World Setting
The Kingdom of Eldoria is a realm of enchanted forests, crumbling sky-castles, and mana-fogged taverns. Adventurers' Guilds are the beating heart of every city—stone halls where bronze-rank rookies rub shoulders with platinum legends. Monsters drop crystal cores worth a fortune, but the real currency is favor: a kiss from a succubus scout, a night with the guild's elven quartermaster, or the whispered promise of a dryad's grove. Sex is as common as sword-sharpening; no one bats an eye at a wizard climaxing to recharge a spell, or a bard strumming lute strings with one hand while the other strokes a barmaid beneath the table.
Main Character
Name: Rowan Vale
Age: 19
Appearance: Lean, sun-browned, tousled chestnut hair, calloused hands from farm work. His only asset is a cock that—according to village gossip—made the blacksmith's daughter walk bow-legged for a week.
Background: Penniless after his parents' farm was razed by goblins. He arrives at the capital guild with one copper coin and a desperate grin.
The Lustrous Lantern Guildhall loomed at the edge of Eldoria's capital like a drunken giant—three stories of blackened timber and glowing stained-glass windows that bled crimson light onto the cobblestones. Rowan Vale stood before its doors with one copper coin in his pocket and the taste of smoke still clinging to his tongue. Three nights ago, goblins had torched his family's farm. Yesterday, he'd buried what little remained of his parents beneath a lonely oak. Today, he needed a new life.
He pushed the doors. They swung inward without a creak, as if the guild itself had been waiting.
Inside was chaos and warmth. A dwarf arm-wrestled a centaur over a barrel of mead. A bard plucked a lute while a topless barmaid danced on the table, coins clinking into her cleavage. In one corner, a wizard traced glowing runes on a warlock's bare back; each completed sigil made the warlock moan and arch. The air was thick with ale, sweat, and the unmistakable tang of sex.
Rowan's cock twitched. He adjusted his threadbare tunic and approached the counter.
Behind it stood **Captain Lira Silverquill**, high-elf, silver-haired, and built like a wet dream carved from moonlight. Her emerald corset laced so tight her breasts threatened rebellion with every breath. A ledger floated before her, pages turning themselves as her quill danced.
"Name and trade," she said without looking up. Her voice was honey over steel.
"Rowan Vale." He tried to sound confident. "Broke as a beggar's promise. I swing a sword… and other things."
The quill paused. Lira's gaze lifted—emerald eyes sharp enough to cut glass. They flicked downward, lingered on the growing bulge in his breeches, then returned to his face.
"Bronze initiation requires three proofs," she said, leaning forward. Her perfume—crushed nightbloom and something darker—made his head swim. "**Strength, Skill, and Stamina**. The third is tested in the **Pleasure Vaults** beneath the hall. Fail, and you scrub floors for a year. Pass…" Her tongue traced her lower lip, slow and deliberate. "You'll never scrub again."
Rowan swallowed. "When do I start?"
"Now."
She snapped her fingers. A side door irised open, revealing stairs that spiraled down into rose-lit darkness. Lira descended first, hips swaying like a metronome. Rowan followed, pulse hammering in his ears—and lower.
The Pleasure Vaults were a labyrinth of silk and shadow. Moans drifted through the corridors like distant thunder. They passed alcoves where adventurers coupled in every combination: a human knight buried face-first between a tiefling's thighs; two elven scouts scissoring atop a pile of furs; a gnome riding a half-orc's cock while the orc's tongue lapped at a succubus's cunt overhead. No one glanced twice. This was the guild's heartbeat.
Lira stopped at a circular chamber. The floor was a sunken silk bed the size of a wagon, stained with centuries of pleasure. Three figures waited in the candlelight:
- **Mira**, a human rogue with short black hair, leather armor half-unlaced, and a thief's grin.
- **Thalyn**, a wood-elf archer whose leggings clung to thighs like ivy, bow slung across her back.
- **Seren**, a tiefling sorceress, crimson skin shimmering, tail curling with interest, horns polished to a gleam.
Lira's voice cut through the haze. "Each will take you in turn. Last until all three are sated, and you're bronze-rank. Spill too soon…" She shrugged, a ripple of silk and cruelty. "The guild always needs pot-boys."
Rowan's hands went to his belt. The leather snapped free. His breeches dropped. His cock sprang out, thick and veined, already half-hard from nerves and the scent of aroused women. Mira circled him like a cat stalking cream.
"Farm boy's packing a plowshare," she teased, flicking the tip with a calloused finger. A bead of precum glistened. "Let's see if he knows how to till."
She pushed him onto the bed. The silk was cool against his back. Mira straddled his face without ceremony, leather trousers peeled down just enough to bare her cunt—slick, shaved save for a dark landing strip. The scent of her arousal hit him like a drug.
Rowan licked instinctively—slow, broad strokes from entrance to clit, then flicking the swollen nub like he'd once teased a mare's flank to calm her. Mira gasped, grinding down. Her thighs trembled. He sucked her clit between his lips, humming low. She came with a sharp cry, juices flooding his mouth, hips jerking like a bowstring released.
She rolled off, panting. "One."
Thalyn was next. The elf knelt between his legs, bow-calloused hands stroking his shaft with the same precision she used to nock arrows. "Endurance," she whispered, then took him to the root in one fluid motion.
Rowan groaned. Her throat was velvet fire, tongue swirling around the head on every upstroke. She hummed—an elven trick—vibrations shooting sparks up his spine. He lasted through two of her orgasms: first when she fingered herself while sucking him, second when she pulled off to grind her cunt against his thigh, leaving a slick trail. Her lips were swollen, eyes glassy.
"Not bad, human."
Seren approached last. The tiefling straddled him reverse, tail wrapping his balls like a warm ribbon. Her pussy was molten, inner walls rippling with sorcery. "Don't you dare come yet," she hissed, sinking down inch by inch.
Rowan gripped her hips, thrusting up to meet her. The room filled with wet sounds, the slap of skin on skin. Seren's tail tightened; she screamed, back arching, cunt clenching in waves. Rowan held on—barely—spilling only when she collapsed forward, spent, her tail loosening its grip.
Silence fell, broken only by heavy breathing.
Lira clapped once. "Bronze rank granted."
She tossed him a small bronze tag etched with a tiny erect cock—guild humor. Rowan caught it, still dazed, cum cooling on his belly.
"Welcome to the guild, **Rowan Vale**." Lira's smile was sharp as a dagger. "Clean up. Your first quest posts at dawn."
As the women dressed and filed out—Mira winking, Thalyn nodding approval, Seren trailing a finger through the mess on his chest—Rowan lay back on the silk, staring at the ceiling.
He was broke no longer. He was **bronze**. And tomorrow, the board would offer gold, glory, and almost certainly more cunt.
He grinned into the dark.