Despite the world's cataclysm, humanity had preserved much from Old History—concrete architecture, and basic electricity. Humans excelled at rebuilding homes.
But electricity was limited, unlike his past life. The slums had none, and even in his new apartment, nightly curfews brought blackouts.
Now, curfew had begun. The apartment building was pitch-dark, save for dim moonlight illuminating the stairwell, casting an eerie gloom.
Though this world held real demons and ghosts, Truman wasn't fazed.
Why would he be? He had an archangel at home. What ghost could scare him?
Truman slipped into the apartment with practiced ease, the room shrouded in darkness. Having lived there a few days, he could navigate blindfolded.
Groping toward the bed, a soft, supple body pressed against him. His hands roamed her bare skin, instantly recognizing his needy cowgirl.
"Eager little Sylvia, didn't Master feed you enough?" he whispered into her ear, his hot breath eliciting a soft moan from her.
Lust surged within him. His right hand parted her peach-like hips, his left kneaded her lush breasts, and his rigid, burning shaft pressed against her craving core.
Wait—did Sylvia's chest shrink from all that milking? The thought flickered but was drowned by his urge to ravage this pliant body. Mindful of the angel nearby, he murmured, "Let's head out. Master's gonna spoil his baby outside."
"Mmh…" A low, sultry sound answered.
"Master…" A trembling, childish voice suddenly cut through from the side, laced with fear.
Truman froze, his blood turning to ice.
"Impossible!"
If Sylvia was over there, who was in his arms? A horrifying realization dawned. Why was Elaviel in his bed, half-naked, her body scorching? And why, despite his groping her curves, did she not resist?
Shock and questions flooded his mind, yet he couldn't release the enticing figure in his grasp.
Trembling, he shifted her into the moonlight spilling through the window, revealing an unthinkable sight.
"Holy shit!"
Bathed in pale light, Elaviel's robe hung half-open, exposing a creamy, voluptuous breast. Her golden hair spilled messily over her shoulders, her face a mask of dazed allure. Biting her lip, her golden eyes rolled slightly upward, revealing whites—an expression of raw, depraved lust. Paired with her pristine beauty and glowing halo, it was the epitome of sinful contrast.
Her divine robe draped just over her breasts, barely concealing their fullness, while the hem split high, revealing long, snowy legs and half her peach-like rear.
It was his fantasy made flesh.
His first instinct was to yank his hands from her perfect curves, but their exquisite feel—firm, plump breasts and round hips—seemed to cling to him, alive, unwilling to let go. He gasped.
Her perfection wasn't just her face; her body was sculpted to golden proportions, neither excessive nor lacking, less exaggerated than Sylvia's but harmoniously divine, every inch igniting primal male desire.
Truman knew he was thinking with his dick, daring to defile a mythical being. But what man could stay rational now?
"Your Highness? Are you… okay?" he rasped, hands still sunk in her softness, inexplicably unable to pull away.
Elaviel didn't respond. She was lost, unsure of her own state. For days, she'd suppressed the curse of lust. Returning to Harvest City, witnessing Truman's depravity, had shattered her restraint, the sin surging uncontrollably.
While he was out, her composure crumbled. It began with subtle thigh-rubbing, escalating to kneading her breasts, then loosening her robe to quell the burning desire. She'd nearly slipped her fingers into her core, teetering on an unclean act.
In her haze, a figure reeking of masculine musk embraced her in the dark—exactly what she craved. Like parched earth soaking rain, her body welcomed him, not just unresisting but secretly yearning for more.
"Ngh… you…"
Sensing her stillness, Elaviel grew restless, her chaotic mind unable to form coherent thoughts. Her once aloof, ascetic face was now clouded with desire.
It wasn't that Truman was spineless or impotent; the gap between them was simply too vast. He, a mortal who'd struggle with a bucket of water; she, a mythical being who could topple mountains and seas. If he recklessly indulged, he might not even taste her before meeting his end.
"Your Highness?"
The familiar address stirred a flicker of clarity in Elaviel. She lay on her back, propped up by piled blankets, half-lidded eyes gazing at the man cradling her waist.
"What's… happening to me? You're… Truman?"
Her throat was parched, voice hoarse, yet she didn't know what could quench her thirst.
Her words sent a tremor through Truman's heart. This was the first time she'd said his name, the first time he was this close—close enough to see his reflection in her golden-amber eyes.
They were like a clear spring, pure and deep, now rippling with lust.
Something soft stirred in him. He was no longer mere dust in her eyes but a tangible presence, impossible to ignore.
"It's the sin of lust… the Sin Demon's curse…"
Elaviel didn't notice his intimate proximity, only that his touch eased her burning. She sought to explain her strange state.
"Ever so proper, Your Highness."
Truman grasped the situation, chuckling inwardly. This angel was too rigid—rather than pushing him away, she earnestly explained herself, as if her world revolved around "should" and "shouldn't," with no room for "want."
Of course, this meant anyone crossing her line would face her harshest judgment—why he hadn't pounced despite her vulnerability.
Watching her struggle to maintain her usual detached majesty while consumed by desire, Truman's lust flared. His swollen cock grazed her slick, angelic folds, teasing slowly.
"You… what are you doing? Don't… get so close…"
Elaviel finally noticed his actions, struggling to rise, yet her subconscious clung to his robust frame. She writhed, her lascivious body twisting softly.
Her mythical senses keenly caught his musky, intoxicating scent. She felt herself slipping, becoming someone else.
"Leave… enough! No more blasphemy…"
As the sin surged within, Elaviel frowned, briefly reclaiming her lofty, judgmental air. But this time, Truman saw himself reflected in her eyes.
"I saw Your Highness suffering and wanted to help. Forgive my ignorant offense."
Genius! Truman realized he'd cracked the code to handle this naive angel. As long as he justified his actions, even outrageous requests might be accepted—especially with her lust barely contained. All he needed was patience.
"Your Highness, you seem overheated. If I stay close, I can cool you down…"
His devilish whisper curled around her ear.
As a judging archangel, Elaviel was unusually reasonable compared to other mythical beings. She could execute any who dared defile her, ensuring her purity remained untarnished.
But now, corroded by sin, even that boundary blurred.
What counted as blasphemy? Being this close… probably didn't, right? "Mmh…"
A soft hum escaped Elaviel's tightly pressed lips, spurring Truman to bury his face in her slender, pale neck, panting with excitement.
Though his breath was hot, it strangely soothed her burning, offering a flicker of comfort. This let her overlook his minor transgression.
"Your Highness, the curse has stiffened your body… Allow me to massage you, to ease your pain."
Massage… simple touch… that shouldn't count as blasphemy, right? Just a devout follower aiding her…
A mythical being needing a mortal's massage? Absurd. Elaviel's desire-clouded mind craved his touch, nothing more.
"No offense must be taken…"
Truman smirked, his hands kneading her arms and thighs. His touch was cautious, savoring the silky, tender skin without lingering on sensitive areas, wary of sparking her ire.
Yet the sensation pierced her mind, rocking the fragile boat of her rationality adrift in a sea of lust.
"Ah… mmh…"
A faint, melodic hum arose.
Unable to resist, Truman's hand drifted to the lush curves beneath her robe, "accidentally" brushing her side-boob.
A jolt like lightning struck them both.
The soft, ample sensation drove Truman wild. Seeing no fierce resistance after repeated grazes, he boldly cupped half her breast.
"Ngh… not there…"
Truman couldn't believe his eyes—Elaviel arched her back, presenting her lithe waist and full hips, practically begging for him!