I died in my previous life from sheer exhaustion—collapsed at my desk after endless overtime, the hum of fluorescent lights and the bitter taste of cold coffee the last things I remembered. Then, everything shifted. I awoke crying in a cradle, my tiny hands grasping at a thatched roof overhead, the sharp scent of woodsmoke and fresh hay filling my lungs. This was no modern world; it was a medieval fantasy realm of magic and monsters, where distant howls echoed through ancient forests and the air shimmered with faint mana on starry nights.
I was reborn as Elarion Voss, retaining every memory of my grueling past life. My new parents—both seasoned adventurers—raised me in a quiet village nestled between rolling green hills and a sparkling river. Father had a booming laugh that shook the wooden beams of our modest home, his calloused hands teaching me to wield a small wooden sword. Mother's gentle voice sang lullabies by the flickering hearth, her herbal teas warming me on chilly evenings, their earthy aroma blending with the crackle of burning logs.
But tragedy struck when I was just twelve. A horde of ravenous goblins and shadow wolves descended on the village during a routine quest gone wrong. I hid in the root cellar, heart pounding like thunder, as screams pierced the night air—wet, guttural snarls mixing with the clash of steel and desperate cries. By dawn, the acrid stench of blood and smoke hung heavy; my parents lay lifeless in the village square, their bodies torn and cooling under the rising sun. They had been good people—brave, loving, orphans themselves who had built a life from nothing. Grief consumed me for a full year: sleepless nights haunted by vivid flashbacks, the salty sting of tears on my cheeks, an emptiness that ached deeper than any physical wound.
With no relatives to claim me, I inherited their modest assets—a sturdy cottage with creaking floorboards, a small plot of herb gardens fragrant with lavender and mint, a few gold coins hidden in a leather pouch, and their old adventuring gear gathering dust in the attic. I managed alone, the isolation sharpening my resolve. Days blurred into years: the rhythmic swing of an axe splitting firewood in crisp autumn air, the earthy taste of home-grown vegetables roasted over open flames, the soothing rush of the river as I fished at dusk.
Eight years passed in quiet survival. Now, at twenty-five, Elarion Voss stood tall and hardened—an adult forged by loss and self-reliance, my past-life knowledge burning like a hidden flame, ready to carve a new destiny in this unforgiving world.
Elarion Voss trudged along the narrow dirt path toward the forest's edge, the morning sun filtering through the canopy in golden shafts, warming his skin while the crisp, resinous scent of pine and damp earth filled his lungs. His boots crunched softly over fallen leaves and twigs as he carried an empty woven basket, intent on gathering rare healing herbs that grew deeper in the woods—their faint, sweet-bitter fragrance already teasing his nostrils from memory.
He reached a familiar clearing at the forest's border, where clusters of vibrant green moonleaf and crimson firebloom sprouted in abundance. Kneeling gently, he began plucking them with careful fingers, the cool, dewy stems snapping lightly, releasing a sharp herbal tang that mingled with the rich loam beneath his knees. The basket filled slowly, leaves rustling softly with each addition.
A sudden rustle from nearby bushes pricked his ears—soft, rhythmic, accompanied by a faint trickle like water on leaves. Curiosity overriding caution, Elarion quietly set the basket down and crept toward the sound, heart quickening in his chest. Parting the thick foliage with silent hands, he peeked through.
There, squatting in a small glade just beyond the bushes, was Lirael Thorne—a 35-year-old widow whose husband and young children had been slain years ago in a brutal monster attack. She lived alone on the village outskirts now, her once-vibrant life reduced to quiet solitude. Her simple linen dress was hiked up around her full, curvaceous hips, exposing the lush swell of her big, plump ass cheeks parted slightly as she relieved herself.
Elarion's breath caught, his eyes locked on the intimate sight: her glistening pink pussy fully exposed in the dappled sunlight, swollen lips parted wide around the golden stream arcing steadily from her slit. The delicate inner folds shimmered with moisture, her prominent clit peeking out like a ripe pearl, flushed and sensitive. Droplets clung to her silky pubic hair, trickling down her thick thighs, the warm, musky scent of her arousal and release drifting faintly on the breeze—earthy, intoxicating, making his mouth water involuntarily.
His cock twitched hard in his trousers, thickening instantly, a bead of slick pre-cum oozing from the tip to soak into the fabric, the sudden throb sending a hot jolt through his groin. He gripped the branch tighter, pulse pounding in his ears, every sense heightened—the wet patter of her pee hitting the leaves, the subtle quiver of her fleshy lips as the stream tapered off.
Lirael sighed softly in relief, unaware of his hungry gaze, shaking her hips once to flick away the last drops—causing her heavy breasts to sway beneath her dress, nipples faintly outlining against the thin material. She stood, smoothing her skirt down over those generous curves, her big ass jiggling slightly with the motion, and began walking directly toward the clearing where Elarion had been gathering herbs.
Panic and lingering arousal surging through him, he darted back silently, snatching up his basket and dropping to his knees just in time. He resumed picking herbs with deliberate slowness, fingers trembling faintly, his erection still straining painfully against his pants, pre-cum now a warm, sticky patch. The air felt thicker, charged, as her footsteps approached—soft crunches growing nearer—until Lirael emerged into the exact same spot, her presence suddenly close enough that he could catch the lingering warmth of her scent on the gentle forest breeze.
Lirael stepped into the sun-dappled clearing, her basket swinging lightly at her side. The faint, lingering warmth of her earlier relief still clung to the air around her—a subtle, intimate musk that mingled with the sharp herbal scent of crushed moonleaf.
"Hello, Elarion," she said softly, her voice low and husky from disuse, carrying just enough warmth to make his name feel like a caress. A stray lock of dark auburn hair fell across her flushed cheek as she smiled.
"Good morning, Lirael," he replied, forcing steadiness into his tone even as his pulse hammered in his throat. He kept his gaze politely on her face, though every nerve screamed to drop lower.
She knelt beside him to gather herbs, the hem of her simple linen dress riding up her thick, creamy thighs as she crouched. The loose neckline gaped invitingly with the motion, offering a generous view of the deep, soft valley between her heavy breasts—full, pendulous orbs barely contained by the thin fabric, their pale curves glistening faintly with morning perspiration. The dark pink edges of her areolas peeked teasingly into view each time she leaned forward, nipples already stiffened into prominent peaks that strained against the cloth.
Lower still, where her knees parted for balance, the skirt bunched higher. Elarion's breath hitched. Her bare pussy was fully exposed again—plump outer lips still glistening from her recent pee, the delicate inner folds flushed a deeper rose and parted slightly, revealing the slick, shiny entrance within. Tiny residual droplets clung to her trimmed curls and traced slow paths down the seam of her slit, catching the sunlight like liquid diamonds. The heady, salty-sweet scent of her arousal now layered over the earthy trace of urine, intoxicating and raw.
His cock, already half-hard from earlier, surged to full attention beneath his trousers—thick, veiny length throbbing insistently against the rough fabric, the swollen head leaking a steady trickle of pre-cum that soaked warmly through the material, creating a visible dark patch at the tip. Every heartbeat sent another pulse of heat through his shaft, making it twitch visibly under the strained cloth.
Minutes passed in charged silence, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves and their quiet breathing. Then Lirael shifted slightly, her gaze drifting downward as she reached for a cluster of firebloom. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating as they locked on the prominent bulge straining against his pants—the unmistakable outline of his massive, rigid cock, veins ridged and pulsing beneath the fabric.
A soft, involuntary gulp escaped her throat. Heat flooded her cheeks, but she didn't look away. Instead, her body betrayed her: a fresh gush of slick arousal leaked from her swollen pussy, mixing with the lingering moisture of her pee. Warm rivulets trickled down her inner thighs, soaking into the hem of her skirt and leaving a darker, spreading patch on the light linen between her legs. Her clit throbbed visibly, peeking out further, engorged and glistening.
Elarion saw it all—the subtle quiver of her thighs, the fresh sheen coating her puffy lips, the way her breath quickened into shallow pants. The air between them grew thick, electric, heavy with unspoken hunger and the wet, musky perfume of her dripping need. Neither spoke, yet the forest around them seemed to hold its breath, waiting for whatever came next.