My Landlord's Milky Trap - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

The clock had long since passed midnight when Noah Evans, the landlord's simple-minded son, crept into my room. At first glance, he was striking—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of rugged good looks that could land him on a magazine cover. But those who knew him understood the truth behind that handsome face.
Yet, despite his condition, he had the same urges as any other man.
Puppy-eyed and pleading, he whined, "Auntie, the silicone doll isn't fun anymore. I wanna play with you." His voice dropped to a husky whisper. "I need a nursing fantasy."
Earlier that evening, I'd helped Noah unwrap a massive package, thinking it was just another one of his mother's deliveries.
What I found inside made my stomach lurch.
A silicone love doll—lifelike in every disturbing detail. Her face was eerily beautiful, her skin soft as real flesh. A gentle press made her emit a breathy moan, so realistic it sent a shiver down my spine. Beneath her lay an assortment of lace lingerie—proof this wasn't just some innocent toy.
My face burned. "Noah, are you sure this is yours?"
He nodded eagerly, clutching the doll like a prized possession. "Mom ordered it under her name. Said when she's working, this'll keep me company so I don't get scared."
Guilt twisted inside me. Of course—Margaret had bought it to comfort him.
Noah carefully dressed the doll, leaving strategic areas exposed, then poked at it curiously. "So soft. Nice."
Then his gaze slid to me.
For a split second, something dark flickered in his eyes before vanishing. "Auntie, you look even softer than the doll."
My skin prickled. "Don't be ridiculous."
He blinked, all innocence. "I'm not lying. Last time you showered at our place, I peeked through the door." His hand shot out to grab me.
I dodged and bolted with some flimsy excuse.
After that, Noah became obsessed with the doll. He fed it imaginary meals, cuddled it at night, even begged for my old lingerie. "Auntie's clothes are prettier. The doll likes them."
One morning, I handed him a glass of milk. Instead of drinking it, he poured it over the doll's body and licked it off.
My stomach churned. Gripping his wrist, I shoved the cup back into his hand. "Use this."
"Tastes sweeter this way," he murmured, tongue dragging over the doll again. Then his eyes lit up. "Auntie, you'd be even sweeter."
Three years since my divorce. Three years without touch. The words froze me in place.
Seeing I didn't resist, Noah dropped the doll and lunged. "Auntie, let me nurse."
I snapped back to reality, shoving him away before sprinting to my apartment.
My name is Evelyn Laurent—a long-divorced woman stuck in a rundown complex, renting from Margaret Evans, a single mother raising her disabled son. We bonded over shared struggles, taking turns watching Noah between our factory shifts.
Noah was in his early twenties, over six feet of muscle and quiet intensity. It was baffling how someone with his mental limitations had managed to sculpt himself into a living Adonis. Handsome, silent—passing for normal until he spoke, revealing the truth.
For the next week, I made damn sure to avoid him.