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.