. Lyra's kisses and teasing have thoroughly lubricated me for the impact.

  He hesitates for a moment, then pushes forward. I feel a brief stinging sensation, the hymen is gone. The large head slides deep into me without resistance. It's not nearly as bad as I thought it would be.

  Keyang takes evident pride and satisfaction in what he's done to me. He thrusts vehemently, and rather than feel violated, I feel… pleasure. But just as I am starting to enjoy it, he stops. Panting heavily. I can faintly hear his heart pounding.

  He stops and pulls out. Examining his penis intently, he confirms there is blood on the tip.

  The two nurses come to either side of me. One pulls a lever, while the other yanks the bench, suddenly I find myself sitting upright. Confusion flickers through me, but then suddenly it clicks—they are using gravity to pull my blood down to the hankerchief.

  Lyra approaches and places a gentle hand on my back. "How are you feeling?" she whispers, genuine care resonating in her voice.

  "Fine, I guess," I whisper—though my voice betraying more than my words. Her presence draws me in, each touch igniting something raw, hungry. Her tender consolation is more than comfort. It’s a lifeline, each gentle gesture stoking the embers of what ignited between us moments ago.

  "Dear, you're stronger than I gave you credit for," she says admiringly.

  "Is it over yet?" I ask. Not so much for leaving, but because I'm eager to find a private space to continue our passionate kiss—and whatever else might unfold between us.

  "The night is young, sweetheart." Lyra gives me a wry smile, then lowers her voice to a whisper meant only for me. "It has only just begun—in our terms."