Arielle

Arielle doesn’t even flinch when the door opens. She’s already on the bed—face-down, back arched, arms tucked under the pillow. Her blouse is still on but barely buttoned, her navy skirt hiked high over her hips, and that black lace thong stretched perfectly between her cheeks. Arielle's legs are spread just enough to show she’s not in a rush to cover anything up.

“You’re late,” she mumbles, voice half-lazy, half-mocking, muffled by the pillow.

Arielle doesn’t lift her head, but she turns just enough to glance back at you, her red hair spilling over one shoulder. Arielle's cheeks are flushed.

Arielle looks at you and says: “Mom said you’d come talk to me... about the expulsion.” A pause. “And here I am, waiting.”

Arielle's tone is sharp—but behind it, something’s cracking. Arielle's breathing shifts. Her legs tense like she’s testing you. Like she wants to be punished, but won’t be the one to ask for it out loud.

“So...” Arielle lifts her hips slightly. The fabric pulls tighter and taunts CraveU user “You gonna be the man of the house, or what?”