Summer draped Eldoria in gold and languid heat. The inn's courtyard became a stage for long evenings: travelers sprawled on benches, children chasing fireflies, musicians coaxing lutes into drowsy melodies. The east suite stood empty, its lavender scent faded, but Aiden's nights were never lonely. Brenna's cart arrived at dawn with flour and soft kisses; Rowan slipped in once a month with new tinctures and newer appetites. Still, the black pearl in his pocket felt heavier each day—a reminder that some storms left echoes.
On the first full moon of harvest season, a woman arrived on foot, belly swollen beneath a simple linen dress. Midwife Liora, called from three villages away to tend a breech birth. Forty-seven summers, broad-hipped and strong-shouldered, her silver-streaked braid swung like a pendulum as she walked. Her breasts—gods, they were magnificent: full and heavy with late pregnancy of her own, nipples dark against the damp fabric clinging to her skin. Sweat traced the valley between them; her ass swayed with each step, round and fertile, the kind of body that had delivered dozens into the world and still craved its own filling.
Elara met her at the door. "Liora! The babe came right-wise, thank the gods. Mother and child resting. You'll stay the night—roads are bandit-free, but moon-mad."
Liora's laugh was warm milk. "I'll not argue with a soft bed and your stew, Elara."
Aiden carried her satchel—herbs, clean linens, a birthing stool folded small. She smelled of yarrow and woman-sweat, her skin glowing in the lamplight. When she bent to set down her bundle, her dress rode high on thick thighs; a glimpse of slickness glistened where her legs met. The heat, the walk, the moon—her body was ripe, pussy already dripping slow and steady down one leg.
Harlan clapped her shoulder. "Eat first, sleep second. Aiden, see her fed."
They dined in the common room, Liora between Aiden and his parents, devouring stew and black bread like a woman starved. Her breasts brushed his arm with each laugh; beneath the table, her bare foot found his ankle, tracing slow circles. When Elara yawned and declared bedtime, Liora's eyes met Aiden's—storm-gray like Seraphine's, but warmer.
"The moon's high," she said softly. "I've a ritual for midwives after a birth. Needs privacy. The bathhouse?"
Aiden nodded, pulse thick in his throat.
The bathhouse was deserted, copper tubs empty, moonlight pouring through high windows. Liora lit a single beeswax candle, its honey scent mingling with the steam Aiden coaxed from the pipes. She undressed without ceremony—dress over her head, revealing a body lush with late pregnancy: belly round and taut, breasts veined blue and leaking tiny pearls of milk, hips wide enough to birth nations. Her pussy was a marvel—plump outer lips framing inner petals flushed dark, slick with arousal that trailed down both thighs now.
She stepped into the tub, sighing as heat lapped her calves. "Join me, lad. The moon asks for balance—life given, life taken in pleasure."
Aiden stripped, cock springing free, flushed and aching. He slid in behind her, water rising to their waists. Liora leaned back, her ass nestling against his groin, breasts floating heavy. He cupped them gently—gods, they overflowed his hands, nipples leaking warm milk that mingled with the water. He rolled the peaks between thumb and finger; she moaned, arching.
"Lower," she breathed.
His hands slid over her belly, tracing the curve where life grew. When he reached her pussy, she was drenched—hot, slick, clit swollen and begging. He stroked slow, parting her folds, two fingers slipping inside to curl against that spot that made her gasp. Milk dripped steadily from her breasts now, mixing with her juices as she rocked against his hand.
Liora turned in the tub, straddling him. Water sloshed over the rim. She guided his cock to her entrance—slow, deliberate, sinking down until he was buried to the hilt in liquid heat. Her walls fluttered, milking him with every breath. She rode him gently at first, breasts bouncing, milk spraying in tiny arcs with each rise and fall.
Aiden suckled one nipple, tasting sweet warmth, while his hips thrust up to meet her. The rhythm built—slow, deep, the slap of wet flesh echoing under the moon. Liora's pussy gushed around him, coating his balls, dripping into the water. When she came, it was with a low, rolling cry—walls clenching, milk flooding his mouth, body shuddering in waves.
He flipped her carefully—belly protected by folded towels on the tub's wide rim—and took her from behind. Her ass rippled with each thrust, breasts swaying, milk pattering onto the tiles. Aiden reached around, fingers circling her clit until she came again, pussy spasming, pulling him over the edge. He spilled deep, pulse after pulse, filling her until it leaked out around his cock.
They stayed joined, panting, moonlight gilding their skin. Liora traced the line of his jaw. "The moon's sated," she murmured. "And so am I."
At dawn she left with a basket of Elara's preserves and a promise to return when her own babe quickened. Aiden watched her go, the black pearl warm in one pocket, a drop of dried milk on his thumb from the other.
Summer ripened into autumn. The inn's roses gave way to chrysanthemums; the hearth crackled nightly. Brenna's loaves grew richer with nuts and dried fruit; Rowan's tinctures turned sharper with wintergreen. And Aiden—twenty-one, content, secretly sated—waited for the next moon, the next traveler, the next dripping, ripe secret to unfold in the quiet heart of Eldoria.