The final notes of the closing feast's music faded into the pre-dawn hush, leaving only the crackle of dying braziers and the soft sighs of sated bodies scattered across the coliseum sands. Silk ribbons and discarded wreaths lay trampled underfoot; the air hung heavy with the scents of sweat, oils, and spent desire. Ethan stood in the private pavilion overlooking the arena, Vaeloria and Liraya pressed against him, their skin still flushed from the night's endless celebrations.
Torches guttered low as the last revelers drifted away, bellies full, bodies marked by pleasure. Champions wore their medals proudly—and little else—until even they succumbed to exhaustion. Ethan had moved among them like a benevolent force, honoring victors with touch and thrust, ensuring no triumph went uncelebrated.
In the pavilion's shadowed heart, the three of them had claimed their own finale. Vaeloria on her knees first, sucking him deep while Liraya rode his fingers; then Liraya bent over the railing, Ethan taking her from behind as she devoured Vaeloria spread before her. Positions shifted in a haze—Vaeloria riding him reverse while Liraya straddled his face; both women atop him, grinding together as he thrust upward; finally, a slow, tangled spooning where he filled first one, then the other, seed leaking warm between thighs.
Now, as the first hint of rose touched the horizon, Ethan gazed out over his city. Eldoria slept deeply, renewed.
Vaeloria's arm tightened around his waist. "The people will fight harder now. They've tasted joy worth defending."
Liraya's fingers traced lazy fire patterns on his chest. "And we've bought time. The artifact strengthens in the vaults."
Ethan nodded. Scouts still reported shadows massing east, but preparations continued: walls reinforced, alliances courted, the relic's power studied nightly by temple mages. There was breathing room yet—perhaps another moon's cycle before the next great journey called.
He decided then: they would linger.
The Naked Olympics had ended, but the embers of glory burned on.
Days blurred into weeks of golden aftermath. Ethan walked the city as its living legend, no crown needed now—the vine wreath returned with ceremony, but his presence alone commanded reverence. Markets bustled with new energy; training yards rang with steel; temples overflowed with offerings for fertility and victory.
Whispers grew into proud announcements: temple healers confirmed the first swellings. Fifty women—athletes, courtesans, spectators who had claimed their prizes in the feast's chaos—now carried the Breeder's seed. Bellies just beginning to round, eyes bright with promise of strong children to come. The city celebrated with quiet feasts and public blessings, songs sung of the legacy born from triumph.
But desire demanded fresh fuel.
It began in the Guildhouse baths one humid afternoon. Ethan soaked in steaming pools, muscles easing from a morning spar, when Vaeloria and Liraya joined him—naked, oiled, eyes hungry despite the month's excesses.
"We've given the city spectacle," Liraya purred, sliding into the water beside him. "Now let them give us one."
Vaeloria straddled his lap underwater, grinding slowly. "A competition. The women compete—to cook for you. Naked. Seductive. The winner claims you exclusively for three days."
Ethan hardened instantly against Vaeloria's heat. "And you two?"
Liraya smirked. "We judge. And watch."
The idea spread faster than flame on oil.
Within days, the open-air kitchens behind the Guildhouse transformed into an arena of temptation. Long stone counters ringed a silk-draped pavilion; braziers glowed; spice racks overflowed. Ethan's throne—carved oak piled with furs—sat raised at the center, Vaeloria and Liraya at his sides in minimal silks.
Fifty competitors entered: veterans of the Olympics, eager newcomers—bakers, cooks, merchants' wives, temple acolytes—all stripped bare or in sheer aprons, bodies glistening with scented oils.
Rules were deliciously simple:
One dish each, savory or sweet, prepared in one hour.
Nudity mandatory; seduction encouraged.
Ingredients tasted from skin, sauces painted on bodies, offerings fed by hand or flesh.
Ethan sampled personally—often intimately.
Vaeloria judged flavor; Liraya judged creativity and heat; Ethan judged desire aroused.
Drums beat a sultry rhythm as the competition ignited.
First waves brought appetizers.
A curvaceous baker knelt before Ethan, honey-glazed dates nestled between full breasts. He ate slowly—lips closing around fruit and nipple alike, sucking until she moaned.
A spice merchant lay on a table, chilled grapes arranged along her thighs and mound. Ethan plucked them with teeth, tongue tracing higher until she writhed.
Dishes grew bolder: spiced oils licked from navels, chilled creams spooned from cleavages, fruits offered from lips while hands stroked him beneath the table.
By mains, the courtyard pulsed with arousal. Women drizzled sauces over breasts for him to lap; fed meats from between thighs; ground subtly against his legs while presenting.
Desserts shattered restraint.
One acolyte painted chocolate trails from throat to core, inviting Ethan to follow with tongue. He did—slowly, thoroughly—until she came against his mouth, chocolate smearing his beard.
Another arranged whipped cream peaks on nipples, berries hiding her clit. Ethan devoured, fingers plunging deep as reward.
The final five advanced amid cheers.
Tension coiled like smoke.
First finalist: Mira, the baker—flaming fruit in brandy, ignited on her belly, extinguished with cream. Ethan ate warm peaches from her skin, then cooler cream from her folds.
Second: Talia, the merchant—aphrodisiac stew simmered with Nubian roots, served in bowls nestled between breasts, then fed mouth-to-mouth in searing kisses.
Third: Sera, redheaded and bold—cake layers built on her body, cream between thighs, chocolate drizzled over entrance. Ethan dismantled it piece by piece, tongue delving deep.
Fourth: Nyra, quiet and intense—spiced honey meats carved and laid across muscled back and ass. He bit tender flesh while spanking lightly, her gasps seasoning the air.
Final: Aria, the swift runner—masterpiece of layered sweets: custard in navel, berries on nipples, sauce trails leading to slick pussy adorned with edible gold leaf.
She presented on the central table, legs spread wide. "Feast, Breeder."
Ethan descended.
He traced every trail—sucking berries from nipples until she arched; lapping custard from navel; following chocolate to her core. There he lingered, spreading her, devouring gold-flecked folds. Tongue speared deep, then circled her clit relentlessly. Fingers joined—curling, thrusting—as the courtyard watched breathless.
Aria shattered, hips bucking, juices sweeter than any sweet.
Rising, Ethan freed his cock—thick, veined, aching. Cheers thundered.
He flipped her onto her stomach over the table, ass presented. Rubbed his head along her dripping slit, coating himself.
"Winner takes her prize," he growled.
She pushed back eagerly. "Take me—hard—"
He slammed in to the hilt. Aria screamed pleasure, walls clenching hot and wet.
Ethan pounded relentlessly—hips snapping, cock pistoning deep. The table rocked; remnants smeared.
She pushed back against every thrust, taking his cock deep inside her wet pussy, greedy for more. Slapping sounds of flesh against flesh filled the air, raw and rhythmic.
His palm cracked down—sharp—red blooming on one cheek. Again, harder, alternating until both glowed crimson, each spank making her tighten.
"That's right!" Aria wailed, voice breaking. "Your whore! Your dirty little fuck toy!"
The words spurred him wild. He gripped red cheeks, spreading her, driving deeper—balls slapping clit.
"That's right!" she cried again. "Your whore! Your dirty little fuck toy!"
He spanked over and over, palm stinging, her ass jiggling under punishment as he rutted like beast.
Her climax hit first—body seizing, pussy spasming, squirting down his shaft. The constriction dragged him over; he buried deep and erupted—thick pulses flooding her womb, overflowing as he thrust through.
They collapsed forward, joined, seed leaking onto ruined sweets.
Vaeloria's voice rang clear: "Aria—victor."
For three days, she was his alone.
Secluded in his chambers: slow baths where he washed her tenderly, then ate her on the edge until begging; rough nights bound and spanked, repeating her words until hoarse—"That's right! Your whore! Your dirty little fuck toy!"—as he filled every hole.
Lazy afternoons on furs, riding slow; frantic balcony fucks under stars; tender mornings spooning deep.
On the fourth dawn, Aria left radiant, marked eternally.
Vaeloria and Liraya reclaimed him with amused hunger, the scent of her still clinging.
The city pulsed stronger—defenses rising, morale unbreakable.
As the moon waned, healers confirmed anew: twenty-eight more women now quickened from the cooking revels and lingering passions.
Added to the fifty from the Olympics, seventy-eight in total carried the Breeder's legacy.