Mira's fingers worked the laces at her bodice with the practiced ease of a woman who had dressed and undressed herself in this room a thousand times. The linen parted slowly, revealing sun-freckled collarbones, then the upper swell of breasts that had once nursed children who never grew old enough to remember her milk. They were heavy, full, nipples already tightening into dusky peaks from nothing more than the cool evening air slipping through the open window and the weight of Alex's gaze.
She didn't rush. There was no coy hesitation, no performative shyness. In Aetheria, bodies were not currency to be hoarded; they were shared like good wine or warm hearth-fire. Yet something in the way she looked at him—soft, almost reverent—told Alex this moment carried different weight.
He let his expression stay open, boyishly awed, while inside the machinery turned with cold precision.
Look at her. Already half-convinced I'm holy just because I appeared on a hill with convenient amnesia. One trembling voice crack, one perfectly timed blush, and she's ready to bare everything. Pathetic how quickly faith replaces skepticism when the story feels good.
He stepped closer as the dress slipped down her shoulders, pooling at her elbows. Her scent bloomed stronger now—warm skin, crushed rosemary from the herb basket, the faintest trace of arousal already gathering between her thighs like morning dew. He inhaled deliberately, letting her see him do it.
"You smell like life itself," he murmured, voice pitched low enough that it felt like a secret between them and the Goddess. "Like everything good I was taught to deny back home."
Mira's breath hitched. Her hands paused, dress still caught at her wide hips.
"Then let me show you there is no denial here," she whispered. "Only celebration."
She shrugged the fabric the rest of the way down. It whispered to the floorboards. Underneath she wore only simple linen smallclothes—already damp at the crotch—and nothing else. Her belly was soft, gently rounded from years and grief; stretch marks silvered like faint rivers across the lower curve. Her thighs were thick, powerful, the kind that could cradle a man and never let him feel the ground again. Dark auburn curls framed the plump lips of her sex, glistening faintly in the candlelight.
Alex's cock stirred behind his trousers—genuine physical response, yes, but secondary to the real thrill: power. Not the crude dominance of force, but the surgical kind. The kind that made someone thank you while you hollowed them out.
He reached out slowly, palm hovering an inch from her breast, letting her feel the heat of his hand before contact.
"May I… touch what the Goddess has blessed?" he asked, letting the question tremble just enough.
Mira nodded, eyes shining. "It would honor Her."
His fingers closed around the soft weight of her left breast. Warm. Heavy. The skin silk-smooth except for the faint texture of old stretch marks under his thumb. He squeezed gently, then firmer, watching her nipple pebble harder against his palm. A small sound escaped her—half sigh, half prayer.
Inside: She's already wet. I can smell it. One squeeze and her body betrays every pious thought. Give them a halo and they'll spread faster than if you held a knife to their throat. Religion is the ultimate free-use hack.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Tell me how the faithful honor the Mother with their mouths."
Mira shivered. Her hands rose to his shoulders, steadying herself.
"Like this," she breathed.
She sank gracefully to her knees—slow, deliberate, the motion of someone offering worship rather than submitting to lust. The floorboards creaked under her weight. Her fingers worked the ties of his trousers with the same calm competence she'd used on her own dress.
When his cock sprang free—thicker and longer than it had any right to be in this new body, veins pulsing—she made a soft, appreciative sound low in her throat.
"So beautifully made," she murmured, almost to herself. "A gift to Her chosen."
She didn't hesitate. One hand wrapped around the base—firm, warm, callused in all the right places—while the other cupped his balls like sacred relics. Then her mouth was on him.
Hot. Wet. velvet-soft tongue curling under the head on the first slow pass. She took him deep from the beginning—no teasing licks, no virginal fluttering. Just steady, worshipping suction that hollowed her cheeks and painted pleasure up his spine in bright streaks.
Alex let his head tip back, let a low groan escape—genuine, but carefully measured. Never too much. Never losing control of the performance.
Fuck, she's good. Years of practice, no shame, no gag reflex worth mentioning. But it's not about her skill. It's about what she's doing right now: kneeling for a stranger she thinks is divine. Every bob of her head is another brick in the cathedral I'm building inside her mind.
He threaded fingers into her auburn hair—not pulling, not yet. Just holding. Guiding the rhythm by the slightest pressure. She hummed around him in approval, the vibration traveling straight to his balls.
After a long minute of slow, deep worship, she pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny, eyes glassy with devotion.
"Will you… bless me now?" she asked softly. "Inside. Deep. Let me carry even a drop of your essence as proof of Her favor."
Alex smiled—gentle on the outside, razor-sharp within.
Already begging to be bred. Not even twenty minutes since we met. Give them scripture and they'll line up to be your cum-dumpsters. Beautiful.
He helped her to her feet, then guided her backward until the backs of her thighs hit the edge of the wide bed. She sat. Lay back. Spread her legs without prompting—wide, unashamed, sex glistening openly in the firelight. The scent of her arousal was thick now, musky-sweet, intoxicating.
He knelt between her thighs, let his cock brush her folds—once, twice—coating himself in her slick.
"Look at me," he said quietly.
Her eyes locked to his.
"When I enter you," he continued, voice dropping into something almost hypnotic, "know that this is more than pleasure. This is sacrament. Every thrust is a prayer. Every drop I leave inside you is a blessing you will carry. Do you accept this offering?"
Tears—actual tears—gathered at the corners of her eyes.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, my lord. Fill me. Make me whole again."
My lord.
The title hit like cocaine.
He pushed in one long, slow glide.
She was molten. Tight despite her age and experience, walls fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper. Her back arched off the mattress; a soft cry spilled from her lips—not pain, only overwhelming fullness.
He bottomed out. Held there. Let her feel every inch, every pulse.
Then he began to move.
Slow at first—deep, deliberate rolls of his hips that dragged every ridge along her sensitive places. Her breasts swayed with each thrust; he caught one in his hand, thumb circling the nipple in time with his rhythm.
Her hands clutched his shoulders. Nails bit skin. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him harder.
"More," she gasped. "Deeper. Please—give me everything She sent you to give."
Inside his head the litany continued, cold and gleeful:
She's crying now. Actual tears of gratitude while I fuck her raw. One night. One performance. And she's already ruined for anyone who isn't wearing my halo. Tomorrow she'll tell the village. Tomorrow they'll all come—wives, widows, mothers—begging for their turn at salvation.
He picked up pace. The bed creaked under them. Wet sounds filled the room—slick flesh meeting slick flesh, her breathless moans, his carefully restrained grunts.
When he felt the first ripple of her climax approaching—walls fluttering, breath stuttering—he leaned down, lips against her ear.
"Come for your oracle," he commanded softly. "Come and seal the blessing."
She shattered.
A keening cry tore from her throat. Her cunt clamped down like a fist, milking him in hard, rhythmic pulses. Her thighs trembled around his hips. Tears streamed freely now, mixing devotion and ecstasy.
Alex let himself follow—pushed deep, held there, and emptied inside her with slow, deliberate spurts. Each pulse felt like marking territory. Each groan he allowed himself was calculated to sound reverent.
When the last tremor left them both, he stayed buried to the hilt. Let her feel him softening inside her, let his seed stay deep where it belonged.
Mira's arms wrapped around him. She pressed kisses to his jaw, his throat, murmuring broken prayers of thanks.
"You… you are truly sent," she whispered against his skin. "I feel it. Here." Her hand pressed low on her own belly. "Already."
Alex kissed her forehead—gentle, almost tender.
Inside: One down. How many more before the whole village calls me 'my lord'? How long before they fight to carry my bastards and call it divine will?
He smiled into her hair.
"Rest now," he murmured. "Tomorrow the village will want to greet their new oracle properly."
Mira nodded, already drifting, cheeks flushed with afterglow and belief.
Alex remained awake long after her breathing evened out.
Planning.