イラストコミュニケーションサービス [pixiv]
They waited beneath trees gone yellow and russet, the forest floor thick with fallen leaves around their sandals. Broad woven straw hats sat low over their faces, shading their eyes while leaving pale cheeks and red lips visible beneath the rims. Dark scarves wrapped their throats, and detached black sleeves covered their forearms while leaving smooth shoulders bare. Their tops were little more than narrow black bands pushed beneath enormous breasts, supporting them from below without really covering them; heavy, pale curves swelled outward and downward above the fabric, making each woman look extravagantly top-heavy. Tiny black skirts sat high over broad hips and full asses, while black fishnet stockings climbed thick thighs and long, strong legs.
All three were built on the same exaggerated scale: tall, mature, voluptuous women with narrow waists, wide hips, dense thighs, and breasts so large that their minimal clothing looked decorative rather than functional. Their swords hung easily at their sides, blades and bare flesh sharing the same frame. From behind, their asses and upper thighs nearly blocked the road, while the fishnet emphasized the length and thickness of their legs. The overall impression was of women who were physically imposing even before the weapons came into play—big enough, curvy enough, and confident enough to make the much smaller figure facing them look almost misplaced.
The young swordsman had a distinctly boyish appearance beside them. He was short and slight, with narrow shoulders, a slim waist, lean arms, and a compact build that looked made for speed rather than strength. His face was smooth and fine-boned, with a narrow jaw, small chin, straight nose, and dark eyes beneath loose black bangs. Most of his hair was tied back into a high ponytail, but several strands framed his face and made him look younger still. There was no beard, stubble, scar tissue, or heavy weathering to make him look like a hardened veteran.
His clothing was simple and comparatively modest: a dark teal-green robe wrapped across his chest, edged with pale trim at the collar, cuffs, and hem, and cinched with a plain black sash. Loose dark trousers fell to his ankles above simple tied sandals. He wore no armor and carried no oversized equipment; even his sword was a relatively plain, practical blade held low in both hands. Standing opposite the three women, covered from shoulders to ankles while they were mostly bare flesh, fishnet, and black straps, he looked visually tiny—more like a quiet young traveler than the dangerous swordsman they had been waiting for.
One of the women looked him over.
“So you’re the vagabond who’s been killing our girls, huh?”
There was no grief in her voice.
Another woman added, “All those bodies wet with their own cum. Sounds like you really know how to use a sword.”
That produced amusement rather than outrage from the group. Their dead companions were already being treated as material for a filthy joke.
“Honestly, it’ll be a shame to kill a man like you,” the first woman went on, “but you really are starting to become a thorn in our operations.”
The young man’s expression tightened.
“‘Operations’!? All you do is steal and kill the defenceless and vulnerable!”
His hand settled on his sword.
“Your evil ends today!”
The woman’s mouth curved.
“Tough words, sexy.”
She enjoyed the mismatch between them. It was there in the way she looked at him: the tall, mature killer faced with a much smaller young man who had apparently acquired a dangerous reputation despite looking nothing like the sort of brute she expected to fear.
“Let’s see you back them up!”
Her sword came free.
Then she was moving.
“DIE!!”
The first strike came down hard enough to make the lack of armor on her own body seem almost irrelevant. Her breasts swung with the momentum of her shoulders and torso; the tiny black garment beneath them did little more than frame their weight. The blade cut through the space where the young man had been an instant earlier.
He escaped it.
Barely.
The woman noticed.
“You idiot! You fell for it!”
Her body turned.
For the smallest instant he had time to think only:
*Huh?*
Then her leg came up.
From his height and distance, it was less like watching a leg rise than watching a piece of the woman herself suddenly fill his entire field of vision.
Fishnet stretched over a thick thigh. The black stocking emphasized the density underneath it rather than disguising it. Above the stocking was bare flesh, the broad sweep of her hip and the lower curve of her ass passing frighteningly close as she rotated. She had considerably more reach than he did, and the kick used nearly all of it.
There was no coyness in the movement. She opened her hips fully and committed.
“These legs have killed men far bigger and stronger than you!”
Looking at them, the boast was credible.
Her thighs were not simply voluptuous. They were powerful. The musculature was softened beneath mature flesh, but the mass was unmistakable: long legs capable of generating considerable leverage, thick hips driving the rotation, her whole larger body turning behind the strike.
And she clearly loved the absurdity of using that body against someone his size.
The same leg that might have looked merely sexy standing still became genuinely threatening when it swept toward his head. He was facing a woman who could plausibly knock him senseless with one clean connection, and she knew it. Her exposed tits, enormous thighs, bare hips and confident grin all belonged to the same expression of superiority.
She expected him to be overwhelmed by the whole package.
Instead he dropped.
The kick sailed over him.
“What!?”
That single word marked the moment her advantages changed sides.
Her long leg had given her reach. Now that same length meant there was a great deal of limb committed above his head. Her heavy hips had supplied power. Now they had carried her farther into the motion than she wanted to be. Her height had let her attack downward and outward. Now the smaller man was underneath the useful part of her range.
And her clothing suddenly became catastrophically relevant. The tiny black skirt that had looked merely provocative while she was standing had been dragged almost completely aside by the height and spread of the kick, exposing the whole junction of her thighs. The fishnet stockings stopped high on each leg, leaving a broad strip of bare skin above them, and with one leg still lifted and the other planted, her hips were opened wide enough that her pubic hair and bare pussy were plainly visible beneath the displaced fabric. There was no underwear at all to interrupt the line from the inside of her thighs to her crotch; no hidden layer, no protective wrap, nothing. From his much lower position, almost directly beneath the arc of the kick, the view was brutally straightforward: thick thighs spread overhead, the little skirt pushed uselessly out of the way, her bare cunt exposed in the exact space his sword could reach.
Under almost any other circumstances, she probably would not have minded flashing a cute boy half her size. The outfit was hardly designed around modesty in the first place, and the kick itself had been thrown with the kind of swagger that suggested she enjoyed how physically and sexually overwhelming she looked when she opened those huge legs. But there is an enormous difference between “look what I’m showing you while I kick your head off” and suddenly realizing that the boy has ducked underneath the leg, is still armed, and now has a completely unobstructed line straight between her thighs. The same exposed pussy that a heartbeat earlier was part of the taunt instantly becomes the most vulnerable thing in the entire composition.
Her expression changed before the rest of her body could recover.
“W-wait!”
The confidence vanished so quickly that it was almost comic. A heartbeat earlier she had been boasting about all the larger, stronger men those legs had killed. Now one of those same legs was held high above the smallest man in front of her, and she understood exactly what she had left exposed.
He understood too.
“You’re wide open!”
The phrase was tactically correct.
It was also so literally correct that there was no escaping the second meaning.
He drove upward.
“Take this!”
The sword punched between her spread thighs and buried itself into the bare opening she had left exposed. Her body reacted before her mind seemed able to catch up. The high kick collapsed mid-motion; the powerful leg that had been sweeping over his head jerked and lost its clean line, while her planted leg buckled hard enough to throw her balance sideways. Her hips snapped around the blade, trying instinctively to recoil from something already inside her.
Her whole upper body seized with it. Her back arched, shoulders pulling tight, and the sudden contraction made her enormous bare breasts jump violently against her chest. Heavy flesh lurched upward and then dropped again, nipples stiff against the shock, while blood ran down along the sword from where the steel disappeared between her thighs.
“My pussy!”
Her voice cracked.
“My pussy is on fire!”
The language came without dignity because dignity was rapidly becoming unavailable to her.
The boy swordsman remained beneath the much larger woman, his weapon now occupying the opening she had created herself. There was something absurd about the geometry: she still towered over him, still possessed the broader shoulders, heavier thighs, bigger hips and overwhelming chest, yet none of that size helped when the fight had compressed itself into this particular angle.
“Never again shall this pussy be used in the service of evil!”
It was the kind of declaration one might expect from a wandering avenger confronting some instrument of wickedness.
It became rather stranger when the alleged instrument of wickedness was the bleeding cunt of a nearly naked bandit.
“It’s over!”
“F-fuck! FUCK!”
She did not fall immediately.
That almost made it worse.
Her strength allowed her to remain upright even while the wound was taking it away. She trembled around the sword, one long leg gradually abandoning the position that had started the disaster. Her body looked almost indecently healthy everywhere except the place where he had struck: huge breasts, thick thighs, broad hips, firm stomach, all that powerful mature flesh still visually declaring abundance and vitality while the blood between her legs announced the opposite.
Then she felt him drive farther.
Her breath caught.
“I-Isn’t this enough!?”
Her eyes widened beneath the shadow of the hat.
“You’ve already shoved half the sword in me!”
The phrasing sounded obscene because there was no way for it not to.
She had begun the fight convinced that the small size of the man made him manageable. Now she was protesting the amount of *his sword* she was being made to take.
The sword had become the crude answer to her earlier body-based arrogance. She had assumed the mismatch favored her. Instead the little bastard had got beneath the reach of the enormous woman and found the one opening her own kick presented to him.
Eventually her body began to sag.
Her tits, so aggressively displayed while she fought, now hung bare and heavy over the strip of black cloth that had slipped beneath them. The hat remained stubbornly on her head. The scarf still circled her neck. Those fragments of costume made the exposure beneath them seem even more ridiculous. She had retained the silhouette of the stylish assassin while losing nearly everything that had made the costume look controlled.
“God, it hurts!”
Her face twisted.
The pain was unmistakable.
Then something in the expression changed.
She stopped.
Her lips parted differently.
“But…but why does it also feel pretty good…?”
Silence hung for just long enough to make the confession land.
Then one of the women behind her said:
“Told you she was going to die like a slut.”
The skewered woman’s head snapped toward them.
“What the hell!?”
Her companions had done precisely nothing to rescue her.
They remained where they had been, two towering women in virtually the same provocative uniform, their own huge breasts barely contained, their own long fishnet-clad legs planted comfortably beneath them. They were not rushing the boy. They were not trying to pull their friend away from his blade.
They were watching.
And judging.
“I mean, look at you,” one said. “Skewered with a sword and your first reaction is to start panting like a bitch in heat.”
The other took in the entire pose.
“Though panting with your tits out and a man between your legs is a good look for you!”
That almost sounded complimentary.
Almost.
“Certainly fits you better than being a warrior, since you couldn’t last a minute before getting killed.”
The wounded woman stared at them in furious disbelief.
The cruelty of it was sharpened by how accurate the visual description was.
Her tits *were* out.
The man *was* between her legs.
She *was* panting.
And the sword between those legs made the whole pose look like a grotesque sexual caricature of the fight she had expected to win.
“Fuck you!” she spat. “At least I fought! You dumb cows just stood back and watched!”
That, at least, was undeniably true.
“Oh yeah,” came the response. “Great job ‘fighting’ over there.”
The quotation marks could almost be heard.
By then, the distinction between “fighting” and “putting on an obscene spectacle” had become exactly what her friends were laughing at.
The skewered woman bristled.
Then her attention returned to the smaller man beside her.
She put **her own hand on his shoulder**.
It was not one of her companions intruding into the scene. She was the one reaching for him.
Partly it was necessity. Her legs were beginning to fail. The movement of her hand onto his shoulder gave her another point of support, and the contrast was almost ridiculous: this tall, thick-thighed woman who had boasted about killing bigger men was now using the much smaller man she had attacked as something to brace herself against.
But the contact also felt increasingly deliberate.
“Dammit…fine!” she muttered. “I don’t care anymore!”
He looked toward her hand.
“Hey, what are you doing??”
She shifted her weight, trying to find some configuration in which standing hurt less.
There really was no graceful version of it.
Her thighs remained spread because of the sword. Her tiny hip covering was displaced enough to leave pubic hair and bare flesh visible around the wound. Her fishnets stopped high on her legs, emphasizing the naked gap between stocking and crotch. Her breasts hung completely exposed in front of her, each one large enough that the young man beside her looked smaller simply by proximity.
“Goddamn, my cunt hurts like hell…!”
The complaint was as blunt as the situation.
She tried to straighten.
Her legs trembled.
“Ugh…I barely have the strength to stand…”
This was perhaps the most complete reversal yet.
The woman who had introduced those legs by boasting that they had killed men “far bigger and stronger” than him could now scarcely keep those same legs underneath her. The thighs were still massive. The muscles had not magically disappeared. She was still visibly the larger, heavier person.
But the body was no longer obeying the hierarchy she had expected.
She leaned more of herself onto him.
Her hand remained on his shoulder.
He became, absurdly, the stable object in the composition.
The boy was holding up the giant woman.
Then she glanced toward her companions again.
They were still watching.
Still not helping.
The wounded woman's expression tightened, but this time there was something sly underneath the irritation.
“Look at those bitches…”
She stared at them more carefully.
“They act like they’re so much better but I can see their thighs glistening from here!”
That was her counterattack.
If they wanted to call her a slut for getting aroused while dying on the boys sword, fine. She had apparently noticed that their own bodies were betraying them too.
They could stand there with their tits out and smirk about her loss, but according to her, the sight had made them wet.
The accusation restored just enough malicious satisfaction to her face.
She had been caught panting.
They had been caught watching.
The young man, meanwhile, remained trapped inside a completely different set of priorities.
He glanced at the sword.
His sword.
Still lodged between her legs.
Then toward the two women he had yet to fight.
Then back toward the woman currently leaning on his shoulder and arguing about the state of her friends' thighs.
“Hey uh,” he said, with almost comical politeness, “can I have my sword back?”
She looked at him.
“I still have to take care of your two friends.”
For him, it was logistics.
One opponent was effectively finished. Two remained. Unfortunately, the piece of equipment required for dealing with them was currently inside opponent number one.
For her, the phrase landed amid an entirely different conversation.
Her friends were apparently wet from watching him defeat her.
She had been mocked for ending up tits-out with a man between her legs.
And now the boy was calmly announcing that he still had to **“take care of”** the other two.
She looked at him.
Then something changed in her posture.
Perhaps she had finally accepted that standing under her own power was becoming pointless. Perhaps she had simply decided that if her body was going to fail her, she might as well choose where it landed. Perhaps the sight of the two smug women watching gave her one last mischievous idea.
Whatever the mixture, it was plainly deliberate.
She shifted her feet.
Turned her body away from him.
And presented him with the broad line of her back, her hips and ass now between them, all that much larger female weight poised in front of a man who had just asked for his sword back.
She looked over her shoulder.
There was no solemnity in her face.
No request for permission.
No embarrassed admission that she needed help.
Instead she sounded almost cheerful.
“Hey kid, catch!”
She did not give him time to ask what she meant.
She turned her back and simply let herself go.
The boy’s eyes widened. “W-what??”
A moment earlier she had been using his shoulder merely to keep herself upright. Now all of her weight came backward at once: the broad back beneath the black scarf, the wide hips, the heavy thighs no longer trustworthy enough to support her, the enormous bare breasts swaying forward as her torso tipped away from her own feet.
He caught her because there was really nothing else to do.
His arms went around her middle on instinct, and the difference in their builds became almost ridiculous at such close range. Standing opposite her, he had looked small. Supporting her from behind, he nearly disappeared.
She was taller, broader, softer, heavier. Her back pressed into his chest. Her hips settled against him. One of his arms cinched around her waist while the other came up across the great weight of her chest, trying less to embrace her than to keep several stone of wounded woman from sliding straight through his hands and onto the leaves.
Her breasts made even that simple task awkward. They were simply too large to avoid. Bare, warm, heavy, they hung over his forearm and shifted with every uneven breath she took. The strip of black cloth that had once pretended to be a top had slipped beneath them and now did little more than underline how much flesh it had failed to contain.
The woman gave a small grunt as his grip stopped her fall.
Then, incredibly, she relaxed.
“What are you doing??” he demanded.
She adjusted herself against him as though the problem were obvious and he were the one being difficult.
“You really going to ask a woman to stand on her own two legs after ramming a whole sword up her cunt?”
The boy stared at the side of her face.
There was, undeniably, still a sword lodged between those legs.
He could see part of the hilt below the curve of her hip, framed by the bare flesh between the tops of her fishnets. Blood had darkened the skin and fabric around the wound, and the sharp metallic smell of it mixed unpleasantly with crushed leaves, damp earth and the warmer smell of exertion rising from both of them.
Yet the woman said the sentence almost like a complaint about manners.
Not *you wounded me.*
Not even *I can’t stand.*
After **ramming a whole sword up her cunt**, surely a man had certain responsibilities.
She wriggled once, seeking a position that hurt less, and the motion settled still more of her body into him.
“There we go!”
Her shoulders eased.
“Good boy.”
The boy looked scandalized.
“W-what are you playing at!?”
That seemed to amuse her.
Her straw hat still shadowed her eyes, but he could see the smile beneath it. The expression was almost serene now that she had solved the immediate problem of remaining vertical by turning him into the solution.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
She allowed her head to tilt slightly back toward him.
“A beautiful woman just threw herself into your arms.”
He looked down.
The evidence for a rather different interpretation remained protruding between her thighs.
She appeared entirely unconcerned by this discrepancy.
And there was something almost absurdly convincing about the way she occupied his arms. She had stopped behaving as though he were restraining or supporting her and had begun behaving as though this was simply where she had chosen to be. Her back fitted against his smaller torso, her ass and hips taking up far more space than his narrow frame behind them, her breasts resting across his arm with their full weight.
The boy, meanwhile, remained stiff with bewilderment.
The woman sighed almost fondly.
“A real man knows how to both fight and fuck a woman. You’ve shown me your prowess as a warrior, now show me what you’ve got as a lover.”
Her tone contained no embarrassment whatsoever.
Apparently, as far as she was concerned, the transition was perfectly natural.
They had fought.
He had won.
She was dying.
Now there was another question to settle.
The boy’s gaze dropped despite himself.
At first it was not the proposition that held his attention.
It was her chest.
Something about it was familiar.
He frowned.
*Hmm. I don’t think this is the woman I am looking for.*
That much seemed clear.
*Her sword skills were lacking…*
The woman who had destroyed his old school had moved with a very different certainty. This one had been dangerous, certainly, but reckless. Too proud of her legs. Too confident that size and reach would do the work for her.
His eyes remained on the breasts resting across his arm.
*…and while her breasts look similar, she doesn’t have a mole on her left breast.*
There.
That should have settled it.
The woman he sought had possessed a small distinguishing mark on the left breast. He remembered it because he had been made to remember it, along with the shape of that chest, the contours, the nipples, every humiliatingly specific detail his enemy had demanded that he carry away with him.
This woman had no such mole.
Wrong woman.
He should have looked away.
Instead, after a moment, his eyes narrowed slightly.
*That said…*
His grip shifted.
*…it is surprising how similar her breasts look to that murderer’s.*
At close range, the resemblance was more striking than it had been from across the road.
These were not merely “large breasts” in the vague way one might remember a stranger’s figure. They had a similar breadth at the base, similar fullness through the lower curve, a comparable heaviness in the way they hung naturally when unsupported. They were not firm little ornaments perched high on the chest; they were mature, weighty breasts whose mass visibly pulled downward when her body relaxed.
Her nipples were prominent against the pale skin, surrounded by pinkish areolae. The woman’s breathing made the entire chest rise and settle against his arms, each movement accompanied by the faint drag of skin over skin.
The autumn air itself was cool, but she was warm from exertion.
Up close, there was no perfume in any refined sense. She smelled like someone who had just fought for her life: clean skin gone damp with sweat beneath the scarf and around the ribs, the faint earthy odor of fishnet and cloth that had spent the day against warm thighs, the sharper metallic edge of blood underneath it all. Her hair carried a trace of outdoor air and dry leaves.
The boy continued looking.
The woman noticed.
She did not object.
If anything, the corner of her mouth lifted.
His fingers moved fractionally against the breast already resting over his arm.
*I guess it wouldn’t hurt to be thorough.*
That was, technically, true.
He glanced past her toward the other women.
They remained several paces away.
Watching.
Neither had drawn closer.
Neither appeared particularly interested in interrupting whatever their skewered companion had decided to do with him.
*Especially since her friends seem content to stay back and watch.*
So the boy adjusted his hands.
What had begun as support became examination.
One hand moved beneath the heavy curve of a breast and lifted it slightly. The weight settled into his palm immediately. His fingers spread because there was simply too much flesh for one hand to encompass. The breast deformed softly under his grip, pushing between his fingers and over the heel of his hand before rounding back into shape when he eased the pressure.
The woman inhaled sharply.
“Unf…!!”
His other hand tested the opposite breast.
Again, warm weight filled his palm.
He squeezed.
Not violently. Experimentally.
The flesh compressed easily before meeting the denser resistance beneath, soft enough to mold beneath his fingers but heavy enough that he could feel the breast shift as a whole against the chest wall.
The woman’s breath left her in a low, pleased sound.
“Yes!”
Her arm rose behind her head, removing even the token obstruction of shoulder and elbow and opening her chest more completely to him.
“Keep fondling my fat, beautiful tits!”
Apparently his investigation now had enthusiastic cooperation.
She pushed herself farther back into him, simultaneously making herself easier to hold and pressing her breasts more firmly into his hands. Their size was emphasized by the boy’s fingers: his palms disappeared against them, unable to cover more than a portion at once.
He squeezed again.
One breast bulged outward around his fingers.
His thumb moved near the areola.
The nipple tightened slightly under the stimulation.
The woman shivered.
The motion traveled down her body, but she checked herself quickly when movement below the waist produced an answering stab of pain. Her mouth tightened for a moment.
Then she exhaled and deliberately relaxed everything except her chest.
The implication was almost comically practical.
Her cunt might be occupied by the sword.
Her tits were not.
The boy leaned slightly to obtain a better look at one nipple.
*Hmm.*
He rolled the breast subtly in his hand, looking at the color and shape from another angle.
*Even their nipples share a similar pinkish tone.*
That bothered him almost more than the size.
*They might be different women, but one could easily mistake them at first glance.*
His thumb brushed across the nipple.
The woman’s reaction was immediate.
Her back tightened against him.
“Oh—”
Her breath caught and became a moan.
The boy repeated the motion, still apparently taking his own excuse of “thoroughness” seriously enough to continue.
Her breast was warm beneath his palm, warmer now that his hand had been covering it. Sweat from the fight had left the skin slightly slick along the underside and between her breasts, though the exposed upper curves remained mostly dry in the cool air. Each time he squeezed, flesh shifted against flesh with a faint tackiness before sliding beneath his fingers.
The woman’s breathing became faster.
Her breasts moved more noticeably with it now, rising into his hands and settling back, the nipples growing more rigid as he manipulated them.
“I-I’m gonna cum!”
The boy looked startled again, though apparently not startled enough to release her.
She laughed breathlessly at whatever she read in his face.
“It’s no wonder you can just ruin a woman’s pussy with no hesitation when you can do so much with just breast play!”
She seemed genuinely impressed by her own discovery.
Apparently his performance with the sword and his performance with her tits had joined together in her head into one coherent assessment of the boy.
The same hands that had controlled a weapon efficiently were now getting unmistakable reactions out of her body.
The same lack of hesitation that had let him exploit the opening between her thighs now meant he was not delicately poking at her breasts as though afraid of them. Once he had decided to examine them, he actually handled them.
And she loved that.
The woman shifted one breast more completely into his palm.
“That’s right!”
His fingers sank into the soft weight.
“Grab my tits!”
He obeyed, whether for investigation, curiosity, pleasure, or some increasingly inseparable mixture of all three.
Both breasts compressed beneath his hands.
She arched.
The movement thrust them outward, their heavy curves swelling between his fingers while her back pushed harder against his chest. Her head tipped back beneath the straw hat, exposing more of her throat above the black scarf.
“Burn these udders into your brain!”
She sounded almost triumphant.
Not merely *remember me.*
Remember **these**.
The immense breasts he was holding.
Their weight.
Their warmth.
Their softness.
The way each nipple hardened beneath his fingers.
The way she sounded when he squeezed them.
She wanted the physical memory attached to them.
“I don’t care how many girls you’ve fought and killed!”
His hands continued kneading the abundant flesh.
“I know none of them had milk bags like these!”
She said “milk bags” with extraordinary pride.
There was no attempt at elegance. No delicate language about beauty. She wanted the excess itself appreciated: the fact that each breast was enormous enough to fill both his attention and his hands, that they hung with unmistakable mature weight, that squeezing one changed its whole shape.
And apparently she wanted herself ranked against every woman who had come before.
If the boy had an internal archive of female enemies, she wanted a permanent category added to it:
**the one with the enormous fucking tits.**
Her breath shortened.
A shudder ran through her torso.
The boy felt it because he was supporting practically all of her. There was no distance between reaction and observer; each tremor transferred through her back into his chest and through the breasts held in his palms.
She made another broken sound and pressed herself against his hands as though determined to extract every last bit of sensation from them.
Whatever professional excuse he had begun with, he was certainly being extremely thorough now.
Several paces away, the other two women watched the entire performance.
One finally shook her head.
“Wow, she’s an even bigger slut than I realized.”
There was contempt in the words, but considerably less detachment than before.
The other woman kept staring.
Their dying companion had somehow transformed herself from the butt of their jokes into the center of an increasingly intimate tableau: reclined in the boy’s arms, enormous naked breasts overflowing his hands, loudly instructing him how enthusiastically they ought to be remembered.
The second woman’s expression shifted.
“She does make it look hot though.”
She watched another moment.
“I can’t believe I’m almost a little jealous of a dead bitch.”
That was the wounded woman’s last piece of revenge against them.
They had laughed when she was skewered.
They had called her a slut for panting with her tits out and a boy between her legs.
She had accused them of getting wet from watching.
And now one of them had effectively admitted that she was right.
They were still mocking her, certainly.
But they were also imagining the experience.
The boy’s arms around a much larger body.
His hands disappearing into enormous breasts.
That baffled, serious expression while the woman in his grasp loudly encouraged him.
And, perhaps most uncomfortably of all, the possibility that before very long one of them might discover exactly what her friend had discovered:
that losing to the little bastard did not necessarily mean the final moments afterward would be unpleasant.
The wounded woman had failed spectacularly as a warrior.
But sprawled in the boy’s arms, tits filling his hands, nearing orgasm while the two women who had mocked her watched with increasingly compromised expressions, she had managed something almost as satisfying to her vanity.
She had made her own death look like something the other bitches might envy.
They waited beneath trees gone yellow and russet, the forest floor thick with fallen leaves around their sandals. Broad woven straw hats sat low over their faces, shading their eyes while leaving pale cheeks and red lips visible beneath the rims. Dark scarves wrapped their throats, and detached black sleeves covered their forearms while leaving smooth shoulders bare. Their tops were little more than narrow black bands pushed beneath enormous breasts, supporting them from below without really covering them; heavy, pale curves swelled outward and downward above the fabric, making each woman look extravagantly top-heavy. Tiny black skirts sat high over broad hips and full asses, while black fishnet stockings climbed thick thighs and long, strong legs.
All three were built on the same exaggerated scale: tall, mature, voluptuous women with narrow waists, wide hips, dense thighs, and breasts so large that their minimal clothing looked decorative rather than functional. Their swords hung easily at their sides, blades and bare flesh sharing the same frame. From behind, their asses and upper thighs nearly blocked the road, while the fishnet emphasized the length and thickness of their legs. The overall impression was of women who were physically imposing even before the weapons came into play—big enough, curvy enough, and confident enough to make the much smaller figure facing them look almost misplaced.
The young swordsman had a distinctly boyish appearance beside them. He was short and slight, with narrow shoulders, a slim waist, lean arms, and a compact build that looked made for speed rather than strength. His face was smooth and fine-boned, with a narrow jaw, small chin, straight nose, and dark eyes beneath loose black bangs. Most of his hair was tied back into a high ponytail, but several strands framed his face and made him look younger still. There was no beard, stubble, scar tissue, or heavy weathering to make him look like a hardened veteran.
His clothing was simple and comparatively modest: a dark teal-green robe wrapped across his chest, edged with pale trim at the collar, cuffs, and hem, and cinched with a plain black sash. Loose dark trousers fell to his ankles above simple tied sandals. He wore no armor and carried no oversized equipment; even his sword was a relatively plain, practical blade held low in both hands. Standing opposite the three women, covered from shoulders to ankles while they were mostly bare flesh, fishnet, and black straps, he looked visually tiny—more like a quiet young traveler than the dangerous swordsman they had been waiting for.
One of the women looked him over.
“So you’re the vagabond who’s been killing our girls, huh?”
There was no grief in her voice.
Another woman added, “All those bodies wet with their own cum. Sounds like you really know how to use a sword.”
That produced amusement rather than outrage from the group. Their dead companions were already being treated as material for a filthy joke.
“Honestly, it’ll be a shame to kill a man like you,” the first woman went on, “but you really are starting to become a thorn in our operations.”
The young man’s expression tightened.
“‘Operations’!? All you do is steal and kill the defenceless and vulnerable!”
His hand settled on his sword.
“Your evil ends today!”
The woman’s mouth curved.
“Tough words, sexy.”
She enjoyed the mismatch between them. It was there in the way she looked at him: the tall, mature killer faced with a much smaller young man who had apparently acquired a dangerous reputation despite looking nothing like the sort of brute she expected to fear.
“Let’s see you back them up!”
Her sword came free.
Then she was moving.
“DIE!!”
The first strike came down hard enough to make the lack of armor on her own body seem almost irrelevant. Her breasts swung with the momentum of her shoulders and torso; the tiny black garment beneath them did little more than frame their weight. The blade cut through the space where the young man had been an instant earlier.
He escaped it.
Barely.
The woman noticed.
“You idiot! You fell for it!”
Her body turned.
For the smallest instant he had time to think only:
*Huh?*
Then her leg came up.
From his height and distance, it was less like watching a leg rise than watching a piece of the woman herself suddenly fill his entire field of vision.
Fishnet stretched over a thick thigh. The black stocking emphasized the density underneath it rather than disguising it. Above the stocking was bare flesh, the broad sweep of her hip and the lower curve of her ass passing frighteningly close as she rotated. She had considerably more reach than he did, and the kick used nearly all of it.
There was no coyness in the movement. She opened her hips fully and committed.
“These legs have killed men far bigger and stronger than you!”
Looking at them, the boast was credible.
Her thighs were not simply voluptuous. They were powerful. The musculature was softened beneath mature flesh, but the mass was unmistakable: long legs capable of generating considerable leverage, thick hips driving the rotation, her whole larger body turning behind the strike.
And she clearly loved the absurdity of using that body against someone his size.
The same leg that might have looked merely sexy standing still became genuinely threatening when it swept toward his head. He was facing a woman who could plausibly knock him senseless with one clean connection, and she knew it. Her exposed tits, enormous thighs, bare hips and confident grin all belonged to the same expression of superiority.
She expected him to be overwhelmed by the whole package.
Instead he dropped.
The kick sailed over him.
“What!?”
That single word marked the moment her advantages changed sides.
Her long leg had given her reach. Now that same length meant there was a great deal of limb committed above his head. Her heavy hips had supplied power. Now they had carried her farther into the motion than she wanted to be. Her height had let her attack downward and outward. Now the smaller man was underneath the useful part of her range.
And her clothing suddenly became catastrophically relevant. The tiny black skirt that had looked merely provocative while she was standing had been dragged almost completely aside by the height and spread of the kick, exposing the whole junction of her thighs. The fishnet stockings stopped high on each leg, leaving a broad strip of bare skin above them, and with one leg still lifted and the other planted, her hips were opened wide enough that her pubic hair and bare pussy were plainly visible beneath the displaced fabric. There was no underwear at all to interrupt the line from the inside of her thighs to her crotch; no hidden layer, no protective wrap, nothing. From his much lower position, almost directly beneath the arc of the kick, the view was brutally straightforward: thick thighs spread overhead, the little skirt pushed uselessly out of the way, her bare cunt exposed in the exact space his sword could reach.
Under almost any other circumstances, she probably would not have minded flashing a cute boy half her size. The outfit was hardly designed around modesty in the first place, and the kick itself had been thrown with the kind of swagger that suggested she enjoyed how physically and sexually overwhelming she looked when she opened those huge legs. But there is an enormous difference between “look what I’m showing you while I kick your head off” and suddenly realizing that the boy has ducked underneath the leg, is still armed, and now has a completely unobstructed line straight between her thighs. The same exposed pussy that a heartbeat earlier was part of the taunt instantly becomes the most vulnerable thing in the entire composition.
Her expression changed before the rest of her body could recover.
“W-wait!”
The confidence vanished so quickly that it was almost comic. A heartbeat earlier she had been boasting about all the larger, stronger men those legs had killed. Now one of those same legs was held high above the smallest man in front of her, and she understood exactly what she had left exposed.
He understood too.
“You’re wide open!”
The phrase was tactically correct.
It was also so literally correct that there was no escaping the second meaning.
He drove upward.
“Take this!”
The sword punched between her spread thighs and buried itself into the bare opening she had left exposed. Her body reacted before her mind seemed able to catch up. The high kick collapsed mid-motion; the powerful leg that had been sweeping over his head jerked and lost its clean line, while her planted leg buckled hard enough to throw her balance sideways. Her hips snapped around the blade, trying instinctively to recoil from something already inside her.
Her whole upper body seized with it. Her back arched, shoulders pulling tight, and the sudden contraction made her enormous bare breasts jump violently against her chest. Heavy flesh lurched upward and then dropped again, nipples stiff against the shock, while blood ran down along the sword from where the steel disappeared between her thighs.
“My pussy!”
Her voice cracked.
“My pussy is on fire!”
The language came without dignity because dignity was rapidly becoming unavailable to her.
The boy swordsman remained beneath the much larger woman, his weapon now occupying the opening she had created herself. There was something absurd about the geometry: she still towered over him, still possessed the broader shoulders, heavier thighs, bigger hips and overwhelming chest, yet none of that size helped when the fight had compressed itself into this particular angle.
“Never again shall this pussy be used in the service of evil!”
It was the kind of declaration one might expect from a wandering avenger confronting some instrument of wickedness.
It became rather stranger when the alleged instrument of wickedness was the bleeding cunt of a nearly naked bandit.
“It’s over!”
“F-fuck! FUCK!”
She did not fall immediately.
That almost made it worse.
Her strength allowed her to remain upright even while the wound was taking it away. She trembled around the sword, one long leg gradually abandoning the position that had started the disaster. Her body looked almost indecently healthy everywhere except the place where he had struck: huge breasts, thick thighs, broad hips, firm stomach, all that powerful mature flesh still visually declaring abundance and vitality while the blood between her legs announced the opposite.
Then she felt him drive farther.
Her breath caught.
“I-Isn’t this enough!?”
Her eyes widened beneath the shadow of the hat.
“You’ve already shoved half the sword in me!”
The phrasing sounded obscene because there was no way for it not to.
She had begun the fight convinced that the small size of the man made him manageable. Now she was protesting the amount of *his sword* she was being made to take.
The sword had become the crude answer to her earlier body-based arrogance. She had assumed the mismatch favored her. Instead the little bastard had got beneath the reach of the enormous woman and found the one opening her own kick presented to him.
Eventually her body began to sag.
Her tits, so aggressively displayed while she fought, now hung bare and heavy over the strip of black cloth that had slipped beneath them. The hat remained stubbornly on her head. The scarf still circled her neck. Those fragments of costume made the exposure beneath them seem even more ridiculous. She had retained the silhouette of the stylish assassin while losing nearly everything that had made the costume look controlled.
“God, it hurts!”
Her face twisted.
The pain was unmistakable.
Then something in the expression changed.
She stopped.
Her lips parted differently.
“But…but why does it also feel pretty good…?”
Silence hung for just long enough to make the confession land.
Then one of the women behind her said:
“Told you she was going to die like a slut.”
The skewered woman’s head snapped toward them.
“What the hell!?”
Her companions had done precisely nothing to rescue her.
They remained where they had been, two towering women in virtually the same provocative uniform, their own huge breasts barely contained, their own long fishnet-clad legs planted comfortably beneath them. They were not rushing the boy. They were not trying to pull their friend away from his blade.
They were watching.
And judging.
“I mean, look at you,” one said. “Skewered with a sword and your first reaction is to start panting like a bitch in heat.”
The other took in the entire pose.
“Though panting with your tits out and a man between your legs is a good look for you!”
That almost sounded complimentary.
Almost.
“Certainly fits you better than being a warrior, since you couldn’t last a minute before getting killed.”
The wounded woman stared at them in furious disbelief.
The cruelty of it was sharpened by how accurate the visual description was.
Her tits *were* out.
The man *was* between her legs.
She *was* panting.
And the sword between those legs made the whole pose look like a grotesque sexual caricature of the fight she had expected to win.
“Fuck you!” she spat. “At least I fought! You dumb cows just stood back and watched!”
That, at least, was undeniably true.
“Oh yeah,” came the response. “Great job ‘fighting’ over there.”
The quotation marks could almost be heard.
By then, the distinction between “fighting” and “putting on an obscene spectacle” had become exactly what her friends were laughing at.
The skewered woman bristled.
Then her attention returned to the smaller man beside her.
She put **her own hand on his shoulder**.
It was not one of her companions intruding into the scene. She was the one reaching for him.
Partly it was necessity. Her legs were beginning to fail. The movement of her hand onto his shoulder gave her another point of support, and the contrast was almost ridiculous: this tall, thick-thighed woman who had boasted about killing bigger men was now using the much smaller man she had attacked as something to brace herself against.
But the contact also felt increasingly deliberate.
“Dammit…fine!” she muttered. “I don’t care anymore!”
He looked toward her hand.
“Hey, what are you doing??”
She shifted her weight, trying to find some configuration in which standing hurt less.
There really was no graceful version of it.
Her thighs remained spread because of the sword. Her tiny hip covering was displaced enough to leave pubic hair and bare flesh visible around the wound. Her fishnets stopped high on her legs, emphasizing the naked gap between stocking and crotch. Her breasts hung completely exposed in front of her, each one large enough that the young man beside her looked smaller simply by proximity.
“Goddamn, my cunt hurts like hell…!”
The complaint was as blunt as the situation.
She tried to straighten.
Her legs trembled.
“Ugh…I barely have the strength to stand…”
This was perhaps the most complete reversal yet.
The woman who had introduced those legs by boasting that they had killed men “far bigger and stronger” than him could now scarcely keep those same legs underneath her. The thighs were still massive. The muscles had not magically disappeared. She was still visibly the larger, heavier person.
But the body was no longer obeying the hierarchy she had expected.
She leaned more of herself onto him.
Her hand remained on his shoulder.
He became, absurdly, the stable object in the composition.
The boy was holding up the giant woman.
Then she glanced toward her companions again.
They were still watching.
Still not helping.
The wounded woman's expression tightened, but this time there was something sly underneath the irritation.
“Look at those bitches…”
She stared at them more carefully.
“They act like they’re so much better but I can see their thighs glistening from here!”
That was her counterattack.
If they wanted to call her a slut for getting aroused while dying on the boys sword, fine. She had apparently noticed that their own bodies were betraying them too.
They could stand there with their tits out and smirk about her loss, but according to her, the sight had made them wet.
The accusation restored just enough malicious satisfaction to her face.
She had been caught panting.
They had been caught watching.
The young man, meanwhile, remained trapped inside a completely different set of priorities.
He glanced at the sword.
His sword.
Still lodged between her legs.
Then toward the two women he had yet to fight.
Then back toward the woman currently leaning on his shoulder and arguing about the state of her friends' thighs.
“Hey uh,” he said, with almost comical politeness, “can I have my sword back?”
She looked at him.
“I still have to take care of your two friends.”
For him, it was logistics.
One opponent was effectively finished. Two remained. Unfortunately, the piece of equipment required for dealing with them was currently inside opponent number one.
For her, the phrase landed amid an entirely different conversation.
Her friends were apparently wet from watching him defeat her.
She had been mocked for ending up tits-out with a man between her legs.
And now the boy was calmly announcing that he still had to **“take care of”** the other two.
She looked at him.
Then something changed in her posture.
Perhaps she had finally accepted that standing under her own power was becoming pointless. Perhaps she had simply decided that if her body was going to fail her, she might as well choose where it landed. Perhaps the sight of the two smug women watching gave her one last mischievous idea.
Whatever the mixture, it was plainly deliberate.
She shifted her feet.
Turned her body away from him.
And presented him with the broad line of her back, her hips and ass now between them, all that much larger female weight poised in front of a man who had just asked for his sword back.
She looked over her shoulder.
There was no solemnity in her face.
No request for permission.
No embarrassed admission that she needed help.
Instead she sounded almost cheerful.
“Hey kid, catch!”
She did not give him time to ask what she meant.
She turned her back and simply let herself go.
The boy’s eyes widened. “W-what??”
A moment earlier she had been using his shoulder merely to keep herself upright. Now all of her weight came backward at once: the broad back beneath the black scarf, the wide hips, the heavy thighs no longer trustworthy enough to support her, the enormous bare breasts swaying forward as her torso tipped away from her own feet.
He caught her because there was really nothing else to do.
His arms went around her middle on instinct, and the difference in their builds became almost ridiculous at such close range. Standing opposite her, he had looked small. Supporting her from behind, he nearly disappeared.
She was taller, broader, softer, heavier. Her back pressed into his chest. Her hips settled against him. One of his arms cinched around her waist while the other came up across the great weight of her chest, trying less to embrace her than to keep several stone of wounded woman from sliding straight through his hands and onto the leaves.
Her breasts made even that simple task awkward. They were simply too large to avoid. Bare, warm, heavy, they hung over his forearm and shifted with every uneven breath she took. The strip of black cloth that had once pretended to be a top had slipped beneath them and now did little more than underline how much flesh it had failed to contain.
The woman gave a small grunt as his grip stopped her fall.
Then, incredibly, she relaxed.
“What are you doing??” he demanded.
She adjusted herself against him as though the problem were obvious and he were the one being difficult.
“You really going to ask a woman to stand on her own two legs after ramming a whole sword up her cunt?”
The boy stared at the side of her face.
There was, undeniably, still a sword lodged between those legs.
He could see part of the hilt below the curve of her hip, framed by the bare flesh between the tops of her fishnets. Blood had darkened the skin and fabric around the wound, and the sharp metallic smell of it mixed unpleasantly with crushed leaves, damp earth and the warmer smell of exertion rising from both of them.
Yet the woman said the sentence almost like a complaint about manners.
Not *you wounded me.*
Not even *I can’t stand.*
After **ramming a whole sword up her cunt**, surely a man had certain responsibilities.
She wriggled once, seeking a position that hurt less, and the motion settled still more of her body into him.
“There we go!”
Her shoulders eased.
“Good boy.”
The boy looked scandalized.
“W-what are you playing at!?”
That seemed to amuse her.
Her straw hat still shadowed her eyes, but he could see the smile beneath it. The expression was almost serene now that she had solved the immediate problem of remaining vertical by turning him into the solution.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
She allowed her head to tilt slightly back toward him.
“A beautiful woman just threw herself into your arms.”
He looked down.
The evidence for a rather different interpretation remained protruding between her thighs.
She appeared entirely unconcerned by this discrepancy.
And there was something almost absurdly convincing about the way she occupied his arms. She had stopped behaving as though he were restraining or supporting her and had begun behaving as though this was simply where she had chosen to be. Her back fitted against his smaller torso, her ass and hips taking up far more space than his narrow frame behind them, her breasts resting across his arm with their full weight.
The boy, meanwhile, remained stiff with bewilderment.
The woman sighed almost fondly.
“A real man knows how to both fight and fuck a woman. You’ve shown me your prowess as a warrior, now show me what you’ve got as a lover.”
Her tone contained no embarrassment whatsoever.
Apparently, as far as she was concerned, the transition was perfectly natural.
They had fought.
He had won.
She was dying.
Now there was another question to settle.
The boy’s gaze dropped despite himself.
At first it was not the proposition that held his attention.
It was her chest.
Something about it was familiar.
He frowned.
*Hmm. I don’t think this is the woman I am looking for.*
That much seemed clear.
*Her sword skills were lacking…*
The woman who had destroyed his old school had moved with a very different certainty. This one had been dangerous, certainly, but reckless. Too proud of her legs. Too confident that size and reach would do the work for her.
His eyes remained on the breasts resting across his arm.
*…and while her breasts look similar, she doesn’t have a mole on her left breast.*
There.
That should have settled it.
The woman he sought had possessed a small distinguishing mark on the left breast. He remembered it because he had been made to remember it, along with the shape of that chest, the contours, the nipples, every humiliatingly specific detail his enemy had demanded that he carry away with him.
This woman had no such mole.
Wrong woman.
He should have looked away.
Instead, after a moment, his eyes narrowed slightly.
*That said…*
His grip shifted.
*…it is surprising how similar her breasts look to that murderer’s.*
At close range, the resemblance was more striking than it had been from across the road.
These were not merely “large breasts” in the vague way one might remember a stranger’s figure. They had a similar breadth at the base, similar fullness through the lower curve, a comparable heaviness in the way they hung naturally when unsupported. They were not firm little ornaments perched high on the chest; they were mature, weighty breasts whose mass visibly pulled downward when her body relaxed.
Her nipples were prominent against the pale skin, surrounded by pinkish areolae. The woman’s breathing made the entire chest rise and settle against his arms, each movement accompanied by the faint drag of skin over skin.
The autumn air itself was cool, but she was warm from exertion.
Up close, there was no perfume in any refined sense. She smelled like someone who had just fought for her life: clean skin gone damp with sweat beneath the scarf and around the ribs, the faint earthy odor of fishnet and cloth that had spent the day against warm thighs, the sharper metallic edge of blood underneath it all. Her hair carried a trace of outdoor air and dry leaves.
The boy continued looking.
The woman noticed.
She did not object.
If anything, the corner of her mouth lifted.
His fingers moved fractionally against the breast already resting over his arm.
*I guess it wouldn’t hurt to be thorough.*
That was, technically, true.
He glanced past her toward the other women.
They remained several paces away.
Watching.
Neither had drawn closer.
Neither appeared particularly interested in interrupting whatever their skewered companion had decided to do with him.
*Especially since her friends seem content to stay back and watch.*
So the boy adjusted his hands.
What had begun as support became examination.
One hand moved beneath the heavy curve of a breast and lifted it slightly. The weight settled into his palm immediately. His fingers spread because there was simply too much flesh for one hand to encompass. The breast deformed softly under his grip, pushing between his fingers and over the heel of his hand before rounding back into shape when he eased the pressure.
The woman inhaled sharply.
“Unf…!!”
His other hand tested the opposite breast.
Again, warm weight filled his palm.
He squeezed.
Not violently. Experimentally.
The flesh compressed easily before meeting the denser resistance beneath, soft enough to mold beneath his fingers but heavy enough that he could feel the breast shift as a whole against the chest wall.
The woman’s breath left her in a low, pleased sound.
“Yes!”
Her arm rose behind her head, removing even the token obstruction of shoulder and elbow and opening her chest more completely to him.
“Keep fondling my fat, beautiful tits!”
Apparently his investigation now had enthusiastic cooperation.
She pushed herself farther back into him, simultaneously making herself easier to hold and pressing her breasts more firmly into his hands. Their size was emphasized by the boy’s fingers: his palms disappeared against them, unable to cover more than a portion at once.
He squeezed again.
One breast bulged outward around his fingers.
His thumb moved near the areola.
The nipple tightened slightly under the stimulation.
The woman shivered.
The motion traveled down her body, but she checked herself quickly when movement below the waist produced an answering stab of pain. Her mouth tightened for a moment.
Then she exhaled and deliberately relaxed everything except her chest.
The implication was almost comically practical.
Her cunt might be occupied by the sword.
Her tits were not.
The boy leaned slightly to obtain a better look at one nipple.
*Hmm.*
He rolled the breast subtly in his hand, looking at the color and shape from another angle.
*Even their nipples share a similar pinkish tone.*
That bothered him almost more than the size.
*They might be different women, but one could easily mistake them at first glance.*
His thumb brushed across the nipple.
The woman’s reaction was immediate.
Her back tightened against him.
“Oh—”
Her breath caught and became a moan.
The boy repeated the motion, still apparently taking his own excuse of “thoroughness” seriously enough to continue.
Her breast was warm beneath his palm, warmer now that his hand had been covering it. Sweat from the fight had left the skin slightly slick along the underside and between her breasts, though the exposed upper curves remained mostly dry in the cool air. Each time he squeezed, flesh shifted against flesh with a faint tackiness before sliding beneath his fingers.
The woman’s breathing became faster.
Her breasts moved more noticeably with it now, rising into his hands and settling back, the nipples growing more rigid as he manipulated them.
“I-I’m gonna cum!”
The boy looked startled again, though apparently not startled enough to release her.
She laughed breathlessly at whatever she read in his face.
“It’s no wonder you can just ruin a woman’s pussy with no hesitation when you can do so much with just breast play!”
She seemed genuinely impressed by her own discovery.
Apparently his performance with the sword and his performance with her tits had joined together in her head into one coherent assessment of the boy.
The same hands that had controlled a weapon efficiently were now getting unmistakable reactions out of her body.
The same lack of hesitation that had let him exploit the opening between her thighs now meant he was not delicately poking at her breasts as though afraid of them. Once he had decided to examine them, he actually handled them.
And she loved that.
The woman shifted one breast more completely into his palm.
“That’s right!”
His fingers sank into the soft weight.
“Grab my tits!”
He obeyed, whether for investigation, curiosity, pleasure, or some increasingly inseparable mixture of all three.
Both breasts compressed beneath his hands.
She arched.
The movement thrust them outward, their heavy curves swelling between his fingers while her back pushed harder against his chest. Her head tipped back beneath the straw hat, exposing more of her throat above the black scarf.
“Burn these udders into your brain!”
She sounded almost triumphant.
Not merely *remember me.*
Remember **these**.
The immense breasts he was holding.
Their weight.
Their warmth.
Their softness.
The way each nipple hardened beneath his fingers.
The way she sounded when he squeezed them.
She wanted the physical memory attached to them.
“I don’t care how many girls you’ve fought and killed!”
His hands continued kneading the abundant flesh.
“I know none of them had milk bags like these!”
She said “milk bags” with extraordinary pride.
There was no attempt at elegance. No delicate language about beauty. She wanted the excess itself appreciated: the fact that each breast was enormous enough to fill both his attention and his hands, that they hung with unmistakable mature weight, that squeezing one changed its whole shape.
And apparently she wanted herself ranked against every woman who had come before.
If the boy had an internal archive of female enemies, she wanted a permanent category added to it:
**the one with the enormous fucking tits.**
Her breath shortened.
A shudder ran through her torso.
The boy felt it because he was supporting practically all of her. There was no distance between reaction and observer; each tremor transferred through her back into his chest and through the breasts held in his palms.
She made another broken sound and pressed herself against his hands as though determined to extract every last bit of sensation from them.
Whatever professional excuse he had begun with, he was certainly being extremely thorough now.
Several paces away, the other two women watched the entire performance.
One finally shook her head.
“Wow, she’s an even bigger slut than I realized.”
There was contempt in the words, but considerably less detachment than before.
The other woman kept staring.
Their dying companion had somehow transformed herself from the butt of their jokes into the center of an increasingly intimate tableau: reclined in the boy’s arms, enormous naked breasts overflowing his hands, loudly instructing him how enthusiastically they ought to be remembered.
The second woman’s expression shifted.
“She does make it look hot though.”
She watched another moment.
“I can’t believe I’m almost a little jealous of a dead bitch.”
That was the wounded woman’s last piece of revenge against them.
They had laughed when she was skewered.
They had called her a slut for panting with her tits out and a boy between her legs.
She had accused them of getting wet from watching.
And now one of them had effectively admitted that she was right.
They were still mocking her, certainly.
But they were also imagining the experience.
The boy’s arms around a much larger body.
His hands disappearing into enormous breasts.
That baffled, serious expression while the woman in his grasp loudly encouraged him.
And, perhaps most uncomfortably of all, the possibility that before very long one of them might discover exactly what her friend had discovered:
that losing to the little bastard did not necessarily mean the final moments afterward would be unpleasant.
The wounded woman had failed spectacularly as a warrior.
But sprawled in the boy’s arms, tits filling his hands, nearing orgasm while the two women who had mocked her watched with increasingly compromised expressions, she had managed something almost as satisfying to her vanity.
She had made her own death look like something the other bitches might envy.
