Martha's expression softened. She placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently, and leaned forward — close enough that I could smell the lavender soap on her skin, close enough that the swell of her breasts pressed against the back of my arm through the fabric of my shirt.
"Because someone has to look after you, Young Master," she said softly. "Your mother… she would have wanted someone to."
'Aww, how touching,' her inner voice sneered. 'I should have been an actress. Though honestly, this brat is so desperate for affection he'd believe me if I told him the moon was made of cheese. Just a few more days. Let him sign over the treasury access to me — I'll tell him it's for household expenses — and then I'm gone.'
I lowered my head, as if overwhelmed by gratitude. In reality, I was staring at her chest. The position she had taken — leaning over my chair, hand on my shoulder — had caused her uniform to gap at the neckline, and I could see the upper curves of her breasts pressed together inside a plain cotton chemise, the flesh soft and pale and abundant, straining against the fabric with each breath. She was not wearing a bra — or if she was, it was a flimsy thing that did nothing to contain the sheer mass of her.
I let my head tilt sideways, as if leaning into her touch for comfort. In reality, I pressed my cheek against the outer curve of her left breast, feeling the softness deform against my face, the warmth of her body seeping through the fabric. It was like pressing one's face into a heated pillow — yielding, enveloping, impossibly soft.
'Poor thing,' Martha thought, and I felt her hand move to the back of my head, stroking my hair with a tenderness that was, I had to admit, an impressive performance. 'He's so lonely. So pathetic. Makes me almost feel bad about robbing him. Almost.'
"You're so kind, Martha," I murmured against her chest. "I don't deserve you."
'You really don't,' her inner voice agreed cheerfully.
Then, just as I was cataloguing the precise weight and texture of her breast against my cheek, something flickered at the edge of my vision. A faint, reddish glow — not from the room, not from the lamp, but overlaid on reality like the system prompt I had seen before my transmigration. I focused, and the glow sharpened into distinct points of light, small crimson markers that pulsed gently against Martha's body like embers buried beneath her clothes.
On her left breast, just above where my cheek rested: a glowing red dot, pulsing slowly. Beside it, a faint number: [15 pts]
On her right breast, mirrored: another dot. [15 pts]
On the inner curve of her left thigh, barely visible beneath her skirt: a larger, brighter mark. [30 pts]
And lower — much lower, in a region I could not see but could sense like a heat signature through her clothes — a deep, sullen crimson glow that pulsed with a slower, heavier rhythm. [50 pts]
I pulled back from her chest, keeping my expression grateful and slightly embarrassed — the look of a young man who had sought comfort in an innocent embrace and was now shyly pulling away. Martha smiled down at me, patting my shoulder.
"I'll come back soon enough, Young Master," she said. "Drink your tea while it's warm. I'll prepare lunch."
She turned and walked toward the door, and I watched her go — the heavy sway of her hips, the way each step sent a rolling motion through her thighs and the lower curve of her ass, the fabric of her skirt stretched taut across a backside that was, by any measure, 'substantial.' She was a woman built for comfort rather than speed, and every movement she made reminded me of that fact.
The door closed behind her.
I sat back in my chair. The smile — the real one, the one that belonged to me and not to Caelum — spread across my face.
'So,' I thought. 'The Villain System. Points on her body. Red marks on her tits, her thighs, her—'
I raised my hand, and with a thought, the system interface expanded before me.
[ VILLAIN SYSTEM — STATUS ]
Host: Caelum Veyne
Title: Disgraced Lord (Rank: F)
Current Points: 0
Available Marks:
— Martha (Head Maid): 5 marks detected. Total potential: 110 pts
Mark Locations:
- Breasts (L): 15 pts
- Breasts (R): 15 pts
- Inner Thighs: 30 pts
- Between Legs (Outer): 30 pts
- Deep Core: 20 pts (locked — requires higher affinity)
[ Shop — Available Items ]
— Modern Vibrator (Remote-controlled, 7 modes): 20 pts
— Blindfold (Silk, enchanted — heightens touch sensitivity): 10 pts
— Binding Rope (Self-tying, unbreakable): 15 pts
— Aphrodisiac Oil (Modern formula, scentless): 25 pts
I stared at the shop interface. Aphrodisiac Oil. Modern formula. Scentless. Twenty-five points.
I looked at Martha's point totals. Her breasts alone — both of them — totaled thirty points. Enough for the oil. And the thighs, the—
'She's thick,' I mused, leaning back in my chair and steepling my fingers. 'Thick and greedy and planning to rob me blind. A fatty bitch who has eaten too well at a declining house's expense. That body of hers — those heavy tits, that thick ass, that plump pussy hiding under all that fabric — it's been wasted on a woman who thinks I'm a fool.'
I selected the Aphrodisiac Oil. Confirmed purchase. Twenty-five points deducted — though the points were currently at zero, the system informed me that the item would be unlocked upon collection of sufficient points from available marks. A prompt appeared:
[ Item acquired: Aphrodisiac Oil (Modern formula, scentless) — will materialize upon point collection. Visit Mark Shop to claim. ]
I dismissed the interface and rose from my chair, moving to the window. Outside, the grey sea stretched to the horizon beneath a sky the color of old lead. The manor grounds were overgrown, the hedges untrimmed, the fountain in the courtyard dry and cracked. A single crow sat on the gatepost, watching me with beady black eyes.
"I have something in the basement," I said aloud, rehearsing the words I would say to Martha when she returned. "Something Father left behind. Something I've never shown anyone. But you're the only one I trust, Martha. The only one who stayed."
I could already picture her reaction. The greedy gleam in her eyes, quickly masked by maternal concern. The internal monologue — 'Fool. He's going to show me whatever treasure his father hid, and I won't even need to search for it. He's handing it to me on a silver platter.' The way she would agree, of course, with just the right amount of hesitation to sell the performance.
And I would lead her down those basement stairs, into the dark, and —
Well.
"Let's see how thick that pussy of yours really is, you thieving bitch," I murmured to the empty room, and the smile on my face was not kind.
The crow on the gatepost ruffled its feathers and looked away.
I turned from the window, straightening my collar, and waited for Martha to return.