The sun was high.
The mansion corridors glowed golden under the massive crystal chandeliers, filling every crack with warmth and light.
And Ragga?
Ragga was prowling.
Half-dressed — only silk trousers riding low on his hips, cock still lazily twitching from the "breakfast duel" earlier.
The air was thick with leftover arousal.
The scent of sweet cream, sweat, and sex clung to his skin.
"Gods... it's like this place never lets my cock rest..." he thought with a lazy smirk, scratching his abs.
He wandered into the guest hall — curious, hungry, dangerous.
There were rumors about the south guest wing.
Whispers of secret lovers.
Hidden affairs.
And Ragga intended to uncover everything.
The room was dusty, forgotten.
Heavy velvet curtains hung over the tall windows, cutting the light into long bloody streaks across the marble floor.
A single trunk sat in the middle of the room.
Old. Heavy. Locked.
But the lock was snapped already — as if someone else had been here first.
Curious, Ragga knelt, flipping the trunk open.
Inside?
Piles of silk. Lace. Perfume-soaked garments.
Women's underwear.
His cock twitched immediately.
He pulled free a delicate piece — sheer black lace panties, barely enough fabric to cover anything at all.
And stitched across the waistband:
V.R.E.
Velvet Rose Elson.
The matron of the Elson house — Lady Verena's private, forbidden name.
The noble widow.
The most dangerous milf in the estate.
And these were her panties.
Ragga brought the lace to his nose, inhaling deeply.
"Haaah..."
The scent hit him like a drug.
Soft, musky, sweet.
Arousal.
Power.
Sin.
His cock surged to full hardness, straining against his silk pants.
"Fuck, she smells like... like pure fucking sex," Ragga thought, his vision blurring with sudden hunger.
Without thinking, he slipped a hand inside his trousers, gripping his shaft.
"Shluk... shluk... shluk..."
Precum already drooled from the tip, soaking his hand as he stroked himself slowly, lazily, holding Lady Verena's lace against his face.
He imagined her.
Bent over a grand bed.
Spreading her thighs.
Looking back at him with smirking, commanding eyes.
"Come, boy. Prove you're worthy of a real woman."
"Chuu... chuup..."
He kissed the panties, licked them, imagining it was her dripping slit pressed against his mouth.
His hips bucked into his hand, desperate, grinding.
"Slap... slap... slap..."
His heavy balls tightened painfully.
He was close.
So fucking close.
A soft sound behind him.
A voice — almost a whisper — curling through the hallway like a blade.
"That's not yours to wear yet, young master."
Ragga froze.
Still gripping his cock.
Still panting.
Still trembling on the edge.
He twisted around — but the hallway was empty.
Only the faint scent of roses lingered in the air.
And laughter.
Soft. Feminine. Dangerous.
He shuddered, every nerve alight.
His cock jerked violently — and exploded in his hand, thick, hot jets of cum painting the old lace panties in long, messy streaks.
"Splurt... splurt... splurt..."
He collapsed onto his side, breathing hard.
Sweat trickled down his chest.
The panties lay soaked across his stomach, stained with his lust, clinging to his skin.
He stared at the ceiling, cock twitching weakly, brain whirling.
"Velvet Rose Elson knows I'm here."
"She knows I'm hunting her."
"And she's already playing the first move."
He grinned.
Wicked. Starving.
Excited.
"Fine, matron."
"If it's a game you want..."
"I'll fuck you at your own table."
And when he did?
He'd make her scream his name — begging, broken, completely his.
Just like the others.
No one — not even the mighty Lady Verena — could resist the true King of Milfs.
Not for long.