A few minutes later, the lingering ache in Elaric's trousers and the copper coins burning a hole in his palm finally won out over bruised pride. He exhaled sharply, clapped Thorne on the back, and muttered, "Alright, let's go. Brothel it is."
Thorne's tear-streaked face instantly transformed into a beaming, snot-free grin. "Hell yes, brother! Shared conquest, here we come!" He practically skipped as they marched through the village's winding lanes toward the red-lantern district.
They paused at a baker's stall just long enough to exchange their two hard-earned coppers for two still-warm loaves of crusty bread—the golden crust crackling under their fingers, the yeasty steam rising with hints of honey and salt that made their empty stomachs growl.
The brothel quarter lay at the edge of the village, tucked behind a row of blooming cherry trees whose pink petals drifted lazily in the evening breeze. Lanterns of crimson silk already glowed along the wooden walkways, casting warm, rosy light over the cobblestones. The air carried a heady cocktail: sweet incense, spilled wine, faint floral perfumes, and the unmistakable undercurrent of warm skin and sex that clung to every breath.
At the heart of the district stood the grandest establishment—The Velvet Orchid—a three-story timber palace that dwarfed its neighbors. Painted deep crimson with black lacquered beams, its wide verandas wrapped around like inviting arms. Silk curtains fluttered at open windows, revealing teasing glimpses of bare shoulders and swaying hips. Soft laughter and throaty moans spilled out, mingling with the distant twang of a lute and the rhythmic creak of beds from upper floors.
Elaric and Thorne pushed through the heavy double doors into a world designed for pure indulgence.
The foyer was a feast for the senses: low amber lamplight danced across polished mahogany floors strewn with thick, plush rugs that muffled every footstep. The air was thick and warm—jasmine incense curling in lazy spirals, undercut by the richer scents of beeswax candles, spilled red wine, and the faint, intoxicating musk of recent couplings. Velvet settees lined the walls, occupied by scantily clad courtesans in translucent silks that clung to sweat-damp skin, nipples dark shadows beneath fabric. Soft moans drifted down the curved staircase, accompanied by the wet slap of flesh and breathy gasps that tightened both men's trousers instantly.
They strode purposefully toward the ornate reception counter at the far end, boots sinking into the luxurious carpet. Behind it, slumped forward in exhausted slumber, was the madam herself—a breathtaking MILF in her early forties named Seraphine Vale.
Seraphine was pure, mature allure: cascading waves of honey-blonde hair spilling over one shoulder, full lips painted deep crimson, and a face that combined regal beauty with bedroom promise—high cheekbones flushed with lingering warmth, long lashes casting shadows on creamy skin. Her voluptuous figure strained against a low-cut emerald corset that pushed her heavy, creamy breasts nearly to overflowing, the deep valley between them glistening faintly with a sheen of perspiration. Wide hips and thick thighs filled out a silk skirt slit high on one side, revealing a flash of lace stocking and garter whenever she shifted.
She slept with her head pillowed on folded arms atop the ledger, one cheek pressed to the open page, leaving a faint lipstick smudge. Slow, deep breaths made her bosom rise and fall hypnotically, the corset creaking softly with each inhale. A single golden curl had fallen across her parted lips; every exhale fluttered it gently. One hand dangled limply, fingers still loosely curled as if recently wrapped around something far more interesting than a quill.
Elaric reached out and gently shook her shoulder, the silk of her sleeve warm and smooth beneath his palm.
Seraphine stirred, lashes fluttering. She lifted her head slowly, revealing sleepy, sultry hazel eyes that sharpened with amused recognition as they landed on the two young men—both flushed, bread crumbs on their tunics, trousers tented shamelessly.
A slow, knowing smile curved her painted lips. "Ahh… my little brothers," she purred in a voice like heated honey, low and warm enough to melt resolve. "You've come at last."
Without waiting for reply, she reached under the counter and produced two worn brooms, handing one to each with a wink that promised far more than sweeping. "Rooms upstairs need tidying, halls too. Earn your welcome properly, sweetlings."
Elaric and Thorne exchanged a quick, sheepish glance, nodded politely, and accepted the brooms like dutiful apprentices. As they turned toward the staircase, Seraphine's throaty chuckle followed them, along with the soft rustle of her shifting in her seat—corset creaking, breasts swaying enticingly.
They climbed the steps slowly, brooms in hand, the sounds of pleasure growing louder with every riser: breathy cries, deep masculine groans, the wet symphony of bodies colliding. The air grew thicker, warmer, laced with sweat and arousal that made their pulses thunder and their neglected cocks strain harder against rough fabric.
Somewhere above, silk sheets rustled invitingly, and the night had only just begun.
Elaric pushed open the door to one of the upstairs bedrooms and was immediately enveloped in the thick, humid aftermath of raw, uninhibited sex. The air hung heavy with the salty tang of fresh semen, the sharper, sweeter scent of female squirt, and the lingering musk of sweat-soaked skin. Used sheep-gut condoms—some still dripping milky strands—lay discarded on the floor like deflated party balloons. The crimson silk bedsheets were twisted into damp knots, stained with irregular patches of creamy white and clear, glistening sprays that caught the lantern light like obscene abstract art. A forgotten lace garter dangled from the bedpost; a single high-heeled slipper lay on its side beneath the window, as if its owner had been carried away mid-stride.
From the rumpled mattress rose the ghost of recent bargaining turned to frenzy: a merchant had haggled fiercely with one of the courtesans over price, only to lose all composure the moment her skilled fingers unlaced his trousers. What started as a cautious "just a quick release" had escalated into hours of desperate, bed-creaking passion—her riding him until he begged, then flipping her onto all fours while he pounded with animal grunts, her squirting in forceful arcs that soaked the sheets and his thighs alike. The evidence was everywhere: handprints of arousal smeared across the headboard, strands of her release dried in delicate webs on the pillowcases.
Elaric's cock, still half-hard from the foyer's teasing atmosphere, gave an involuntary twitch as he inhaled the intoxicating cocktail. He grabbed a soft cloth from the cleaning bucket, the warm water inside scented faintly with rose oil, and began wiping down surfaces with deliberate strokes. Each pass over a sticky patch released fresh waves of scent; his breath quickened as he smoothed the sheets, fingers lingering on the cooling wetness, imagining the courtesan's thighs trembling as she came. He rearranged the pillows, fluffing them until they looked innocently plump again, though his mind replayed the way they'd been clutched and screamed into only hours before.
Down the hall, Thorne—miraculously behaving like a good boy for once—swept with surprising diligence, humming off-key tavern songs while the broom bristles whispered across the polished floorboards. Occasionally he'd pause to sniff dramatically at a particularly potent spot, grin like an idiot, and declare, "Premium stuff, brother. Top-shelf nut."
A few minutes later, Thorne's diligence evaporated. He abandoned his broom, sauntered through the corridors like he personally owned the Velvet Orchid, chest puffed, nodding at passing courtesans with exaggerated winks. Madam Seraphine watched from the landing below, arms crossed beneath her overflowing bosom, an amused smirk playing on her crimson lips. After all, the boys were barely twenty-five—still "kids" in her experienced eyes. She let him strut.
Until the inevitable happened.
A burly thug—hired muscle for one of the wealthier patrons—barreled around the corner, shoulders hunched, reeking of cheap ale and cheaper cologne. He collided hard with Thorne, sending the orphan staggering back a step.
The thug whirled, veins bulging in his thick neck. "The fuck, bro? You tryin' to hit me?" He leaned in close, breath sour with onions and rage, and hawked a fat glob of saliva that splattered across Thorne's freckled cheek with a wet *splat*.
Thorne blinked once. Slowly wiped the spit away with the back of his hand, stared at the glistening streak on his skin, then—being utterly, irredeemably Thorne—tilted his head forward and offered his own face like a target at an archery range.
"Ohhh, bro," he cooed in mocking falsetto, "do you wanna hit me? C'mon, big guy. Right here."
The thug obliged by spitting again—this one landing square on Thorne's forehead and dribbling down his nose like a slimy tear.
Thorne responded instantly, hocking a loogie of his own that arced beautifully and smacked the thug's chin with pinpoint accuracy. Within seconds they were practically nose-to-nose, alternating rapid-fire spits like two malfunctioning fountains—*ptoo, ptoo, ptoo*—saliva flying in glittering strings, coating cheeks, lips, even eyelashes. The hallway echoed with wet impacts and increasingly ridiculous grunts of effort.
Madam Seraphine's patience snapped like an over-tight corset lace.
She descended the last few stairs with regal fury, hips swaying ominously. Before either combatant could launch the next salivary missile, her hands flashed out—*CRACK! CRACK!*—two open-palmed slaps so perfectly synchronized they sounded like a single thunderclap.
Both men's heads snapped sideways in identical arcs. Their legs buckled comically; they toppled in opposite directions and kissed the polished floorboards with twin, meaty thuds—Thorne face-planting with an "OOF!" that expelled the last of his spit in a bubbly spray, the thug landing flat on his back with eyes crossed and tongue lolling.
From the far end of the hall, Elaric—having emerged to investigate the commotion—took in the sight: two grown men sprawled like discarded rag dolls, faces shiny with each other's spit, Madam Seraphine towering over them with hands on hips and breasts heaving in exasperation.
He tried to hold it in. Really.
But the laughter burst out of him in great, barking guffaws that echoed down the corridor, doubling him over as tears streamed down his face. Thorne lifted his head just enough to glare through dripping bangs, muttering a soggy, "Not… cool… brother…"
Seraphine glanced at Elaric, one elegant brow arched, lips twitching with suppressed mirth. "Something funny, little brother?"
Elaric wheezed, clutching his side. "N-no, Madam… just… perfect aim on those slaps."
She allowed herself a low, throaty chuckle that sent fresh heat straight to his groin, then pointed imperiously at the fallen duo. "Clean them up too, while you're at it. And Thorne—next time you want to play spitting contest, do it outside."
The erotic hum of the brothel continued unbroken around them—moans drifting from nearby rooms, silk rustling, bodies colliding—but for the moment, the hallway belonged to the absurd tableau of two spit-soaked idiots groaning on the floor and one very amused madam reigning supreme.
The chaotic hallway comedy froze mid-laugh as the heavy front doors of the Velvet Orchid slammed open with a thunderous *bang* that rattled the lanterns and sent crimson light flickering wildly across the walls. Ten men strode in—real bandits, not the usual rowdy patrons. They were clad in scarred leather armor stained with road dust and old blood, swords and daggers glinting at their belts, faces weathered and cruel beneath ragged hoods. The largest, their leader—a hulking brute with a jagged scar splitting his lip—led the pack, his boots thudding ominously on the plush rugs.
In an instant the entire brothel fell into suffocating silence. The distant moans from upstairs cut off abruptly, as though someone had stuffed a pillow over every mouth. Courtesans froze half-dressed on the settees, silk robes slipping forgotten from shoulders to reveal stiff nipples and goose-prickled skin. Patrons clutched half-empty goblets, knuckles white. The air, once thick with jasmine, wine, and arousal, now tasted metallic with fear—sharp sweat, cold steel, and the bandits' unwashed stench rolling in like a foul tide.
Thorne's bravado evaporated. His eyes went wide as saucers; a small, terrified squeak escaped his throat. He bolted behind Madam Seraphine, practically diving into the shelter of her wide hips and overflowing corset. Elaric, heart hammering against his ribs, followed a half-second later—both young men crowding behind her like frightened pups seeking their mother's skirts. Their hands instinctively gripped the silk of her dress, fingers brushing the warm, soft swell of her backside as they whispered in unison, trembling voices overlapping:
"Big sis… who—who are these guys?"
Seraphine stood unmoved, a statue of calm amid the storm. Her hazel eyes narrowed slightly, but her posture remained regal—breasts rising and falling slowly beneath emerald lace, the faint sheen of perspiration on her cleavage catching the lantern glow.
In a flat, almost bored tone she addressed the intruders: "Gentlemen. State your business."
The scarred leader smirked, yellowed teeth flashing. He swept his gaze over the frozen courtesans with blatant hunger, lingering on exposed thighs and barely concealed mounds. "Simple, love," he drawled condescendingly, voice dripping with mockery. "We want your best women. All of 'em. And oh—" he patted the empty coin purse at his belt with theatrical flair—"we won't be paying a single copper. Consider it a tax on your pretty little house."
Laughter rumbled from his men—low, ugly, promising violence.
Seraphine's crimson lips curved into the faintest, coldest smile. "No."
The single word hung in the air like a blade.
The leader's smirk vanished. "Wrong answer, whore." He lunged forward, meaty hand reaching to seize her wrist.
What followed was pure, breathtaking devastation.
Seraphine moved like liquid silk and tempered steel combined. She sidestepped with graceful economy, caught his wrist instead, and twisted. A sickening *crack* echoed as bone snapped; the leader howled, dropping to one knee. Before he could recover, her other hand flashed—a precise, open-palmed strike to his temple that sent him sprawling face-first into a velvet settee with a muffled thud.
The remaining nine roared and charged.
She became a whirlwind.
A spinning kick caught the first thug under the chin, heel connecting with a wet crunch that lifted him off his feet and slammed him backward into two companions. They crashed in a tangle of limbs and curses. Another swung a dagger; Seraphine flowed inside the arc, elbow smashing his nose in an explosion of blood that splattered hot across the rug. She grabbed his hair, yanked his head down, and drove her knee into his face—once, twice—until he crumpled bonelessly.
Two more tried to flank her. She dropped low, swept one's legs while simultaneously driving her palm into the second's groin with devastating accuracy. The struck man folded with a high-pitched wheeze, eyes bulging as he cupped his ruined manhood. The swept thug hit the floor hard; Seraphine's stiletto heel came down on his wrist, pinning the sword hand with a sharp *crunch* of bone.
Steel flashed—someone drew a blade toward her back. She spun, caught the wrist mid-thrust, twisted until the sword clattered away, then delivered a short, vicious hook to the jaw that spun the man like a top before he collapsed.
Throughout it all her breathing remained steady, corset straining with each powerful movement, breasts heaving in hypnotic rhythm, honey-blonde hair whipping in golden arcs. Sweat glistened on her exposed cleavage, trickling down into the deep valley between her mounds. The scent of her—jasmine, warm skin, and now the faint coppery tang of blood—filled the hall like an intoxicating perfume.
In under a minute, all ten bandits lay groaning or unconscious across the once-pristine rugs—limbs twisted at wrong angles, blood pooling beneath broken noses, pride as shattered as their bones.
Silence returned, broken only by ragged breathing and the soft drip of blood on wood.
Elaric and Thorne peeked out from behind her, eyes enormous and sparkling with pure, fanboy awe. Their fear had transmuted into something hotter, worshipful. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, both felt their cocks—already half-hard from the brothel's atmosphere—swell painfully against their trousers at the sight of this magnificent woman dispensing righteous violence with effortless grace. Thorne's hands, still clutching her skirt, trembled against the curve of her ass; Elaric's gaze traced the sweat-slick trail disappearing between her breasts, throat dry with sudden, fierce desire.
Seraphine straightened, smoothed an errant curl from her face, and glanced back at them with a small, amused smirk—as if she'd just finished swatting particularly annoying flies.
"Little brothers," she purred, voice husky from exertion, "be dears and drag this trash outside. Then come find me. You've earned more than brooms tonight."
The hall erupted into nervous, admiring laughter and scattered applause from courtesans and patrons alike. But Elaric and Thorne heard nothing except the thunder of their own heartbeats—and the unspoken promise in her sultry gaze.