Liora's breath was hot against Elaric's face, her emerald eyes boring into his with an intensity that made his already-throbbing cock twitch deep inside her velvet heat. The soft grass tickled the backs of his thighs; her weight pinned him deliciously, her slick walls fluttering around him in tiny, teasing spasms. The forest smelled of crushed herbs, warm skin, and raw sex.
Then she asked the question, voice low and smoky, lips brushing his as she spoke:
"Do you know why I'm having sex with you right now, Elaric?"
A pause. Sunlight flickered across her flushed cheeks. She added, almost purring, "Give the right answer, and I might even become your woman. Answer wrong… and you'll have to forget about me forever."
Elaric's mind, already half-melted by the molten grip of her pussy, scrambled for something profound, romantic, meaningful. Instead, what tumbled out—nervous, proud, and utterly brainless—was:
"B-because… I have a big cock?"
The words hung in the air like a badly timed fart at a funeral.
Liora froze. Her expression shifted from sultry promise to pure, crystalline disappointment in the span of a heartbeat. Her brows arched so high they nearly vanished into her hairline. A soft, incredulous huff escaped her lips—half laugh, half sigh of deepest pity.
Without a word, she lifted herself off him in one smooth, merciless motion. The sudden loss of her tight, dripping warmth left his slick shaft bobbing stupidly in the cool forest air, glistening with her juices and still absurdly hard, as if it hadn't gotten the memo that the party was over. A wet, comical *schlop* echoed as her pussy released him, followed by a single traitorous bead of her arousal that rolled down his length and plopped onto the grass.
She stood, letting her skirt fall back into place with a prim little shake—though not before Elaric caught the dark, telltale wet patch blooming across the linen right over her mound. She didn't bother wiping; she simply smoothed the fabric, grabbed her overflowing herb basket, and turned away.
The sway of her hips as she walked off was no longer seductive—it was the swagger of a woman who'd just mentally deducted ten intelligence points from the man she'd nearly claimed. Over her shoulder, she tossed one last look: part exasperation, part second-hand embarrassment, and entirely hilarious in its judgment.
Elaric remained slumped against the oak, trousers around his ankles, proud erection slowly wilting in the breeze like a flag of surrender. A curious squirrel chittered overhead, as if laughing at him. Somewhere in the distance, a bird gave a sharp, mocking caw.
He sat there for a long, clueless minute, staring at the empty glade, the lingering scent of her arousal taunting him from his skin.
"…Was that not the right answer?" he finally muttered to no one, voice cracking.
The forest, merciless, answered only with rustling leaves and the faint, fading crunch of Liora's footsteps as she vanished into the trees—taking her basket, her dignity, and any chance of future nookie with her
Liora strode away through the sun-dappled forest path, hips swaying with that effortless, hypnotic rhythm—each step making the damp patch on her skirt cling and shift in a way that was equal parts mesmerizing and mocking. The faint scent of crushed moonleaf and her lingering arousal trailed behind her like a cruel perfume.
Just then, stomping along the same trail from the opposite direction, came Thorne Blackwood—Elaric's best friend since childhood, fellow orphan, same twenty-five years, and possessor of the survival instincts of a drunk badger. Thorne was built like a barrel with legs: broad shoulders, wild auburn hair sticking out like he'd lost a fight with a haystack, and a perpetual grin that screamed "I make terrible decisions and I'm proud of them."
He spotted Liora first. His muddy brown eyes locked onto the generous, rolling curves of her retreating backside, widened to saucer size, and—without a single functioning brain cell to stop him—he cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Damn, girl! You got some FAT ass!"
The words echoed off the trees like a thunderclap. Birds exploded from the branches in panic.
Liora stopped dead. Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned. Her face was utterly blank—deadpan perfection, the kind of expression that could freeze a campfire. Thorne's grin faltered for half a second, but bravado won out and he puffed his chest like a rooster.
In one fluid motion, Liora stepped forward and delivered a slap across his left cheek so crisp and loud it sounded like a branch snapping in half. *CRACK!* Thorne's head whipped sideways, his whole body following in a stumbling pirouette until he crashed face-first into the dirt, legs splayed comically like a marionette with cut strings. A small cloud of dust puffed up around him.
Liora didn't say a word. She simply adjusted her basket on her hip, turned, and resumed her swaying departure with the serene dignity of a queen who'd just swatted a fly.
A few minutes later, Thorne groaned, pushed himself up on wobbly arms, rubbed his glowing red cheek, and spotted Elaric still slumped against the oak—trousers around his ankles, rapidly deflating cock flapping sadly in the breeze, looking for all the world like a lost puppy who'd been promised treats and received only confusion.
Thorne's eyes went from the exposed predicament to Elaric's dazed expression. Instant, dramatic conclusion reached.
He scrambled over on all fours, seized Elaric by the shoulders, and promptly burst into loud, snotty tears. "BROTHER!" he wailed, voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old's. "What happened to you?! I KNEW it! That stupid bitch raped you! Oh gods, my poor innocent brother—defiled in the woods! Who's gonna marry you now? You were supposed to wed the baker's daughter tomorrow! Your virtue—GONE!"
Tears streamed down his freckled face; snot bubbled from his nose and dripped onto Elaric's tunic in shiny trails. He rocked back and forth, hugging Elaric like a grieving widow at a funeral, completely ignoring the fact that Elaric's bare ass was still parked on the grass.
Elaric stared at him, brain still buffering from the earlier catastrophe. Words failed. So he did the only reasonable thing: he hauled back and slapped Thorne across the right cheek with a resounding *BANG!* that perfectly mirrored Liora's earlier masterpiece.
Thorne's head snapped the other way. He toppled sideways, kissed the dirt again, and lay there sprawled on his back—both cheeks now flaming red handprints, eyes wide and watery, looking up at Elaric with the bewildered innocence of a kicked puppy.
Elaric sighed, finally tugged his trousers up over his mortified manhood, and stood. "Get up, you idiot. Come on, let's go pick up my herbs before the goats eat them."
Thorne blinked twice, sniffled, then scrambled to his feet and nodded vigorously—like a baby chick pecking rice—wiping his tear-and-snot-streaked face on his sleeve. "Y-yeah… okay, brother. Whatever you say."
And together, the two orphans—one freshly blue-balled and bewildered, the other sporting matching scarlet cheek prints—shuffled off to salvage what remained of the afternoon, the forest echoing faintly with Thorne's occasional hiccupping sob.