Elaric Calweis stirred awake to the soft glow of morning sunlight filtering through the crimson drapes of Suite Seven, the air still heavy with the lingering scents of vanilla, rose oil, and the intimate musk of last night's teasing. His skin tingled where it pressed against warm, bare flesh—Thorne Blackwood's naked body curled beside him on the vast silk sheets, one freckled arm draped lazily across Elaric's thigh, the orphan's soft cock nestled innocently against his hip. Both of them lay completely exposed, the cool morning breeze from a cracked window raising gooseflesh on their chests and stirring the fine hairs on their thighs. Elaric's own shaft twitched half-heartedly at the memory of Cassia and Valeria's slow, merciless worship—lips, tongues, praise—leaving him aching and unfulfilled even in sleep.
He exhaled shakily, the ache between his legs a dull, persistent throb, and carefully extricated himself from Thorne's sleepy sprawl. The silk sheets slid across his skin like liquid, whispering as they fell away from his hips. Standing naked in the golden light, he felt exposed and deliciously vulnerable—nipples tightening in the cool air, balls heavy and sensitive as they shifted with each step. He retrieved his discarded clothes from the floor: rough linen tunic still faintly scented with the MILFs' perfume, trousers that rasped against his half-aroused length as he tugged them up, the coarse fabric teasing the sensitive head until he had to bite back a groan.
Beside him, Thorne stirred with a muffled yawn, auburn hair wildly tousled, freckled cheeks flushed from sleep. He blinked blearily, then grinned as memory returned—eyes dropping shamelessly to Elaric's barely concealed bulge before he stretched like a cat, muscles rippling under pale skin, cock flopping heavily against his thigh as he sat up. "Morning, brother," he rasped, voice thick with sleep and lingering lust. "Still blue as a winter sky down there?"
Elaric snorted, tossing Thorne's tunic at his face. "Shut it. Get dressed before Madam catches us lazing."
Thorne laughed, the sound low and rough, but obeyed—pulling on his clothes with deliberate slowness, hips rolling as he stepped into his trousers, the outline of his thick shaft still visible for a teasing moment before fabric hid it away.
They gathered their brooms and buckets from the hallway, the polished wooden handles cool and smooth in their hands. The third floor corridor was quiet now, only faint traces of last night's revelry remaining: a forgotten silk stocking draped over a banister, the distant creak of bedsprings from an early client, the warm, pervasive scent of sex that seemed baked into the very walls.
Elaric clapped Thorne on the shoulder, fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary on the firm muscle beneath the tunic. "You take the right side rooms," he said, voice steadier than the pulse in his groin. "I'll handle the left. Meet back in the gallery when we're done."
Thorne nodded, eyes glinting with shared mischief and unspoken ache. "Aye, captain. Try not to get distracted sniffing the sheets."
They separated with matching smirks, footsteps muffled on the plush rugs as they moved in opposite directions. Elaric's heart beat faster with every door he approached—each promising fresh evidence of the night's passions: rumpled beds still warm, damp patches cooling on silk, the heady perfume of aroused women lingering like an invitation he wasn't allowed to accept.
The erotic tension of the brothel wrapped around him tighter than any corset—every breath a reminder of what he'd tasted but not claimed, every movement a friction against fabric that kept him half-hard and desperate for the day's true reward
Elaric pushed open the next door on the left corridor, broom in hand, the faint scent of last night's excesses still clinging to the air—sweat, perfume, and the deeper musk of spent passion. He stepped inside and froze.
Lounging languidly atop the rumpled crimson sheets was a stunning MILF in her early forties, completely naked, her voluptuous body bathed in soft morning sunlight that streamed through sheer curtains. Her skin glowed golden, full heavy breasts rising and falling with slow breaths, dark nipples relaxed but still prominent, a soft curve of belly leading to wide hips and the dark, neatly trimmed patch between her thick thighs. One leg was bent, the other stretched out, casually exposing the plush outer lips of her pussy, still slightly flushed from the night's work.
She turned her head, raven hair spilling over the pillow, and smiled with warm, sleepy mischief. "Hey, little brother. Good morning."
Elaric's heart slammed against his ribs. Heat flooded his face; his cock—already half-hard from the brothel's constant tease—swelled instantly against his rough trousers. He gripped the broom handle tighter, knuckles whitening, trying not to stare at the way her breasts shifted as she propped herself on one elbow. "G-good morning, miss," he managed, voice cracking just a little. He forced his eyes to the floor and began sweeping with exaggerated focus, bristles rasping across the polished wood, though every stroke felt like it took forever under her amused gaze.
She watched him for a few minutes, lips curved in a teasing smile. "So diligent," she purred. "But you're trying very hard not to look at me, aren't you? It's cute."
Elaric's cheeks burned hotter. He mumbled something incoherent and kept sweeping, gathering discarded silk stockings and a forgotten leather belt, the faint scent of her arousal rising from the sheets as he straightened them.
When he finished and turned toward the door, her voice stopped him. "Hey, little brother… I need a shower. And you—" her gaze traveled pointedly over his dust-streaked tunic and the unmistakable bulge in his trousers—"look like you could use one too."
Elaric glanced down at himself: faint smudges of last night's cleaning, dried sweat on his collar, and yes, the lingering sticky traces of his own frustrated arousal. He swallowed hard.
"Why don't you help me?" she said softly, extending one elegant hand. "Come on."
He nodded frantically, throat dry, and took her hand—her skin warm, soft, fingers curling possessively around his. She rose from the bed without a shred of modesty, breasts swaying heavily, hips rolling as she led him naked down the corridor. Elaric's pulse thundered in his ears; every step sent friction against his trapped erection.
As they reached the grand staircase, he spotted Thorne emerging from a side room, being led by the hand by another naked MILF—Cassia, auburn hair loose, curves gleaming. Thorne's eyes were wide, face flushed, following her like an eager puppy. Their gazes met across the landing; Thorne winked desperately. Elaric winked back, a shared, silent "holy gods, is this real?"
The two women guided them downstairs to the brothel's luxurious bathhouse—a vast tiled chamber with steaming pools fed by hot springs, the air thick with fragrant steam, jasmine oil, and the clean mineral scent of heated water. Sunlight poured through high stained-glass windows, painting rainbow patterns across wet stone and bare skin.
Both MILFs released their hands and turned to face the boys, hands on hips, breasts proudly displayed, nipples tightening in the humid warmth.
"You two have huge expectations written all over your faces," Cassia laughed, voice echoing softly off the tiles. "But sorry, sweetlings—we're not fucking you in here. We're all exhausted from last night. We just want a proper bath, some relaxation, and to get ready for tonight's real customers."
Thorne's face fell instantly. His lower lip trembled; his eyes grew glassy, on the verge of actual puppy-like tears. Elaric kept his expression cool, jaw set, but inside his stomach twisted with sharp disappointment—his cock throbbing traitorously at the denial.
Valeria—the raven-haired beauty who had claimed Elaric—tilted her head, eyes sparkling with wicked amusement. "Although…" she drawled, stepping closer until her breasts nearly brushed his chest, the heat of her naked body radiating against him. "You can't fuck us… but you can touch. Wash every inch of us. Anywhere you want." She took his hand and guided it slowly to the curve of her hip, letting his palm feel the silky warmth of her skin. "And we'll wash you just as thoroughly. What do you think, little brothers?"
Thorne nodded so vigorously his head looked ready to bob off, like a chick frantically pecking rice. Elaric's nod followed a heartbeat later, just as eager, breath coming shallow.
Both MILFs burst into delighted, throaty laughter, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls as they turned toward the steaming pool, hips swaying in perfect sync, leaving glistening trails of invitation in the humid air.
"Come on then," Cassia called over her shoulder, voice dripping tease. "Hands ready, boys. We expect very… thorough… service."
Elaric and Thorne stripped hurriedly—tunics and trousers hitting the wet stone with soft thuds—cocks springing free, thick and aching in the warm steam. They stepped into the water after the women, hearts pounding, every nerve alight with the promise of touch but not release, the erotic tension coiling tighter than ever in the fragrant mist.