Elaric wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, still tasting the metallic tang of violence in the air as the last groaning bandit was hauled out the front doors like a sack of refuse—boots scraping limply across the rugs, leaving faint blood smears that the staff would sigh over later. His cock throbbed insistently against his trousers, the adrenaline from Seraphine's display mixing dangerously with the brothel's ever-present musk.
"Dude," he muttered to Thorne, voice low and rough with lingering awe, "let's get to the top floor before my balls explode."
Thorne's freckled face split into a manic grin, eyes still glassy with hero-worship. "Fuck yes, brother. Lead the way."
They climbed the wide, curving staircase to the third floor—each step creaking softly underfoot, the polished banister warm and smooth from countless hands. Crimson lanterns swayed gently overhead, casting shifting pools of ruby light across their flushed faces. The higher they rose, the thicker the air became: heavy with the mingled scents of spilled seed, feminine arousal, rosewater, and the faint salty bite of sweat. Muffled moans and rhythmic bed-thuds seeped through closed doors, punctuated by occasional sharp cries of pleasure that made both men's strides quicken.
As they climbed, they couldn't stop replaying the fight in breathless, giddy whispers.
"Did you see how she snapped that big bastard's wrist like kindling?" Elaric hissed, gesturing wildly. "One twist—crack!—and he dropped like a virgin on his first night."
Thorne clutched the banister, practically vibrating. "Bro, the knee to the balls on that second guy? I felt it in my soul. My nuts are hiding just remembering it. And when she spun and kicked two at once? Legendary. Straight out of the old tales—like the Crimson Valkyrie from the bard songs, but with bigger tits and better aim."
"Gods, yes," Elaric groaned, voice dropping an octave. "The way her corset strained every time she moved… sweat running down between her breasts… I swear I could see her nipples hard as diamonds through the lace. If she'd told me to drop to my knees right there, I'd have licked the blood off her heels."
Thorne whimpered theatrically. "Don't tease me, brother. I'm already leaking. Imagine if she'd pinned one of us after—used those thighs to—"
They reached the top landing giggling like schoolboys who'd stolen honeyed cakes, cheeks burning, trousers obscenely tented.
The third floor was the Velvet Orchid's most exclusive level: a wide, circular gallery ringed by private suites, doors painted deep burgundy and draped with sheer silk curtains that fluttered in the warm breeze from open windows. Courtesans lounged on plush divans between doors—bare thighs gleaming, translucent robes slipping off shoulders, nipples dark shadows against gossamer fabric. Staff moved quietly with trays of wine and oils, smiling indulgently at the two young men's obvious excitement.
Elaric and Thorne grabbed fresh cleaning buckets and began sweeping the gallery floor, though their focus was shot. They kept stealing glances at the doors, ears straining to the wet sounds and gasps beyond.
They hadn't been at it five minutes when two mature courtesans—both breathtaking MILFs in their late thirties—sauntered over, hips swaying with deliberate grace.
The first, Cassia, had rich auburn hair cascading in loose waves down her back, full lips painted deep plum, and heavy breasts barely contained by a sapphire corset that pushed them into glorious, jiggling cleavage with every breath. Her skin glowed golden in the lantern light, a faint sheen of perspiration tracing the valley between her mounds.
The second, Valeria, was darker—olive skin, raven hair pinned up with jeweled combs, emerald eyes sharp with amusement. Her sheer black robe hung open, revealing lush curves, wide hips, and the shadowed hint of a neatly trimmed mound between thick thighs. Both women smelled of vanilla, sex, and expensive oils; their presence alone thickened the air with promise.
Cassia leaned against a pillar, folding her arms beneath her breasts and lifting them enticingly. "We couldn't help overhearing you two downstairs," she purred, voice like warm cognac. "Quite the show Madam put on, wasn't it?"
Valeria's tongue traced her lower lip as she stepped closer, close enough that Elaric caught the faint, intoxicating scent of her recent arousal. "Tell us, sweetlings—which part made your cocks hardest? The way she broke that man's nose… or how her body moved while doing it?"
Thorne flushed crimson to his ears, broom forgotten. Elaric felt heat flood his face—and lower—as both women's gazes dropped pointedly to the straining bulges in their trousers.
"Uh… b-both?" Thorne stammered, then found his voice. "The—the spin kick. When her skirt flared and we saw those thighs flex… gods…"
Cassia laughed softly, reaching out to trail a manicured nail down Thorne's chest. "Mmm, good answer. Strong thighs are important, aren't they? For pinning a man down… or wrapping around his hips while he thrusts deep."
Valeria moved behind Elaric, pressing close enough that he felt the soft, heavy weight of her breasts against his back, nipples hard points through thin silk. Her breath was hot against his ear. "And you, quiet one? Did you imagine those sweat-slick breasts bouncing as she fought… or afterward, when she finally lets a worthy boy taste them?"
Elaric swallowed hard, voice rough. "Afterward. Definitely… tasting."
The women exchanged a knowing glance, smiles turning wicked.
Valeria's hand slid down his arm, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist. "We like boys who appreciate a powerful woman. And we especially like rewarding them."
Cassia leaned in until her lips nearly touched Thorne's. "Finish your sweeping quickly, darlings. Then come find us in Suite Seven. We'll show you exactly how we celebrate a victory like Madam's… with slow, deep gratitude."
Both MILFs turned and sauntered away, hips rolling in perfect sync, robes whispering against bare skin, leaving trails of vanilla and promise in the air.
Elaric and Thorne stood frozen for a heartbeat—brooms limp in their hands, cocks aching, hearts pounding.
Then they attacked the floor with frantic energy, sweeping twice as fast, eyes shining with the same worshipful, desperate hunger they'd felt watching Seraphine fight… now perfectly redirected toward the night ahead.
Elaric and Thorne, brooms abandoned in the bucket, slipped into Suite Seven with hearts hammering like war drums. The room was a cocoon of indulgence: heavy crimson drapes drawn against the night, dozens of beeswax candles flickering in glass sconces, casting golden light that danced across a massive four-poster bed draped in black silk sheets. The air was thick—warm vanilla, rose oil, lingering traces of previous passion, and now the fresh, intoxicating scent of Cassia and Valeria's skin.
The two MILFs waited like patient predators. Cassia reclined against a mountain of pillows, sapphire corset loosened so her heavy breasts spilled invitingly over the lace edge, dark rose nipples already peaked. Valeria stood at the foot of the bed, black robe discarded entirely, revealing olive curves in full glory—wide hips, soft belly, thick thighs framing the neat dark triangle above her glistening slit.
Both boys froze in the doorway, cheeks burning, cocks straining painfully against rough fabric.
"Look at them," Cassia murmured, voice honey-smooth. "So eager, so nervous. Come here, sweetlings. Let us teach you properly."
They obeyed, knees weak, climbing onto the vast bed. The silk sheets were cool and slippery beneath them, whispering against skin as they knelt.
Valeria crawled forward first, eyes locked on Elaric. She traced one fingernail—slow, deliberate—down the center of his tunic, from collarbone to belt, barely grazing. "Breathe, darling," she whispered. "We have all night to worship you." Her touch circled his nipple through fabric, pinching lightly until he gasped. Cassia mirrored her with Thorne, leaning in until her breath warmed his ear. "Such strong boys… but trembling like virgins. Adorable." She palmed the bulge in his trousers, squeezing gently, then releasing—again, again—never enough pressure, just promise. Both women laughed softly at the desperate whimpers, hips bucking air.
Cassia cupped Thorne's flushed face, thumbs stroking his freckled cheeks. "Slow now," she praised. "Good boy." She brushed her full lips against his—feather-light, once, twice—then sealed them fully. The kiss was languid, instructional: her tongue tracing the seam of his mouth until he opened on a shaky exhale. She rewarded him with gentle suction on his lower lip, murmuring, "Perfect… just like that."
Valeria turned Elaric's chin toward her. "Eyes on me, love." Her mouth claimed his with patient authority—soft, warm, tasting of sweet red wine. She angled his head, showing him how to tilt, how to meet her tongue in slow, sensual strokes. Every time he tried to rush, she pulled back an inch, smiling against his lips. "Patience earns rewards."
The kisses deepened. Cassia coaxed Thorne's tongue into her mouth, sucking gently, letting a thin strand of shared saliva glisten between them when she pulled away to breathe. "Taste me," she encouraged, guiding his tongue back in, letting saliva pool and spill in deliberate, messy threads down his chin. Thorne groaned, dizzy with the intimate slickness.
Valeria did the same with Elaric—opening wide, letting him explore, then flooding his mouth with warm saliva in a slow, deliberate pour. She swallowed his nervous moan, whispering, "That's it… drink me in. Such a good, obedient boy."
Clothes finally peeled away—tunics lifted, trousers tugged down—the boys' cocks sprang free: Elaric thick and veined, flushed dark; Thorne longer, curving upward, both leaking clear beads at the tip.
Cassia settled between Thorne's thighs, auburn hair cascading over his lap. She didn't take him yet—only breathed hot air across the sensitive head, watching it twitch. "Look how pretty you are," she praised. Then her tongue—flat and wet—licked one long, torturous stripe from base to crown, swirling around the ridge, collecting the salty pre-cum with a hum of approval. She took just the head into her warm mouth, cheeks hollowing softly, sucking with gentle pulses while her hand stroked the shaft in lazy twists. Every time Thorne's hips jerked, she pulled off with a wet pop, scolding playfully, "Still, darling. Let me savor you."
Valeria mirrored with Elaric, olive fingers wrapping his base. She kissed the tip reverently, then sank down inch by inch—agonizingly slow—lips stretching around his girth, tongue pressing flat against the underside. Saliva pooled, dripping down to coat his balls; she let it, humming so the vibration traveled straight through him. She bobbed shallowly, never deep, always teasing the most sensitive spots with flicks and swirls. "You taste divine," she murmured, voice muffled around him. "So hard for me… such a good boy holding still."
The women finally rose, guiding the boys to lie flat. Cassia straddled Thorne's chest first, facing his feet, lowering her dripping pussy just above his mouth. "Watch," she instructed. She parted her own flushed lips with two fingers, revealing glistening pink inner folds and swollen clit. Slowly, she traced one finger around her entrance, gathering slick, then brought it to Thorne's lips. "Taste how wet you make me."
Then she sank lower. Thorne's tongue darted out nervously; Cassia guided him gently. "Broad strokes first, love… yes, up the center… flatten your tongue along my lips." She rocked slowly, letting him feel every silky ridge, every quiver. When he reached her clit, she praised, "Circle now—soft, then firmer… oh, perfect." Her thighs trembled; arousal dripped onto his chin in warm strands.
Valeria mounted Elaric's face similarly, thick thighs framing his view. She spread herself wide, showing him the shining entrance, the engorged pearl. "Start with kisses," she taught. Elaric obeyed, pressing soft lips to her folds; she sighed approval. "Now lick—long, slow… collect every drop." His tongue delved between her lips, tasting tangy-sweet essence; she ground gently, teaching rhythm. "Suck my clit now—gentle… yes, like that… flick the tip… gods, you learn fast." Her hips rolled in tiny circles, coating his mouth and cheeks in her slick.
The room filled with wet sounds—slurps, gasps, praise whispered like prayer. Both boys were delirious, cocks throbbing untouched, balls drawn tight, every nerve singing.
But just as the tension crested—bodies trembling on the edge—the women exchanged a glance and rose gracefully.
Cassia stroked Thorne's hair. "You were magnificent, sweetlings… but we are working tonight."
Valeria kissed Elaric's slick forehead. "Real customers wait downstairs—ones who pay in gold, not just enthusiasm."
They slipped into fresh robes, bodies still flushed and glistening, leaving the boys sprawled naked on the vast bed—cocks painfully hard, faces shining with saliva and feminine essence, chests heaving.
The door clicked shut softly behind them.
Exhaustion from the day's labor, the fight's adrenaline, and the relentless teasing finally crashed over Elaric and Thorne like a tidal wave. Their eyes fluttered closed almost immediately, limbs heavy on cool silk. They curled toward each other instinctively—naked skin against naked skin, still tasting the women on their lips, cocks slowly softening against thighs in unfulfilled ache.
Within minutes, deep, dreamless sleep claimed them—two exhausted, blue-balled orphans tangled in luxury sheets, the faint scent of vanilla and sex lulling them into oblivion while the Velvet Orchid's night carried on without them.
Far beyond the warm glow of the Velvet Orchid, in a muddy ditch just outside the village gates, the ten members of the notorious Black Boarclaw gang lay sprawled like discarded rags. Their scarred leather armor was torn and bloodied, faces swollen with bruises, limbs twisted at painful angles from Madam Seraphine's merciless beating. The night air carried the sour stink of defeat—sweat, blood, cheap ale, and now the sharp ammonia reek of humiliation.
A pack of actual village dogs—mangy strays with ribs showing—had discovered the unconscious heap. Curious at first, they sniffed the bandits' battered faces, then, finding no resistance, grew bolder. One lifted its leg and let loose a hot stream of piss directly onto the scarred leader's cheek, the acrid liquid running into his open, snoring mouth. Another dog squatted and relieved itself on a subordinate's beard. The rest followed suit, marking the feared Black Boarclaws as territory with casual indifference, tails wagging as they trotted away.
Minutes later, the gang began to stir. Groans rose as consciousness returned, along with the cold, wet realization of what had coated their skin. The leader—Grimgut, a hulking brute whose jagged facial scar usually struck terror into tavern crowds—came to with a sputtering gasp, tasting dog urine on his tongue. He sat up slowly, blinking against the moonlight, and felt the warm rivulets drying crusty on his neck and beard.
His men woke to the same horror. One clawed at his piss-soaked hair, retching. Another stared in numb disbelief at the yellow stains darkening his leather jerkin. Laughter—sharp, merciless—drifted from the village walls where late-night revelers and brothel patrons had gathered to watch the spectacle. Torchlight illuminated pointing fingers and mocking shouts: "Look! The mighty Boarclaws—pissed on by mutts!" "Even dogs know they're nothing but filth!"
The humiliation sank into Grimgut like poisoned hooks.
He had built his reputation on fear: villages trembling at the mere mention of his name, merchants handing over purses without a fight, women shrinking from his leer. Tonight, a single brothel madam had dismantled him and his entire crew in front of dozens of witnesses. Worse, they had been left unconscious in the dirt, helpless as newborns, while stray curs used their faces as latrines. Every snicker from the walls was a blade twisting deeper. His scar burned hotter than any wound he'd ever taken.
Rage—pure, blinding, animal—flooded his veins. His fists clenched until knuckles cracked; veins bulged in his forehead like writhing worms. This wasn't just defeat. This was utter degradation. The kind that followed a man forever, turning fearsome tales into tavern jokes: "Remember when the Black Boarclaws got beaten by a woman and pissed on by dogs?"
No. He would not be a laughingstock.
Grimgut staggered to his feet, voice a guttural snarl that silenced even the distant jeers. "Up. All of you—UP!"
His men obeyed, shamefaced and shivering, wiping futilely at their stained clothes.
He stared toward the village lights, eyes burning with murderous promise. "They laugh now," he hissed, spittle flecking his urine-crusted beard. "But tomorrow… tomorrow the entire village burns. Every house. Every shop. That whorehouse first—we'll drag that bitch out and make her watch while we gut her precious 'little brothers.' No survivors. No mercy."
His gang—humiliated, furious, desperate to reclaim some shred of pride—growled agreement, gripping weapons with white-knuckled hands.
The Black Boarclaw leader spat a final glob of foul-tasting saliva into the dirt, tasting dog and defeat one last time.
"They'll learn what happens when you make fools of us."
Under the cold moonlight, the gang limped away into the shadows to gather reinforcements, nurse wounds, and plan the bloody retribution that would erase tonight's shame in rivers of innocent blood.
Back in the village, unaware of the storm brewing, Elaric and Thorne slept tangled and naked in silk sheets, dreaming of generous MILFs and gentle praise—while the fuse of vengeance burned steadily closer.