Two weeks in the Aether Spires passed in a blur of endless sky, crystal palaces, and insatiable women.
The floating islands were a realm unto themselves—gardens of flowers that bloomed in mid-air, waterfalls that flowed upward into rainbow mists, and breezes that carried the scent of ozone and desire. The sky women, with their lithe, toned bodies and cloud-silk wraps, seemed designed for pleasure: high, firm breasts that barely swayed in the low gravity, narrow waists flaring into rounded hips, and smooth, hairless pussies that glistened at the slightest arousal.
Ethan's days were a symphony of breeding.
Mornings began in open-air pavilions, where delegations of wind dancers presented themselves. They floated around him in slow circles, cloud-silk parting to reveal perfect bodies. One would straddle his face, her sweet pussy grinding against his tongue while another rode his cock reverse-cowgirl, her tight walls clenching as she bounced weightlessly. Threesomes were common—twin sisters with sky-blue hair taking turns sucking his dick until it throbbed, then impaling themselves in sync, pussies fluttering together until he came hard, flooding one womb after the other with thick, hot cum.
Afternoons brought cloud weavers—women whose magic spun silk from air itself. They wove floating beds that molded perfectly to bodies in motion. In one memorable session, five weavers surrounded him: two licking his balls and shaft while a third rode his face, her juices dripping down his chin. The remaining two took turns on his cock, pussies so slick and tight he lost count of orgasms—cumming deep inside each until creamy seed leaked down their thighs and floated away in glistening droplets.
Nights were full orgies under starfields so close they felt touchable. Dozens of sky women joined, bodies intertwining in zero-gravity bliss. Ethan floated at the center, cock buried in one pussy while mouths and hands worshipped every inch of him. Women spun slowly around him—tits pressing against his back, fingers teasing his ass, pussies sliding down his shaft in an endless chain. He came again and again, balls aching as he filled womb after womb, cum overflowing in pearly streams that drifted like stardust.
Through it all, Vaeloria served as his devoted personal assistant—a self-imposed atonement for her shadowed past.
The seven-foot silver-haired goddess followed him everywhere, her enormous tits straining against minimal cloud-silk wraps that did nothing to hide their heavy bounce. She organized schedules with quiet efficiency, carried trays of revitalizing nectar on her broad shoulders, and ensured his comfort—adjusting floating pillows, fanning him with massive wings of woven air when he grew heated.
But she never participated.
She only watched.
Countless times: standing silently at the edge of gardens while Ethan pounded a sky dancer's dripping pussy from behind, the woman's moans echoing as his balls slapped her clit. Kneeling nearby as he filled twin mouths with cum, thick ropes spilling over perfect lips while the sisters shared his load in a messy kiss. Looming protectively during orgies, sapphire eyes burning as bodies writhed—pussies squirting around his thrusting cock, tits jiggling in weightless ecstasy, cum leaking from freshly bred cunts.
Vaeloria's thighs clenched constantly, her own smooth pussy dripping down her inner legs in silent rivers. Her massive nipples stayed diamond-hard, poking obscenely through silk. She bit her lip to stifle moans, hands trembling as she resisted touching herself.
Thora and Brynja, the pregnant Amazon guards, watched too—stationed at pavilion edges, their rounded bellies and heavy tits proud symbols of loyalty. They exchanged heated glances with Vaeloria, understanding the torment of restraint all too well.
By the end of the two weeks, Ethan was utterly spent.
His body ached from endless thrusting—muscles sore, cock tender from constant use, balls empty and heavy with exhaustion. He lay on the vast central cloud bed, surrounded by dozens of newly pregnant sky women whose hands stroked him gently, cooing gratitude as faint glows already warmed their flat bellies.
Two hundred and fifty pregnancies overall now—one hundred from the Spires alone, quickened by the realm's fertile magic.
Lady Aeloria knelt beside him, pressing a final kiss to his forehead. "You have given us a future, Breeder. Rest now—we will forever guard the skies in your name."
Vaeloria lifted him tenderly into her arms—his head cradled between her enormous tits—as the cloud chariot prepared descent. Thora and Brynja flanked them, smiling knowingly.
As the islands faded into clouds below, Ethan drifted into deep, exhausted sleep.
In her devotion, Vaeloria held him close, silver hair spilling over them both.
The craving in her eyes promised that when he woke, her long wait would finally end.