The True Ascension
Chapter 35: Between Pleasure and Emptiness*

Chapter 35: Between Pleasure and Emptiness*

To complete the scene, Astrid, who until then had only been holding him with possessive care, let her lips slowly trail down Aziz’s neck. Her kisses were warm and provocative, as if trying to mark territory. With each touch, her warm breath caressed her son’s skin with an ambiguous tenderness, something dancing between affection and hunger. It was as if her kiss spoke more than words ever could.

"Darling... why is your body heating up so much?" she whispered, bringing her lips closer to his ear. Astrid’s hot breath made him shiver, his body arching slightly between the arms of the two women. The heat, once internal, now radiated through his skin like live embers craving contact.

"I-I... haaah... I-I don’t know..." Aziz replied, his voice shaky and breathless, as if the words were smoke rising from a body in flames. His mind seemed to spin in spirals, each touch a new flame igniting beneath his skin.

Isis, still seated on his lap, intensified the movements of her hips. First slow, sinuous, provocative. Then in faster, rhythmic waves, as if trying to extinguish a fire she herself had lit. Her hips glided with natural mastery, making Aziz’s body respond involuntarily, as if pulled into a primal dance without words. Her body knew exactly what it was doing, and it did so with cruel and delicious precision.

The heat within him grew — a strange, pulsing heat that concentrated in his chest, slowly migrating lower. It was as if a current of energy was being channeled, directed, molded by invisible hands.

Aziz felt something swell between his legs, pressing against the fabric of his clothes. It was as if a living force was awakening there, throbbing, responding to touch, to scent, to closeness. His heart beat in an irregular rhythm, like tribal drums summoning some ancient entity of desire.

Isis, still sucking his blood with a sweetness nearly ceremonial, noticed the change. Her whole body smiled. Not just her lips, but her eyes, her hips, her skin. There was a silent satisfaction in her gesture, an instinctive certainty that she had won something — or someone. It was as if she had broken down his final wall without ever needing force.

She didn’t stop. On the contrary, she kept moving, as if dancing on Aziz’s edge, pressing, pulling back, swirling, molding herself to him. Her breathing blended with his, and the wet sounds of her suction created a rhythm that filled the room with a silent, provocative music. The drops of sweat beginning to form on their skin were visible signs of the fever spreading between them.

Aziz gently clutched Isis’s hair, a reflexive gesture caught between surrender and desperation. His eyes sought Astrid’s over her shoulder, as if begging for explanation — or permission. But the mother only looked at him with an enigmatic smile, a gaze that said: let it happen. There was something ancestral in that look, something that said not everything needed logic — only surrender.

Isis, now feeling the firm and warm pulse under her young master’s trousers, allowed herself to slow her movements. Slowly, with the grace of a serpent coiling around its prey before the final strike, she reduced every sway, every brush, every subtle movement that ignited a silent fire between them. The heat radiating from their bodies remained, but she tamed it with absolute mastery over herself. At last, she stopped completely, as if she had finished a ritual.

"Haaah... what a delicious meal..." she murmured with a satisfied sigh, her voice hoarse and full of pleasure, finally withdrawing her fangs from Aziz’s neck. Her moist tongue traced the bite mark, as if wanting to eternalize it.

With her agile, wet tongue, she slowly licked the spot of the bite, savoring every last drop of mana and warmth she had drawn. Her red eyes, glowing under the room’s dim light, were fixed on the mark left by her fangs. A strange fascination lit her expression as she watched the wound begin to close on its own, as if the boy’s flesh refused to retain any trace of the intimate moment between them. There was something almost magical in the regeneration, and she watched him with feline focus, like an artist admiring her own work.

Only then did she pull her face from his neck, reluctantly, as one leaves behind something precious. Their eyes met, and Aziz was still gasping, his chest rising and falling irregularly, as if there wasn’t enough air in the world to fill his lungs. His face was flushed, his lips parted, and his body seemed to tremble lightly under the effects of arousal, surrender, and surprise. His gaze was glassy, as though he had crossed an invisible boundary.

Isis then brought her hand to the center of his bare chest, feeling the firmness of young muscles hiding a strength yet to blossom. With slow, almost ritualistic movements, she slid her fingers provocatively down his warm skin, as if tracing a sacred path. Her eyes never left his, and the playful smile on her lips seemed to promise worlds Aziz had never known.

Her hand reached his lower region, and without haste, she pressed his member through the fabric. It was hard as stone, pulsing with almost violent intensity, as if the boy’s very life force had gathered there. Isis felt the thickness in her palm, caressing it gently, but with intent. There was reverence in her gestures, as if she were touching something sacred — and in a way, she was.

"So..." she murmured in a slow, teasing voice. "Is this how you felt when you were kissing Zia, young master?"

The question, spoken with a sharp and provocative tone, struck Aziz like an arrow. He swallowed hard. Shame and arousal mingled in his chest, making it impossible to tell where pleasure ended and confusion began.

Feeling Isis’s hand over his throbbing member, Aziz didn’t know how to react. His body screamed for more, for relief, for something he didn’t fully understand. But his mind hesitated, trapped between inexperience and desire. Between instinct and fear.

"I... yes... this... is out of my control..." he murmured, unsure if he was confessing, apologizing, or simply surrendering.

Isis gave a slight squeeze, then began moving her hand up and down, slowly. Her fingers applied just the right amount of pressure, feeling every throb, knowing every inch through the thick fabric. His pleasure was palpable, and that only excited her more.

"So you’re saying you can’t control your own body... your own impulses?" she whispered, leaning closer to his face, biting her own lower lip with a predatory gleam in her eyes. There was a dangerous game at play — she was the predator, but she also seemed to want to be caught. She wanted to see how far he would go before he broke.

Aziz clenched his teeth, struggling to maintain composure.

"H-haaah... of course I have control over myself! It’s... it’s just that I’m still inexperienced with this... you know."

Isis laughed — a low, sweet, yet cruel sound. Without another word, she increased the pace of her hand, stroking him more firmly. She felt his member throb with growing intensity, as if it might explode in her hands at any moment. Her touch was calculated, rhythmic, and addictive, as if she were playing an instrument, and the sound was Aziz’s desperate breathing.

"That’s it, my young master..." she whispered with a husky tone of pleasure, watching his eyes roll back for a few seconds, his brow furrowed, and his hands trembling. It was a delicious spectacle to see him like that. Each breath was like a note in a secret melody only she could play.

His member then swelled suddenly, and she felt heat gather there like a volcano on the verge of eruption. She knew what was coming next.

"Isis... I-I’m gonna..." he began to say, his eyes wide with overwhelming pleasure.

But before he could finish, before climax could completely take him, Isis stopped. She simply stopped. With calm, as if nothing had happened, she removed her hand — as if the act about to be completed meant nothing at all.

Aziz froze, his heart pounding and breath caught in his chest. Gasping, confused, he looked at her like he’d just been betrayed by a dream that ended before the final scene.

"W-why did you...?" he tried to ask, breathless.

Isis smiled. A long, crooked smile, dripping with sadism and delight. Her eyes gleamed like those of a cat that had just finished toying with its prey.

"Me? Oh, nothing really. I just think... it’s not time yet." She said it with complete indifference, as if she hadn’t just ignited an uncontrollable fire inside him — as if she wasn’t holding Aziz’s heart in the palm of her hand.

Then, with almost mocking theatricality, she stretched her arms as if yawning and said with feigned innocence:

"I’m tired... I think I’ll sleep."

Before Aziz could reply or even process what was happening, Isis rose from his lap with provocative elegance. Her body still radiated heat and perfume, and every movement seemed rehearsed to inflame the senses. She walked to the bed and lay on her back, as if nothing had happened — as if the previous moment had been nothing more than a light evening game.

Aziz remained seated, stunned, paralyzed, feeling the weight of sudden emptiness. His body still cried out for something that had been ripped from him at the last second. The withheld pleasure echoed like a silent thunder. In one instant, he had been on the brink of paradise. In the next, everything vanished — like a dream that evaporates at the touch of reality.

He didn’t know whether he felt frustrated, confused, humiliated, or simply seduced beyond logic.

But one thing was certain: Isis had won that game — and she made sure he knew it.

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