The scent of warm cinnamon and rising dough drifted through the open windows of **Mira's Hearth**, the modest bakery tucked into the lower quarter of Voss territory. Cassian stepped inside just as the morning bell tolled seven, the hem of his dark cloak brushing flour-dusted floorboards.
Mira was alone, sleeves rolled high, forearms glistening with sweat as she punched down a mountain of dough. Her auburn hair escaped its kerchief in damp curls; the apron tied tight beneath her breasts did heroic work containing their generous swell. Each thump of her fists sent a soft jiggle through her plush frame—hips wide enough to fill the narrow aisle, thighs that pressed together with every shift of weight.
In the original game, Mira's route ended in arson. A jealous rival torched the bakery at midnight; Mira perished trying to save her recipe book. Cassian had memorized the flag: *"Gift her a fireproof iron safe before the 14th moon."* He carried it now, wrapped in burlap, under one arm.
"Lord Voss?" Mira startled, wiping her brow with the back of a wrist. Flour streaked her cheek like warpaint. "You're… early for the tithe collection."
Cassian set the iron safe on the counter with a deliberate *thud*. "Not collecting today. Delivering." He unlatched it, revealing a velvet-lined interior sized perfectly for a leather-bound tome. "Your recipes deserve better than smoke."
Mira's hazel eyes widened. She lifted the book she'd been guarding like a child—pages warped from steam, edges singed from a near-miss months ago. "How did you…?"
"I pay attention." He stepped closer, voice low. "And I protect what's mine."
The word *mine* hung between them, warm as the ovens. Mira's cheeks flushed deeper than the yeast could account for. She busied herself sliding the book into its new home, but her fingers trembled.
---
### **Afternoon: Dough & Desire**
Cassian lingered. Mira protested at first—"My lord, the ovens—" but he rolled up his sleeves and proved surprisingly adept. Years of grinding affection points in-game had taught him the rhythm: fold, press, turn. Their hands brushed over shared dough, knuckles sticky, heat rising from both the brick ovens and the slow coil in their bellies.
"Like this?" he asked, mirroring her motion. His forearm flexed; Mira's gaze snagged on the corded muscle before flicking away.
"Y-yes. Gentle at first. Then…" She demonstrated a firm push that made her breasts sway heavily. Cassian's cock stirred behind his trousers, but he kept his touch chaste—fingertips grazing her wrist, nothing more.
By the third batch, the bakery was a haze of steam and sugar. Mira untied her apron, revealing a simple linen dress clinging to damp skin. The fabric turned translucent across her chest; dark nipples peaked visibly beneath. Cassian's mouth went dry.
"Break time," she declared, voice husky. She poured two cups of chilled honey-milk, condensation beading like sweat. They sat on the flour-sack bench in the back room—private, window cracked open to the alley breeze.
Cassian sipped, watching a bead of milk slip from the corner of her lip. Without thinking, he reached—thumb brushing it away, lingering. Mira froze, breath catching.
"You work too hard," he murmured. "Let me ease the ache."
---
### **Evening: The First Taste**
The sun dipped low, painting the bakery gold. Mira locked the front door, heart hammering. Cassian had stayed all day—kneading, stoking fires, charming her with stories of distant spice markets. Now the last tray cooled on the rack, and the silence felt intimate.
"I should repay you," she said, twisting her apron in her hands. "For the safe. For… everything."
Cassian rose, towering but gentle. "Your company is payment enough." He cupped her chin, tilting her face up. "But if you insist…"
He kissed her—slow, deliberate. Lips soft as risen dough, tasting of honey and yeast. Mira melted with a whimper, hands flattening against his chest. When his tongue traced the seam of her mouth, she opened eagerly, a soft moan vibrating between them.
They stumbled back against the prep table. Cassian lifted her easily—hands under her plush thighs, setting her atop the flour-dusted surface. Mira's legs parted instinctively, dress riding high. No undergarments; bakers worked hot. Her pussy glistened, pink and swollen, framed by soft curls.
"Cassian…" Her voice cracked as he knelt, pushing her knees wider. The scent of her arousal mingled with fresh bread—heady, addictive. He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, teeth grazing but never biting. Mira's fingers threaded his hair, urging.
His tongue finally met her folds—long, languid licks from entrance to clit. She was slick, salty-sweet, dripping onto the table. Cassian groaned against her, vibrations making her hips jerk. He circled her clit with the flat of his tongue, then sucked gently—steady, worshipful pressure.
Mira's thighs trembled. "Oh gods—*there*—" Her first orgasm rolled through her like warm dough rising, back arching, breasts heaving as she cried out. Cassian lapped her through it, swallowing every pulse, until she sagged, panting.
He stood, shedding his shirt. Mira's eyes darkened at the sight of his cock straining against trousers—thick, flushed, a bead of precome darkening the fabric. She reached for him, stroking through cloth, then tugged the laces free. It sprang into her hand, hot and heavy.
"Want you inside," she whispered, guiding him to her entrance. Cassian pushed in slowly—one inch, pause, another—watching her face for any discomfort. There was none; only bliss. Mira's walls fluttered around him, velvet grip pulling him deeper.
They moved in the rhythm of kneading: deep, unhurried strokes. Cassian's hands cupped her ass, lifting slightly so each thrust grazed her front wall. Mira's breasts bounced free of her dress; he bent to suckle one nipple, then the other, rolling the peaks between tongue and teeth. She keened, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Fill me," she begged, legs locking around his waist. "Mark me as yours."
Cassian's control snapped. He drove deep, hips snapping, the table creaking beneath them. Mira came again—harder, pussy clenching in rhythmic waves that dragged him over the edge. He spilled inside her with a guttural groan, pulse after pulse of heat painting her walls.
They stayed locked together, foreheads touching, breath mingling with the scent of sex and fresh bread.
---
### **Night: A Promise Sealed**
Later, curled on the narrow cot above the bakery, Mira traced lazy circles on Cassian's chest. "The fire… you knew it was coming."
"I'll stop every tragedy," he vowed, kissing her temple. "Starting with you."
She smiled sleepily, one thigh draped over his. "Then tomorrow… teach me a new recipe. One that takes *all night* to rise."
Cassian chuckled, already planning. *Two moms saved. Serena's temple bells ring at dawn.*
The **Temple of Luminous Grace** sat on a hill overlooking the Voss estate, its white marble steps worn smooth by centuries of kneeling pilgrims. Cassian arrived at dawn, cloaked in plain wool to avoid attention. The air smelled of incense and dew-kissed lilies.
**Serena** was alone in the inner sanctum, kneeling before the altar. Her pale blonde hair spilled from its loose braid, catching the first rays of sunlight like spun gold. The priestess robe—simple white linen—clung to her curves: full breasts pressing against the fabric with each slow breath, hips flared wide even in prayer, thighs thick and soft beneath the hem that pooled around her knees.
In the game, Serena's bad end came via *ritual sacrifice*. The corrupt high priest drained her "divine essence" during a blood moon, leaving her body cold on the altar. Cassian had the date marked: three weeks away. Plenty of time to seduce, protect, and *claim*.
He knelt beside her, head bowed. Serena's eyes fluttered open—soft violet, framed by long lashes. "Lord Voss?" A whisper, reverent. "You honor us with your presence."
"I seek guidance," he said, voice low. "And perhaps… absolution."
---
### **Morning: Sacred Touch**
Serena led him through the temple's daily rites. Cassian mirrored her movements: lighting candles, pouring holy water, chanting in the old tongue. Their fingers brushed when passing the silver chalice—hers cool, trembling slightly. Each accidental contact lingered longer.
During the cleansing ritual, she anointed his forehead with scented oil. Cassian caught her wrist gently. "Allow me." He dipped his thumb, tracing a slow circle on her brow. Serena's breath hitched; the oil warmed between them, scent of jasmine blooming.
"You feel it too," he murmured. "The pull."
Her cheeks flushed. "The Goddess teaches restraint…"
"But She also teaches *love*." He released her, stepping back. The slow burn required patience.
---
### **Afternoon: Confession & Caress**
The confessional booth was dim, cedar-scented. Serena sat on one side of the lattice screen; Cassian on the other. Her voice trembled as she spoke of loneliness—years of celibacy, the weight of duty, dreams that left her waking slick and aching.
"I see your face in them," she confessed, barely audible. "Since you began visiting."
Cassian's cock throbbed, but he kept his tone steady. "Describe the dream."
A pause. Then: "Your hands… on my breasts. Your mouth…" She stopped, mortified.
He reached through the lattice, finding her hand. "No shame here, Serena. Only truth."
She squeezed his fingers, knuckles white.
---
### **Evening: The Anointing (Heavy Smut Begins)**
Moonlight filtered through stained glass as the temple emptied. Serena led him to the **sanctum pool**—a sacred spring fed by underground streams, used for purification. Steam rose from the water; lotus petals floated on the surface.
"Join me," she said, voice shaking. "For the final rite."
Cassian undressed slowly, letting her watch. His body—lean, scarred from duels—drew a soft gasp. Serena's robe slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. Her body was a revelation: heavy breasts with pale pink nipples, a soft belly marked faintly with silver stretch marks, hips wide enough to cradle a man, thighs that pressed together with a shy *shlick* of arousal.
They stepped into the water. It lapped at her waist, then her breasts as she sank lower. Cassian moved behind her, hands settling on her shoulders. "Relax," he whispered, kneading gently. Serena moaned, head falling back against his chest.
His hands drifted lower—cupping her breasts, thumbs circling nipples until they pebbled hard. She arched, water sloshing. "Cassian…"
He turned her, pressing her back to the pool's edge. Kissed her—slow, deep, tongue stroking hers like a prayer. Serena's legs parted; he settled between them, cock nudging her slick folds but not entering. Not yet.
"Tell me what you want," he growled against her throat.
"You," she breathed. "Inside me. Bless me."
---
### **Night: Divine Union**
Cassian lifted her onto the marble rim, water cascading from her curves. He knelt in the shallows, spreading her thighs wide. Serena's pussy was beautiful—plump outer lips, inner folds glistening pink, clit swollen and begging. He kissed it reverently, then licked—long, slow drags from entrance to peak.
Serena's hands flew to his hair, hips rocking. "Yes—*oh Goddess*—" Her first orgasm hit like a hymn, body bowing, breasts trembling as she cried out to the vaulted ceiling.
He rose, cock aching. Serena reached for him, guiding the thick head to her entrance. "Slow," she whispered. "I've never…"
*Virgin priestess route.* Cassian nearly came from the knowledge alone. He pushed in carefully—inch by inch, watching her face. Tight heat enveloped him, walls fluttering. When he bottomed out, they both groaned.
They moved like a sacred dance: deep, unhurried thrusts, water rippling with each stroke. Cassian's hands worshipped her—palming her breasts, stroking her belly, thumbs circling her clit. Serena's legs locked around his waist, heels digging into his back.
"Fill me," she begged, voice breaking. "Make me yours."
He did—hips snapping faster, the slap of wet skin echoing. Serena came again, pussy clenching in rhythmic pulses that dragged him over. He spilled deep, pulse after pulse, marking her as his.
After, they floated in the pool, her head on his chest. "The blood moon," she murmured. "You'll stop it?"
"I'll burn the high priest myself," Cassian vowed, fingers tracing her spine. "And then I'll worship you every dawn."
Serena smiled, sleepy and sated. "Then I'll bake you honey cakes… like Mira does."
Cassian's lips curved. *Three moms. One temple. One bed, soon.*