Thorne Blackwood clung to Elaric's arm the entire trudge back through the forest like a chipmunk-scented gold-digging girlfriend who'd just discovered her meal ticket might be broke. Every ten steps he'd tug harder, whining in a nasal falsetto, "Broooo, tell me what happened! Broooo, you can't keep secrets from your brother! Broooo, did she at least rate the experience five stars?"
The afternoon sun slanted through the leaves, turning the path into a patchwork of gold and shadow, while birds overhead seemed to chirp judgmental little laughs. Elaric's basket swung heavily against his thigh, moonleaf stems poking out like accusing fingers, their sharp minty scent now permanently mixed with the lingering musk of his earlier humiliation.
Finally, with a groan that could level trees, Elaric spat out the entire mortifying story: the peeking, the sudden lap-sitting, the womb-kissing penetration, and—most crucially—the fatal "because I have a big cock" answer that ended it all.
Thorne stopped dead in the middle of the path. His freckled face went slack. For one glorious second, Elaric thought he might actually stay quiet.
Then Thorne's lower lip trembled. His eyes welled up like overfilled ale mugs. And he exploded.
"YOU TOLD ME WHEN WE WERE KIDS—BROTHERS SHARE EVERYTHING! HOES BEFORE BROS—NO, WAIT, BROS BEFORE HOES!" he wailed, flinging himself to the ground in a full tantrum. He pounded the dirt with both fists, kicking up little puffs of dust and dried leaves that stuck to his tear-streaked cheeks. "We were supposed to share the first village widow together! We pinky-swore under the old apple tree! You promised!"
Passersby squirrels paused to stare. A nearby deer actually snorted and trotted off in second-hand embarrassment.
Somehow—between Thorne's dramatic sobs, hiccups, and occasional rolling around like an abandoned wife whose husband ran off with the milkmaid—they managed to finish gathering the spilled herbs. Thorne kept sniffling loudly, wiping his nose on his sleeve with wet, trumpet-like honks that echoed through the trees, all while clutching stray moonleaf stems like consolation bouquets.
Elaric, patience frayed thinner than cheap tavern ale, finally crouched down, grabbed Thorne by the shoulders, and growled, "Alright, bro! Next hot girl we find, we tag-team her together and share every detail. Happy now?"
Thorne's tears stopped mid-flow. His red-rimmed eyes lit up like festival lanterns. A snot bubble popped. "R-really? Pinky-swear?"
"Pinky-swear," Elaric muttered, hooking his little finger with Thorne's grubby one, already regretting every life choice that led to this moment.
Thorne sprang to his feet, instantly cured, grinning ear to ear as if he'd just won the kingdom's lottery. He slung an arm around Elaric's shoulders, humming a jaunty (and wildly off-key) tavern tune about "brothers in arms and in skirts."
Together they marched toward the village pharmacy, baskets swinging, late-afternoon light gilding their backs—one man quietly plotting how to survive his idiot best friend, the other already daydreaming about their future "shared conquests" with the enthusiasm of a puppy chasing two squirrels at once.
The forest, thoroughly entertained, rustled its leaves in applause
Elaric pushed open the heavy oak door of the village pharmacy, the familiar brass bell jingling like a half-hearted warning. The shop was empty—shelves lined with colorful glass vials glinting in the late-afternoon light slanting through the windows, the air thick with the pungent mix of dried lavender, sharp menthol, bitter wormwood, and something warmer, muskier that neither of them could place yet.
"Nobody here," Elaric muttered, stepping inside. "Let's wait."
Thorne nodded, plopping his basket on the counter with a dramatic sigh, already fidgeting like a child denied candy.
Five minutes crawled by. Thorne drummed his fingers, paced, peeked behind the counter, and finally—boredom winning over common sense—grinned mischievously. "I'm gonna check the storeroom. Maybe the old bat's napping back there."
Before Elaric could protest, Thorne slipped through the beaded curtain separating the shop from the back room. Elaric followed a moment later, curiosity overriding his better judgment.
The storeroom door was ajar, spilling a shaft of golden light and soft, unmistakable sounds: wet, rhythmic squelches, breathy gasps, the occasional low moan that vibrated straight to the groin.
They peered around the edge—and froze.
There, on a thick wool blanket spread across crates of dried herbs, were two mature beauties locked in a passionate tangle.
Liora Thorne—still flushed from the forest, skirt rucked high around her waist—sat astride the village's renowned pharmacist, Mira Silverroot, a voluptuous 38-year-old widow with cascading raven hair, porcelain skin, and curves that could make a saint reconsider vows. Mira's simple apron and blouse had been hastily shoved aside, revealing full, heavy breasts with dark rose nipples already swollen and glistening from Liora's eager mouth.
Both women were finger-fucking each other with shameless abandon. Liora's hand disappeared between Mira's spread thighs, two fingers curled deep inside the pharmacist's slick, shaved pussy—glistening folds parted wide, inner lips flushed deep pink, clit peeking swollen and proud. Each thrust produced a lewd, creamy sound and sent a fresh gush of arousal trickling down Mira's inner thighs onto the blanket.
Mira mirrored the motion perfectly: her elegant fingers—still faintly stained green from grinding herbs—plunged in and out of Liora's dripping cunt, thumb circling the engorged clit in tight, teasing circles. Their hips rolled in slow, greedy rhythm, breasts pressed together, nipples dragging deliciously with every grind.
They kissed hungrily—messy, open-mouthed, tongues sliding and tangling with wet, sucking sounds. Saliva glistened on their chins; soft whimpers and gasps escaped between kisses. The air in the small room was thick, heady—sweat, feminine arousal, crushed herbs, and the sharp tang of raw desire.
Then Liora's eyes flicked open, catching sight of the two young men gaping in the doorway. She didn't stop—didn't even slow—her fingers still curling deep inside Mira, drawing a shuddering moan from the pharmacist.
In a husky, awkwardly amused tone, Liora purred, "She… gave me the right answer."
Mira, eyes half-lidded with pleasure, glanced over and smirked, not pausing her rhythmic thrusting either. Elaric and Thorne could only nod dumbly, mouths dry, cocks already straining painfully against their trousers as they stood rooted, shamelessly enjoying the show.
Eventually, with a final shared gasp and trembling climax that left both women shuddering and slick-thighed, they disentangled. Mira rose gracefully, straightened her apron (though it did nothing to hide the wet shine on her fingers or the flushed glow of her skin), and sauntered to the counter.
She took their herb baskets, weighed the moonleaf with practiced efficiency, and dropped one copper coin into each of their palms—her fingers lingering just a fraction too long, still warm and slippery.
Then, with a wicked little smile, she ushered them toward the door. "Closing early today, boys."
The door shut firmly behind them, the lock clicking with finality.
Elaric and Thorne stood on the empty street like lost puppies, each clutching a single copper coin, trousers tented obscenely, faces burning.
Thorne stared at the closed door for a long moment, then whined pitifully, "Hey! At least let us watch the encore!"
A muffled feminine laugh drifted from inside the pharmacy—followed by the unmistakable sound of renewed kissing and the soft rustle of fabric hitting the floor.
The two friends remained there, ears pressed to the wood, copper coins warm in their fists and dreams of future "sharing" suddenly feeling very, very far away.