The boy looked up from his book.

He had been reading in the corner— a small thing, no older than eight, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his legs tucked beneath him on the chair. The book was thick. Too thick for a child his age. But he read it with the easy absorption of a boy who had nothing else to do and who had learned that books were better company than silence.

He looked at the bathroom door.

The sounds were still coming. The wet sounds. The moaning sounds. The muffled gasps and the rhythmic creaking of the copper tub shifting on the tile.

He looked at Vess. At Juhi. At Sera.

"Where is Mother?" he said. His voice was clear. Young. The voice of a child who has asked this question before and who expects a straight answer. "Why is she taking so much time in the bathroom?"

Vess laughed.

It was a full laugh. Warm. The kind of laugh that comes from a woman who has lived in this house long enough to know exactly what is happening behind that door and who finds the boy’s innocence genuinely, helplessly funny. Her enormous breasts heaved with the laughter. Her green eyes crinkled.

Juhi laughed too. Softer. Her hand covered her mouth. Her dark eyes sparkled with amusement and a hint of embarrassment.

"Uncle is helping her a bit," Vess said. She leaned forward. She winked at the boy. "Cleaning herself."

The boy chuckled.

"I know," he said. His young face split into a grin. "She must be drinking aga—"

Vess moved.

Fast. The red-haired woman crossed the room in two strides. Her hand clamped over the boy’s mouth. Her palm was warm. Her fingers pressed against his lips. She held him.

"Shut up, boy," she said. Her voice was low. Firm. The voice of a woman who loves a child and who is also terrified of what that child will say next. "That is not something you should say."

The boy nodded beneath her hand. His eyes were wide. His mouth was covered. His nose scrunched.

Vess released him.

He rubbed his mouth. He looked at Vess. At Juhi. At Sera. He looked at the bathroom door. The sounds were still coming. Louder now.

Sera sat on the bed. Her face was crimson. Her hands were in her lap. Her fingers were twisting the fabric of her training tunic. She had heard the sounds. She had heard the moaning. She had heard the wet, rhythmic, unmistakable sounds of a woman’s mouth on a cock, or a cock in a woman, or both, and she was sitting here with a child and two beautiful women who were smiling as if this were completely normal.

"What is he saying?" Sera asked. Her voice was small. Confused. The voice of a woman who does not understand the joke and who is afraid that understanding it will make it worse.

Vess looked at her. Her green eyes were warm. Amused. Sympathetic.

"He has seen them," Vess said. She gestured at the bathroom door. "Both of them. Going wild at night. He walked in once."

Sera’s face went from crimson to purple.

Her head dropped. Her chin hit her chest. Her braid fell forward. She stared at her lap. At her twisting fingers. At the calloused hands that had held a sword for sixteen years and that were now gripping fabric because she did not know what else to do.

The bathroom door opened.

The woman came out.

She was coughing. Her hand was over her mouth. Her eyes were red— watery, streaming, the lashes clumped together. Her dark hair was wet— hanging in ropes around her face, dripping onto her shoulders, onto the towel that was wrapped around her body. The towel was large. White. It covered her chest— barely. Her breasts were enormous beneath the fabric, the nipples visible through the wet terry cloth, dark and stiff. The towel covered her stomach— the round, soft flesh pressing against the fabric. It covered her thighs— the thick, full legs bare below the terry cloth, the skin glistening with moisture.

She was coughing. The deep, throat-clearing cough of a woman whose throat has been used for something other than breathing.

She looked at the room. At the three women. At the boy. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She sniffed. She straightened the towel.

"Bath is free," she said. Her voice was hoarse. Raw. The voice of a woman whose vocal cords had been vibrated by something large and hard. "If anyone wants to take their turn."

Vess stood.

"I will go first," she said. She was already moving. Her red hair swayed. Her enormous breasts swayed beneath the unlaced shirt. Her bare feet slapped the stone. She reached the bathroom door. She looked back. She winked at Juhi.

The door closed.

Silence.

Then—

Soft moans.

Faint. Muffled by the door. By the stone. By the distance. But audible. The soft, rhythmic, unmistakable moans of a woman who is being touched. Or kissed. Or more.

Sera stared at the door.

Her face was the color of a sunset. Her ears were red. Her neck was red. Her chest— the modest swell of her breasts beneath the training tunic— was flushed.

Juhi coughed.

She looked at the boy. At his dark hair. At his book. At his innocent face. At the way he was looking at the bathroom door with the casual acceptance of a child who has heard these sounds before and who does not find them remarkable.

"Boy," Juhi said. Her voice was gentle. Warm. The voice of a woman redirecting a child’s attention away from something the child should not hear. "Do you want to go to another room? Play something? With Sera aunt?"

Sera trembled.

"What?" she said. Her voice cracked. She looked at Juhi. At the boy. At the bathroom door where the moans were getting louder. "I— me?"

The boy looked up from his book.

"Yeah," he said. He closed the book. He looked at Sera. At her face. At her braid. At her calloused hands. He smiled. The easy, uncomplicated smile of a child. "I want something to eat."

Juhi nodded. The thick woman— the one from the bathroom— nodded too. She was still coughing. She was still holding her towel. She was still flushed. But she nodded.

"Go," she said. Her voice was hoarse. "Take him. Get something to eat. We will be... busy."

Sera stood.

Her legs were trembling. She looked at the bathroom door. At the moans. At the thick woman in the towel. At Juhi’s knowing smile. At the boy’s innocent face.

She nodded.

She took the boy’s hand.

His hand was small. Warm. Soft. The hand of a child who had never held a sword, never swung a stick, never done anything more strenuous than turning a page. It was the opposite of hers— calloused, rough, scarred.

She held it.

She walked.

Through the door. Into the hallway. Down the stairs. Out of the building. Into the street.

The door closed behind them.

And the moment it did—

The sounds came.

Not muffled. Not soft. The full, unfiltered, uncensored sounds of what was happening in that room. The cries. The moans. The screaming. The wet, obscene, relentless sounds of flesh on flesh, of a cock in a cunt, of a woman being fucked so hard that her voice broke and her words shattered and the only things left were sounds— primal, animal, desperate.

Sera heard it through the door.

She stood in the street. Holding the boy’s hand. Staring at the wooden door. Her face was on fire. Her chest was tight. Her stomach was churning. Her pussy— her hairy, untrained, fighter’s pussy— was warm.

The boy tugged her hand.

"Come on, Sera aunt," he said. "I am hungry."