Max opens his eyes under a violet sky he never saw in his previous life. The acrid haze of the dungeon still burns his throat, and the echo of his own breathing returns a present he doesn't recognize. Nothing remains of Stepmother Dawn, not even the smell of coffee from the pot; instead, it smells of wet rock and charred goblin blood. He sits up among rubble and remnants of rusted armor. The body he moves is no longer that of an exhausted programmer: Agility 17, Constitution 22, Vigor 19… the numbers float before his pupils like a gamer HUD come to life.
A whimpering cry breaks the floating arithmetic. Three steps away, between collapsed columns, a young blonde woman lies with her wrists bound by goblin leather straps. Her white cotton tunic is torn to the waist; two generous breasts, round and tense, heave to the beat of a breath that refuses to calm down. Max feels the false calm of a knight—the kind he tried to cultivate with meditation tutorials—slip through his ribs. He kneels, draws the dagger he just looted, and cuts the bindings in one stroke.
"Are you okay?" he asks in Spanish, not knowing if this world will understand him.
The young woman looks up; moist light-blue eyes blink. Her left eyelid has a small scar that looks like a star. Her mouth opens, but instead of words, she spits a small stream of blood from biting her tongue in fear. Max doesn't understand the local language, but he understands the hard nipples pressing against the torn fabric and the trembling rising up her bare thighs. He takes off his gray linen cloak—the only clean garment he has left—and places it over her shoulders. The contact of his fingers with her skin is a shock: the blonde shudders and presses her legs together, as if the simple touch were enough to stoke a need she doesn't even understand herself.
A blue panel blinks before Max: «Rescue complete: Leana, servant of unknown lineage. Alignment: Neutral. Level 1. Hobby: Gardening. Latent fetish: Exhibitionism». Max blinks twice; the system disappears again. He decides to name her Leana in his head and take her outside before the dungeon collapses.
Outside, the air of the western prairie smells of rosemary and other people's sex. The red-roofed cottage Max inherited after completing the starting quest stands among hedges of blue roses. Leana follows him staggeringly; every step makes her enormous breasts rise and fall beneath the cloak, outlining a hypnotic melody. Max tries to practice the "Radiant Knight" breathing taught by an NPC: inhale for four seconds, hold for four, exhale for four… But his eyes fly to the pair of buttocks swaying under the damp fabric. Erotic, bastard, inevitable.
Inside, the house smells of new wood. Max settles her in the room next to his, separated by a partition wall only a hand-span thick: enough to hear the rustle of the sheets when she turns over. He promises himself not to touch her. He promises to be knightly. The promise lasts exactly until the second night, when he discovers that Leana—out of habit or system commands—goes down to the garden to water the blue roses right at dawn. And she wears no underwear.
The vision hits him in the kitchen: the silver light of dawn pierces the cotton fabric, making it transparent. The crack of her buttocks is marked like a blasphemous whisper; the lips of her sex, swollen and pink, become visible when she bends over. Max feels his erection like a hot dagger against his leather pants. He withdraws before she notices, but the image is burned in. And it replays, every morning, like a personal porn video loop.
On the fourth day, the neighbor appears.
His name is Guntar, level 32, specialist in vigor potions. Tall, Nordic, an oak trunk with legs. He wears an open tunic that reveals a chest covered in blonde hair and leather breeches that barely contain a bulging package. According to village rumors, his "Volcanic Delay" potion allows him to resist ejaculating for hours. Max hates and admires him in equal measure. Guntar, for his part, barely blinks when he sees Leana watering: his blue eyes settle on the nipples peaking under the damp cloth, and a predator's smile lights up his square jaw.
"Nice flowers," Guntar says, without taking his eyes off Leana's hips.
Max feels a perverse pulse in his temple. Instead of closing the gate, he invites the guy in. Why? Because the "do not touch" promise is starting to taste like chastity, and voyeurism lurks as an escape valve. Guntar crosses the threshold; his scent of masculine herbs mixes with that of damp earth. Leana looks up, smiles without understanding, and continues. Max positions himself behind a low hedge, four steps away, with the excuse of "pruning honeysuckle." From there he watches as Guntar approaches from behind, fakes interest in the roses, and rests his right hand—slowly, surely—on Leana's shoulder. She radiates a tremor Max knows well: beginner fear, immediate curiosity, inevitable debauchery.
Guntar murmurs something in a deep tone. Leana blinks, smiles, nods without understanding. The neighbor slides his fingers through the torn fabric of her neckline, caresses the opening, and suddenly yanks it down. Leana's breasts bounce into the air like globes of warm flesh, heavy, hard at the tips. Max sees Guntar take one with his whole hand, lift it, let it fall, cup it again; the nipple rises more, taking on a dark pink, almost purple tone. Max throbs inside his pants; he unzips just a bit, enough to take his cock out and leave it in the air, safe from stains.
Guntar slides Leana's tunic down to her waist. She offers no resistance: Max's cloak hangs from her shoulders as her only layer of modesty. The neighbor kneels, spreads the blonde's legs with a nudge of his knee, and brings his face to her sex. The scent reaches even Max: a mixture of dew, flowers, and that sweet perfume of an aroused cunt. Guntar licks just once, from bottom to top, like someone tasting a new ice cream. Leana lets out a sharp «Ah!» that echoes among the roses. Guntar smiles, sticks his tongue out, and traces slow circles over her clitoris. Each circle coincides with a tremor of her hips; each tremor makes her breasts shake, her ass sink and rise, and the fabric slide further up her back until two round, white glutes are exposed, wet with dew and her own excitement.
Max runs his hand over his cock, not pumping yet, just holding it, feeling the pulse in the lower vein. He wants to intervene, but morbidity paralyzes him: watching is stronger than participating. Guntar stands up. He lowers his breeches; a thick cock, about twenty centimeters long, rises curved toward his navel. The red, shiny glans seems to polish itself against the breeze. He grabs Leana by the waist, turns her, and bends her forward. Her hands rest on the flowerpots; her breasts hang like heavy fruit. The crack of her ass opens enough to show a pink, tight, almost virgin anus. Further down, the labia majora separate, moist, showing an interior of pulsing raw flesh.
Guntar rubs the tip along the slit, barely inserting the head, pulls it out, puts it back in a centimeter. Leana moans, pressing her elbows against the earth. On the fourth thrust, Guntar drives it all the way in with a single shove. A wet, sucking sound fills the garden. Leana screams, sits up a bit, but the neighbor pushes her back down, grabs her hips, and begins a rhythmic swaying. Each strike brings out a squirt of transparent shine that mixes with the dirt. Guntar's balls bang against her clitoris, a dull patter that makes Leana arch her back.
Max pulses faster. He pumps his cock slowly, with the same cadence. He watches how Leana's glutes flatten against Guntar's pelvis, how they widen and sharpen, how the skin is marked red by the slaps the neighbor deals without pause. He decides to get closer. He crawls until he is underneath them, face up, among the pots. From there he sees: the cock going in and out like a greasy piston, the inner lips catching on the shaft, the swollen clitoris peeking through the folds. Leana notices him: she looks down, stares at him, her eyes filling with tears of shame and pleasure. Max smiles, winks at her, and with two fingers lifts his own penis so she can see it throbbing.
"That's it, baby, let that son of a bitch break your cunt…" he whispers in Spanish. "But don't come yet, the best part is coming."
Leana doesn't understand the words, but she catches the obscene tone; she stifles a moan and grips the flowerpot harder, as if holding on could contain the orgasm. Guntar, oblivious to the show below, keeps pumping. Faster, deeper. Max knows the potion is keeping him on the edge: pleasure without discharge, tension without relief. The neighbor roars, grabs Leana's nape, forces her to turn for a moment, and kisses her with tongue. His right hand slides to her breast, pinches the nipple, and pulls upward as if he wanted to rip it off. Leana screams against his mouth, the sound trapped between both tongues.
Max sits up just enough to reach Leana's clitoris. With his fingertips he squeezes, pinches it, twists it gently. The blonde trembles from head to toe. Guntar feels the internal contraction and grunts with satisfaction. Max continues: two quick pinches, one slow, one circular scratch. Leana arches, grabbing Max's wrist without looking at him, like someone grabbing a life preserver in the middle of a storm of pleasure. Her cunt tightens over Guntar's cock; the neighbor pulls his cock almost all the way out, leaves it exposed for a full second, then drives it back in with brutal force. The air fills with the smell of open sex.
"Do you want me to put it in your ass, you little slut?" Guntar asks in his guttural language.
Max doesn't understand, but he guesses the intention by the way the guy spreads the cheeks with his thumb, showing the pulsing anus. Max moves first: he spits in his hand, lubes two fingers, and brings them to the little hole. Leana blinks fast, looks at Max, and receives an approving smile. Guntar pushes the head of his cock against the "little rose"; the pressure makes way slowly, millimeter by millimeter. Leana makes a sound between a sob and a moan, but doesn't pull away. Max, with his other hand, continues massaging the clitoris, pressing at the rhythm marked by her breathing. When the glans enters completely, Leana's body unlocks: she relaxes, sinks, accepts. Guntar begins a short, almost meticulous anal pumping, as if counting the beats.
From below, Max contemplates the full scene: the cock appearing and disappearing between the buttocks, the cunt dripping onto his own chest, the testicles hitting his fingers every time Guntar sinks in. He feels the orgasm rising up his spine; he stops himself on purpose, squeezing the base of his cock. He doesn't want to finish yet. Leana, between two shudders, looks down, meets his eyes, and suddenly leans her head and kisses him. A crooked kiss, tasting of earth and another man's penis. Max inserts his tongue, twists it, bites her lower lip. Leana responds with a moan that gets lost in her throat.
Guntar accelerates. The final ten centimeters are an apotheosis of flesh against flesh: the guy no longer pumps, he tears. Leana pulls away from the kiss, screams, the scream breaking into gasps. The orgasm surges through her from top to bottom: her thighs tremble, her cunt expels a squirt of clear liquid that splashes Max's chest. Guntar keeps her pinned, shaking her from within, but he doesn't cum; the potion keeps him at the brink. Max feels the vibration in the anus squeezing his finger; it's as if her own pleasure were transmitted through the tissues.
When Leana's spasms subside, Guntar withdraws his cock with a wet pop. The anus remains half-open, red, throbbing. Max can't take it anymore: he sits up, kisses the nape of Leana's neck, and whispers in her ear:
"Now, baby, I'm going to cum in your mouth while he fucks you again… but this time from the front, so you can see how I watch you."
Leana nods, drunk on endorphins. She turns, kneeling on the damp grass. Guntar rips off his tunic, stands in front of her, and brings his cock to her face. Max stands beside him, grabs his own base, and puts it to her lips. Leana opens her mouth, receiving both members at once: a glans in each cheek. He feels her tremble, but she doesn't back away. She begins to suck, alternating, eager tongue, thick saliva dripping down her chin. Max and Guntar exchange a wolfish look over her blonde head. Without words, they enter a rhythm: when one withdraws, the other sinks in. Leana has to open her mouth wider, stifled moans escaping her. Her breasts hang, moving to the rhythm of the thrusts; her nipples brush the cold grass and get even harder.
Max feels his tip touch Leana's uvula; a shiver goes up to his scalp. He looks at Guntar, nods. Both withdraw at the same time, letting her gasp. Then Max cums first: a thick discharge that fills Leana's tongue, escaping through the corner of her mouth. Guntar, without losing his rhythm, pushes back in all the way, grabs her braids, and uses her, literally, like an object. Seconds later, he grunts, pulls out, and pours the first load over the blonde's breasts: white threads falling between the grooves, mixing with the earth, shining under the morning light.
Leana collapses on her knees, panting. Semen drips down her tits, covering her nipples. Max kneels at her level, strokes her cheek, and cleans a thread from the corner of her lips with his thumb. She looks at him, smiles awkwardly, and without being asked, brings her finger to her mouth and licks it. Max feels his erection reborn immediately.
Guntar steps aside, takes a deep breath, runs his hand over his chest, and puts on his breeches. The potion still runs through his veins: his cock remains semi-erect, like a promise. He reaches out, gives Leana a soft slap on the ass.
"Tomorrow, if your master allows it," he says in his language, "I will show you the room of chains."
Max translates the tone; he doesn't need the words. He nods, lifts Leana up, and pulls her against his chest. He feels her heart racing, her wet breasts sticking to his shirt. He kisses her on the forehead, then on the mouth, savoring his own semen mixed with the taste of the woman. The garden smells of freshly fucked sex, turned earth, and trampled roses. The sun, already high, warms their skin. In the distance, the village roosters crow midday.
Max whispers, almost to himself, almost to her:
"Welcome home, Leana. Tomorrow we return to the garden."