He left the merchant at the table and carried his tray to the bins. Outside, the port bells rang again. Another ship was coming in. Another day, another tide of work. Radolf adjusted his tunic, squared his shoulders, and went back to the life he'd built.
For the first time in his life, the work was his choice. And that was enough.
…
A year later IV
Gambi woke up with a familiar feeling. On her right side, where her body had tilted, she felt the warmth of her children. And in her back, the warmth of her husband. The wet feeling in her cunt and the very familiar feeling of stretch inside her snatch made her smile. Her husband's semi-hardened cock was still buried in her. The memories of their love making after their children fell asleep the previous night made Gambi let out a satisfied moan.
She was pregnant for two moons. The baby bump is giving the signs of another twin. But despite that, she and her husband have never stopped making love. Gambi loved it. Not only because her husband had more stamina in bed compared to any Dothraki warrior that had fucked her during her days as a horse slave but also because he had the biggest cock she has ever seen.
Gambi slowly pushed her husband out of the bed. She was careful about not waking up her children. Then after getting into a comfortable distance Gambi slowly woke up and adjusted the body of her husband without ever taking his cock out of her cunt. Her husband was a deep sleeper. So she was not surprised when he didn't wake up, when she started riding him.
He remained asleep while his cock hardened inside Gambi. A true smile appeared on Gambi's face as she started riding him at her own pace.
Her moans were not loud enough to wake up her children. So she continued to ride him until reached her climax. It was the moment when finally her dear husband woke up.
The boy who was once adopted by her father as her step brother, has grown to a man and her husband.
"Nnnnnnnnggggghhhhh…" Gambi moaned as she came on Harik's cock.
Her man, now wide awake, looked at her with a small smile. He had yet to cum. And Gambi knew it well that their love making was far from over.
The morning began before the sun rose high. Smoke curled from the clay hearth in the corner of the small hut. Gambi bent over it, blowing gently on the embers until the flames caught. The air smelled of woodsmoke and boiling grain. Beside her, her step brother-husband, Harik, chopped dried onions into a wooden bowl. His hands were rough from farm work, but steady.
Both of them were quite happy with their morning love making. So the atmosphere was very lovely.
The children still dozed on the mat. Her daughters stirred first, twins of eight summers. They had their father's dark eyes and her lighter skin. They whispered to each other, giggling as they tried to help by fetching water and peeling roots. Their little brother, barely a year old, whimpered for milk until Gambi hushed him and fed him, her swollen belly pressing against her knees as she sat.
They ate together as they always did—flatbread, boiled grain, a little goat milk. Not much, but steady, always there. It was different from the old days, when she never knew if there would be food or if it would be taken by raiders.
When the meal was finished, Gambi wiped her hands on a cloth and tied her hair back. She left the boy in the care of her daughters, giving them firm instructions. They nodded, proud to be trusted. Then she and Harik stepped out into the brightening day. The air carried the scent of wet earth and growing trees.
The walk to the rubber farm was short, barely half a mile. A river cut through the land, clear and steady, feeding the groves that stretched farther than she could see. A year ago, it had been grassland. Now rows of young rubber trees stood planted in neat lines, their trunks marked where sap had been tapped. Dozens of villagers moved among them, each with a task. Some carried clay pots to catch the dripping white liquid. Others scraped bark with sharp blades. Children old enough to work ran errands, carrying water or collecting tools.
Because of her pregnancy, Gambi did not tap trees anymore. Instead, she inspected. She touched the bark, checked for disease or rot, and marked healthy ones with a strip of cloth. Harik followed behind, tapping where she pointed, cutting the bark clean so the sap would flow. They worked without hurry. The overseer was not a master with a whip but one of their own villagers, chosen to keep order. Payment came every moon in real coins, not lashes or scraps of food.
Gambi's thoughts drifted as her hands moved. She remembered the Khalasar that had taken her as a girl, the long rides, the cruelty, the nights she had no choice but to endure. She remembered how she had learned to please, to fuck, to ride cocks…. because it gave her more food, a blanket, less pain. She remembered giving birth in a tent that stank of blood and smoke, twins placed at her side by another slave.
Then came the silver-haired queen. The day the Khal died, the chains broke. Gambi had thought of running back home, and she had tried. But the village had looked at her with hard eyes. A slave's body, a whore's life—they did not want her back.
Only her step brother had stepped forward. The same boy, whom her father had once shown kindness and had adopted. It was around four summers before her abduction. "She is mine," he had said, and because of their old ways, they had let her stay. She had become his wife, not an outcast. Her daughters had been accepted as his children. It was not perfect, but it was life.
Now she walked rows of trees under the sun, her belly full with his child, her children safe. It was more than she ever expected.
By mid-day the work was done. The clay pots were half-full of sticky white sap, enough to be carried to the sheds where it would be thickened and stored. Harik wiped sweat from his brow, nodded to the overseer, and they made their way home.
The village lay on the riverbank, a scatter of huts with thatched roofs and small gardens. Goats bleated from pens. Smoke drifted from cooking fires. Women washed clothes in the river, slapping them on stones. Men carried baskets of grain or bundles of wood. It was busy but calm, without fear. The Dothraki no longer raided here. They rode as soldiers now, taking pay and giving protection under the Empress' banner.
Inside their hut, the girls had kept the baby quiet. He sat on the floor chewing a wooden spoon. Gambi smiled and lifted him into her lap. Harik brought water from the pot and poured it into clay cups.
Lunch was simple but filling—rice mixed with vegetables, a little dried fish, and goat stew thickened with grain. They sat cross-legged around the low table, eating with their hands. The girls told stories about how the boy had tried to crawl out the door, how they had chased him. Laughter filled the room.
Gambi chewed slowly, feeling the steady weight of food in her belly. There had been a time when such a meal was rare, when she ate only scraps after others were done. Now, even if it was plain, there was enough. Always enough.
As the baby reached for her bowl, she caught his hand and kissed it. Her eyes wandered to the door, to the sunlight falling across the floor. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to think of the future. Her daughters would not be slaves. Her son would not be a plaything for riders. The child inside her would be born in peace.
The empire had given them that. Whatever came later, that truth could not be taken away.
…
Next chapter: A Year Later V
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