My name is Eren Calweis.
In my previous life, I died from overwork. When I opened my eyes again, I had been reborn in a medieval fantasy world, carrying all the memories of my past life. I was born in a remote mountain village as the only child of two low-rank adventurers. For twelve years, life was peaceful—until the day a horde of monsters raided the village. Both my parents died protecting me and evacuating the villagers. They were good people, and I mourned them deeply for an entire year.
Because my parents had been orphans themselves, I had no other relatives. At just twelve years old, I was left completely alone. Fortunately, they had saved a modest amount of money and left behind a small house and a small plot of land. With careful frugality, herbal knowledge I slowly picked up, and occasional odd jobs for the village, I somehow managed to survive.
Eight years have passed since that tragedy. Now, at twenty years old, I've finally become an adult in this world
Eren trudged along the familiar forest path to gather herbs as he did every few days. He reached the sun-dappled clearing near the edge of the woods, set his basket down, and began carefully plucking the silvery moonleaf and crimson feverfew that grew there.
A faint rustle from the nearby bushes caught his ear. Curious, he quietly laid the basket aside and crept closer. Parting the leaves just enough to peek through, his breath hitched at the sight.
There, squatting with her skirt hiked up, was Liana Varrow—a thirty-year-old widow who lived alone on the outskirts of the village. Her husband and two young children had been killed in the same monster attack that took Eren's parents eight years ago. Since then, she'd kept to herself, her once-bright smile replaced by quiet sorrow.
Right now, none of that sorrow was visible. Liana's thighs were parted as she relieved herself, giving Eren an unobstructed view of her pink, glistening folds. The soft lips parted slightly with the stream, her clit peeking out like a small pearl. Eren's cock stirred instantly, hardening in his trousers as a bead of precum dampened the fabric. He knew he should look away, but his body refused to move.
Liana finished, shook lightly, then stood and smoothed her skirt down. Without noticing him, she started walking straight toward the clearing—straight toward Eren's abandoned basket.
Heart pounding, Eren scrambled back, snatched the basket, and dropped to his knees, pretending to be absorbed in picking herbs. A moment later, her shadow fell over him.
"Oh… Eren?" Liana's soft, slightly surprised voice sounded just above him. "I didn't expect to see anyone out here."
"Good morning, Eren," Liana said with a small, gentle smile, lifting her own woven basket.
"Morning, Miss Liana," I managed, my voice catching slightly.
She knelt beside me to gather herbs, the loose neckline of her worn linen dress gaping as she leaned forward. Through the wide slit I caught more than a glimpse: the soft, heavy swell of her full breasts swaying freely with each movement, pale skin flushed from the morning chill, pink nipples half-exposed.
Lower still, her knees parted for balance, and her skirt rode up just enough. There, between her thighs, was the same tender pink flesh I'd spied moments ago, still glistening. A few stray drops from earlier clung to her folds; as she shifted, another slow bead of moisture (whether leftover pee or fresh arousal, I couldn't tell) traced down her inner thigh and soaked into the fabric bunched beneath her.
My cock, already half-hard from before, surged fully erect, the thick ridge straining obviously against my trousers. Liana's eyes flicked downward. She froze for a heartbeat, throat working in a visible gulp. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips, and right then I saw it: a fresh trickle escaped her, darkening the cloth beneath her knees. Her pussy lips glistened anew, swollen and slick, the scent of her arousal suddenly sharp in the air between us.
Cheeks burning crimson, she pretended not to notice, fingers trembling as she kept plucking herbs. But her breathing had gone shallow, and every small shift of her hips made the wet patch beneath her spread just a little more.
A few quiet minutes later, our baskets were full. We stood at the same time, brushing leaves from our knees. Liana's gaze met mine, steady and unreadable, the morning light catching the faint flush still on her cheeks.
"Eren," she said softly, "sit."
I obeyed without thinking, lowering myself onto the soft grass beneath the old oak. She stepped closer, set her basket aside, and, with trembling but deliberate hands, unfastened my trousers. My cock sprang free, thick and aching. She didn't speak; she simply gathered her skirt, lifted it to her waist, and straddled me.
One smooth motion, and she sank down. The slick heat of her enveloped me completely, my length sliding deep until the head pressed flush against her womb. A low, shuddering moan escaped her lips. She stilled, thighs trembling around my hips, pinning me there with her weight alone.
She leaned forward, breasts brushing my chest, and looked straight into my eyes.
"Stay still," she whispered, voice husky, almost pleading. "Just… let me feel you. Please."
Liana's breath was warm against my cheek, her body still trembling around me.
"Do you know why I'm doing this, Eren?" she asked, voice low and serious. "Answer right… and I might truly become yours. Answer wrong, and you forget me forever. This never happened."
My heart hammered. The words tumbled out before I could stop them, nervous and stupid: "B-because… I have a big cock?"
The disappointment that flashed across her face cut deeper than any blade. Her eyes glistened for a heartbeat (hurt, not anger), then she lifted herself off me in one slow, deliberate motion. My slick length slipped free with a soft, wet sound. She let her skirt fall back into place, smoothed it with shaking hands, picked up her basket, and walked away without looking back.
I stayed there on the grass, half-naked and stunned, the warmth of her still clinging to my skin while she disappeared between the trees.
Liana walked away, hips swaying with every angry step.
A few moments later, my best friend (and fellow orphan) Torren came barreling down the same path. Same age as me, twenty, loud mouth, zero filter. He spotted her, grinned like an idiot, and called out, "Damn, girl, that's one fat ass you're hauling!"
Liana stopped dead. Her face went flat, colder than winter steel. One crisp step forward, and CRACK, her palm cracked across his left cheek so hard the sound echoed through the trees. Torren spun, feet tangled, and ate dirt.
She didn't even break stride. Just kept walking.
A minute later Torren scrambled up, rubbing his blazing cheek, and spotted me still sitting there under the oak, trousers around my ankles, cock out, staring at nothing like a lost puppy.
He rushed over, grabbed my shoulders, and immediately started bawling, real ugly-crying, snot and tears everywhere.
"Brother! What the hell happened to you?! I knew it! That crazy bitch raped you! My poor brother! Who's gonna marry you now?! You're ruined!" He wailed like a baby, smearing his face all over my shirt.
I blinked once, raised my hand, and slapped him just as hard on the right cheek, BANG. Symmetry restored. He kissed the ground a second time.
Torren stayed down, clutching both flaming cheeks, looking up at me with big watery eyes like a kicked puppy.
I sighed, pulled my pants up, and stood. "Get up, idiot. We still have herbs to deliver."
He nodded frantically, like a chick pecking rice, wiped his face on his sleeve, grabbed his basket, and fell in step behind me without another word.
Torren wouldn't let it go. He trailed after me like a cheap gold-digging girlfriend, whining, pestering, tugging at my sleeve until I finally snapped and told him everything that happened under the oak.
Five minutes later he was on his knees in the middle of the trail, ugly-crying harder than before.
"You said it yourself when we were kids! 'Brothers share everything! Hoes before bros!'" he wailed, pounding the dirt with his fist like a scorned wife whose husband ran off with the milkmaid.
Somehow, between his dramatic sobs and theatrical tantrums, we still managed to fill our baskets. I finally calmed him down with the only promise that ever works on Torren:
"Fine.Alright, bro. Next girl we find, we tag-team her together and share. Deal?"
His tears stopped like someone flipped a switch. He sniffled once, wiped his face on his sleeve, and grinned. "Deal. You're the best brother ever."
Shoulders squared, spirits restored, we headed toward the village pharmacy with our herbs, Torren humming a victory tune the whole way.
I pushed open the pharmacy door and the little brass bell jingled into silence. The front room was empty, counter bare, stools untouched.
"Let's wait," I said.
Torren nodded, but patience has never been his virtue. Barely three minutes passed before he was fidgeting, drumming his fingers, then creeping toward the half-open storeroom door at the back "just to check."
He cracked it wider. I followed. And we both froze.
There, on a low stack of empty herb crates, sat Liana Varrow and the village pharmacist, Mira Caldwell—two widows in their thirties, both infamous for keeping to themselves. Mira's linen apron was pushed up to her waist, skirts bunched around her hips; Liana's dress was open down the front, heavy breasts spilling free. Their mouths were locked in a slow, hungry kiss, tongues sliding visibly. Mira had two fingers buried deep inside Liana, curling rhythmically; Liana returned the favor with three thick fingers pumping in and out of Mira's shaved, dripping slit. Wet sounds filled the small room, accompanied by muffled moans and the creaking wood. Their free hands roamed—pinching nipples, gripping thighs, leaving red marks on pale skin.
They hadn't noticed us yet.
Then Liana broke the kiss, turned her head, and saw me standing there. Her eyes widened for half a heartbeat before a slow, wicked smile curved her lips.
"Well, well… looks like you finally figured out the right answer, Eren."
Mira glanced over, flushed and breathless, but didn't stop the steady thrust of her fingers. If anything, she spread her legs a little wider, giving us a perfect view of Liana's glistening handiwork.
Torren and I stood rooted, baskets still in hand, mouths open like village idiots.
Mira finally pulled her fingers free with a wet pop, wiped them casually on her apron, and stood. She took our herb baskets without a word, counted the bundles, and flicked one copper coin each into our palms—payment rendered, transaction complete.
Then she walked to the front door, turned the sign to CLOSED, and locked it.
Torren and I remained in the doorway like lost puppies.
Mira arched a brow. Liana chuckled low in her throat.
Torren recovered first. He cleared his throat, grinned like a fool, and said, "Hey… at least let us watch?"
Liana crooked a finger at us, eyes gleaming. "Close the storeroom door behind you, boys. And try to keep quiet. Some of us are trying to work."
A few minutes later, after we'd been politely but firmly shooed out of the pharmacy's storeroom with our single copper coins each, I wiped my mouth and muttered, "Alright, screw this. Let's hit the brothel."
Torren's eyes lit up like festival lanterns. "Now you're talking!"
We stopped at the bakery first, spent our hard-earned coppers on two still-warm loaves, then headed down the crooked alley that led to the pleasure district.
The brothel quarter sat just outside the village proper: a cluster of painted wooden buildings with red paper lanterns swaying in the evening breeze, the air thick with perfume, cheap wine, and the faint sweetness of dreamweed smoke. Laughter and moans spilled from open windows; silk curtains fluttered like invitations.
At the very end of the lane stood the biggest establishment in town: The Velvet Rose, three stories tall, painted deep crimson with black trim, balconies on every floor draped in gauzy fabric. A carved sign of a blooming rose swung above the double doors, and two burly guards lounged nearby, more for show than actual danger.
We stepped inside.
The atmosphere hit like a warm, heavy blanket: low amber lamplight, plush rugs that swallowed footsteps, the scent of jasmine oil and sweat, distant music from a lute and drum. Half-dressed women lounged on velvet couches; men and women of every age laughed, drank, and disappeared up the wide staircase that curved toward private rooms.
We made a beeline for the counter at the back.
Behind it, slumped over the ledger with her cheek on her folded arms, was Madam Seraphine: the most beautiful milf anyone in the village had ever seen. Forty-two years old, maybe forty-five, with long silver-streaked auburn hair spilling loose, full lips painted deep red even in sleep, and a figure that strained gloriously against her low-cut black corset dress. One creamy breast had nearly escaped its confines; her long legs were kicked up on a stool, skirt riding high enough to flash lace stockings and garter belts.
I reached over and gently shook her shoulder. "Madam Seraphine?"
She stirred, blinked sleepy emerald eyes, then broke into a slow, warm smile when she saw us.
"Ahh, my little brothers," she purred, voice husky from sleep. "Finally came to visit your big sister, did you?"
Before we could answer, she slid two brooms across the counter.
I raised an eyebrow.
She winked. "Rooms don't clean themselves, sweethearts. Work first, play later. Start with the second-floor hallway and the Rose Suite; last customers made a mess. Do a good job and I'll let you pick your reward yourselves."
Torren and I exchanged a look, shrugged, took the brooms like good boys, and headed toward the stairs while Seraphine leaned back, stretched like a satisfied cat, and watched us go with open amusement.