Elarion pushed open the creaky wooden door of the village pharmacy, the little brass bell above jingling a cheerful *ding-ding* that echoed into total silence. The shop was empty. No pharmacist behind the counter, no customers browsing shelves lined with colorful glass vials, dried bundles of lavender, and jars of glowing blue moon essence. Just the faint scent of dried herbs, beeswax candles, and that subtle undercurrent of medicinal alcohol hanging in the air like a forgotten spell.
He stood there awkwardly for a few minutes, shifting from foot to foot, boots scuffing the worn floorboards. Boredom crept in like a slow fog. Curiosity won. He glanced around—no one—then tiptoed toward the half-open door marked "Storeroom" in faded ink.
He nudged it wider with one finger.
And froze.
In the dim, lantern-lit back room, two voluptuous milfs were putting on the most enthusiastic private show the village had probably ever seen.
The pharmacist—a curvy, silver-streaked brunette in her late thirties—had the herb-gathering widow (the same one from the forest) pinned gently against a stack of crates. Their skirts were hiked up to their waists, bodices unlaced just enough for heavy breasts to spill free, nipples stiff and rosy in the warm glow. The widow's hand was buried between the pharmacist's thick thighs, fingers pumping in and out with wet, rhythmic *schlick-schlick* sounds that echoed off the shelves. The pharmacist's hand mirrored the motion—three fingers deep inside the widow, thumb circling her swollen clit in tight, relentless spirals. Their mouths were locked in a sloppy, hungry kiss: tongues sliding, lips smacking, soft moans muffled into each other's throats. Drool glistened on chins. Breasts squished together, nipples rubbing with every thrust of their hips. The air was thick with the musky, unmistakable scent of aroused pussy—hot, tangy, and dizzyingly sweet—mixed with crushed herbs from a spilled basket nearby.
Elarion's jaw hit the floor. His cock, traitor that it was, instantly tented his trousers like it had been waiting for this exact moment all day.
Then both women noticed him at the exact same second.
They froze mid-thrust, fingers still buried to the knuckles, mouths parting with a wet *pop*. A long string of saliva stretched between their lips before snapping.
The pharmacist blinked. The widow blinked.
Then, in the most painfully awkward tone imaginable—like someone who'd just been caught stealing cookies from the jar—the widow cleared her throat and muttered, "Uh… he gave the right answer."
The pharmacist nodded slowly, eyes wide. "Yeah. He did."
Elarion, brain still buffering, managed a dazed nod of his own. A huge, stupid grin spread across his face because—holy gods—he was *very clearly* enjoying the show. Like a kid at his first carnival. Eyebrows up, mouth slightly open, pupils blown wide. He didn't even try to hide the massive bulge in his pants.
The pharmacist sighed (fondly? exasperatedly? who could tell), disentangled her dripping fingers with a reluctant *schlurp*, wiped them on her apron, and stepped forward. She took his basket of herbs without a word, weighed it quickly on the brass scale—*clink clink*—and dropped one single copper coin into his palm.
"Here," she said flatly. "Payment."
Before he could process, she marched past him, skirts still askew, breasts bouncing freely, and flipped the "Closed" sign on the front door. Then she pulled the storeroom door shut with a decisive *thud* and slid the iron bolt home.
Elarion stood there, coin in hand, staring at the closed door like it had personally betrayed him.
"At least let me watch!" he yelped, voice cracking on the last word. He knocked once. Twice. "Come onnnn!"
Nothing. Just muffled giggles from the other side, followed by a fresh, unmistakable *moan* and the wet sound of fingers resuming their happy work.
He pressed his forehead against the door, shoulders slumping. His erection throbbed sadly against his thigh, now cold and unloved.
Outside, the winter wind whistled mockingly.
Elarion slid down until he was sitting on the cold doorstep, knees drawn up, looking exactly like a lost puppy who'd been told "no treats" for the millionth time. Big sad eyes. Droopy posture. One copper coin clutched in his fist like a consolation prize.
Somewhere in the village, a rooster crowed at the sheer absurdity of it all.
He sighed dramatically.
"...I really need to work on my pickup lines."
(And yes, the universe is laughing at him. Hard.)
Elarion trudged back to his cabin with the enthusiasm of a man carrying a sack of wet regrets. The winter sun had already dipped low, painting the snow-dusted path in bruised purples and golds. His boots crunched through the thin frost, each step echoing the rhythm of his inner monologue: *Big cock. BIG COCK. That's what I said. To a woman who literally sat on it. Gods, I need to be put down.
He shoved the door open (it creaked like it was judging him too), kicked it shut behind him, and immediately flopped face-first onto the narrow straw mattress. The coarse blanket scratched his cheek. His half-hard cock—still traitorously optimistic—throbbed sadly against his thigh. He stared up at the exposed rafters, watching a fat winter spider weave a web that was probably more successful at getting laid than he was.
Internal monologue activated.
In my next life,he thought bitterly, I'm coming back as a six-foot-seven elf prince with abs you could grate cheese on, a voice like velvet thunder, and a vocabulary that doesn't include the phrase "because I have a big cock." Women will throw themselves at me. I'll have a harem. I'll—
His flailing arm knocked something off the rickety bedside table.
Thud.
An old, cracked leather journal hit the floorboards and fell open, pages splaying like an accusation. Dust puffed up in a tiny cloud that smelled faintly of aged parchment, pipe smoke, and his father's favorite pipe-weed.
Elarion blinked. He hadn't touched that thing in... years.
He sat up slowly, erection wilting under the weight of sudden melancholy. The journal had belonged to his dad—one of the few things that survived the direwolf attack. The cover was worn smooth from years of handling, the Tree of Life embossed in faded gold.
He picked it up, fingers tracing the familiar cracks.
The page it had fallen open to wasn't one he'd seen before.
There, in his father's bold, looping handwriting (smudged slightly with what looked like old ale), was a hidden note tucked between two blank pages—like it had been waiting for this exact moment of rock-bottom humiliation.
> *To my boy, when you're old enough to be stupid about women (and gods know you will be):*
> *Rule 1: Never lead with your sword. Size matters, but charm wins the war. Talk to her like she's the most interesting thing in the room, not the prize at the end of it.*
> *Rule 2: If you must be an idiot, at least be funny about it. Women remember the man who made them laugh more than the one who made them moan... at first.*
> *Rule 3: If all else fails, apologize with flowers. Or rare herbs. Or both. And mean it.*
> *P.S. Your mother says hi. And that if you're reading this alone in our old cabin at 25, she owes me five silver.*
At the bottom, in a shakier hand (probably added later), his mother had scribbled:
> *Ignore your father. Just don't be a horse's ass. We love you.*
Elarion stared at the words until they blurred. A lump formed in his throat that had nothing to do with horniness.
He closed the journal gently, set it on the table like it was made of glass.
Then, because the universe clearly hadn't finished kicking him today, he had an idea.
A terrible, stupid, *perfectly on-brand* idea.
"If charm is the answer," he muttered, "then maybe I just need... practice."
He stood, rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles like he was about to fight a dragon instead of his own dignity.
He closed his eyes, reached for the tiny spark of mana he'd inherited from his parents (the one he'd mostly used to light candles and heat soup). In his mind, he pictured the perfect practice partner: soft curves, warm smile, no judgment.
He whispered the incantation he'd half-remembered from his dad's old spellbook—basic illusion, nothing fancy.
A faint blue glow bloomed in the center of the room.
It took shape slowly... then all at once.
A woman.
Naked.
Gorgeous.
With cat ears.
And a tail.
And a very confused expression.
She blinked glowing eyes at him, tilted her head, and said in a voice that sounded like someone had fed a bard's lute through a broken translation spell:
"Nya~? Master summon big cock? Nya~?"
Elarion's jaw hit the floor.
The illusion purred, stretched languidly (giving him an absolutely devastating view), then started batting at the floating motes of mana like they were yarn.
He tried to dismiss it.
Nothing happened.
He tried again.
The catgirl illusion just giggled, "Nya~! Master shy? Want scratches behind ears first?"
Elarion sank slowly back onto the bed, staring at the magical disaster he'd created.
Outside, the wind howled.
Inside, a semi-nude cat-eared hologram was now attempting to "groom" his shoulder with phantom licks.
He buried his face in his hands.
"...Dad," he whispered to the ceiling, "if this is your idea of helping... you owe *me* five silver."
(The cat-eared illusion energy – grumpy but cute disaster)
(The journal reveal – old leather, handwritten wisdom, zero chill)