I’m going to lose my mind if I have to stare at this ceiling for one more second.
Lunas. Monday, apparently, in this world’s calendar system. The day I’m supposed to rest while my body recovers from the marathon that was the weekend. Meira and Tisha made it very clear this morning that my pants were staying off and that I’m to “give my balls a rest.”
The problem is that I’m not tired. I’m not sore. I’m just... here. Lying on this bed in nothing but my tunic, watching dust motes drift through the afternoon light streaming in from the window, while my brain slowly turns to mush from sheer boredom.
Across the room, Tisha kneels beside a wooden basin filled with soapy water. Her sleeves are rolled up past her elbows, and her hands work through our clothes with methodical efficiency. The wet fabric makes soft squelching sounds as she scrubs, wrings, and sets each piece aside to dry.
I watch her for a moment, then push myself up on my elbows.
“Do you want some help?”
Tisha’s hands pause mid-scrub. She looks over her shoulder at me, a warm but firm smile settling on her features.
“You need to rest, Vincent.”
“I feel rested.” The words sound more petulant than I intend, but it’s true. Whatever exhaustion I should be feeling after two days of near-constant sex has apparently decided to skip me entirely. My body feels fine. Better than fine, actually. I’m restless in a way that makes lying still feel like torture.
Tisha stands, water dripping from her hands as she wipes them on a cloth hanging nearby. She crosses the room toward me, her green eyes fixed on my face with an unreadable look.
“Vincent...” She stops beside the bed, looking down at me. “Meira and I wrung you dry these past two days. Today is about recovery, okay?”
She grabs the edge of the blanket and yanks it down, exposing me completely. The cool air hits my skin.
Her hand wraps around my balls, gentle but firm. Like she’s examining produce at a market stall, even though I am now rock hard.
Tisha’s eyebrows draw together as she weighs them in her palm. “Hmmm.” Her thumb brushes along the sensitive skin. “They don’t feel any heavier.”
“I’m... I’m not positive, but I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“No, I’m pretty sure...” She shifts her grip, cupping them more fully now. Her fingers move with careful deliberation, like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “If you haven’t cum in a while, they get fuller, right? That’s basic science.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Is that how it works? I honestly have no idea. My sex education back home never covered the weight fluctuations of testicles based on ejaculation frequency.
Her hand keeps moving, gentle explorations that send heat shooting up my spine despite the absurdity of the situation. My cock throbs, and I watch her eyes track the movement with interest.
“Tisha...”
“Shh. I’m investigating.” Her tone is dead serious, like she’s conducting important research. Her thumb traces along the underside, and my hips jerk involuntarily. “Meira would know. She’s better at this kind of thing than I am.”
“Hey... Tisha...”
Her head tilts slightly. “What’s up?”
The words feel awkward in my mouth, but I push them out anyway. “Maybe it’s fine if we go one round.”
Tisha’s curiosity vanishes instantly, replaced by a sudden firmness. Her hand doesn’t move from where it’s cupped around me, but her grip loosens slightly.
“Meira told us not to, Vincent.” Her voice hardens with clear conviction. “I would never betray her.”
The finality stops me cold. My chest tightens with a mix of embarrassment and respect for the boundary she’s drawing.
I nod. “Yeah. That’s fair.”
The silence stretches between us for a beat. Tisha’s eyes drift downward, her gaze fixing on my cock with renewed intensity.
I search for a distraction, anything to pull us away from the tension building in the room.
“How did you two meet?”
Tisha’s hand pauses. Her eyes lift to mine, flickering through conflicting thoughts too quickly to name. Her jaw works for a moment before she answers.
“Meira and I will tell you everything about us someday.” Her tone turns quiet, almost vulnerable. “But not yet. I don’t think we’re ready...” She trails off, her gaze going distant. “It’s still raw, and very complicated.”
“Okay.” I don’t push. Whatever history they share, it’s clearly sensitive enough that even mentioning it puts that look in her eyes.
Her finger starts tracing along the line under my balls, slow and deliberate.
The door swings open.
Meira walks through carrying a wooden bucket that looks heavy enough to make her arms strain.
Her pale eyes lift, landing on Tisha’s hand wrapped around me.
“What are you doing?”
Tisha doesn’t pull away. Her hand stays exactly where it is, and she looks up at Meira with complete seriousness.
“I’m trying to stimulate his sperm growth. And also weighing his balls.”
Meira sets the bucket down with a heavy thunk, staring at her wife in utter disbelief.
“Why are you weighing his testicles?”
“To see if he’s recovered.” Tisha’s tone suggests this should be obvious. “If they’re heavier, that means he’s producing a lot of cum, right?”
Meira’s jaw tightens. Her eyes narrow with a look that makes the temperature in the room drop several degrees.
“Tisha, what the fuck are you talking about?”
Tisha’s hand freezes on me. Her confident facade crumbles, uncertainty spreading across her features like a crack in glass. Her ears redden.
“I... I mean...” She looks down at where her hand is still cupping me, then back up at Meira. “Isn’t that how it works? They get heavier when there’s more cum stored?”
Meira brings one hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose, taking a long, controlled breath.
“Tisha.” Her voice is strained, like she’s struggling to maintain composure. “You’re over five hundred years old. How could you possibly have never learned this before?”
My brain stutters to a complete halt.
“Wait, what?” The words burst out of me before I can stop them. Both their heads turn toward me, and I stare at Tisha with my mouth hanging open. “You’re five hundred years old?”
Tisha’s embarrassment gives way to confusion. “Yes?” It sounds like a question, like she can’t understand why I’m shocked. “I’m five hundred and thirty-two, actually.”
My eyes swing to Meira. If Tisha is over five hundred, then Meira, who she called older...
“How old are you?”
Meira’s expression smooths into careful neutrality. “Six hundred and seven.”
Six hundred and seven years old.
I’m lying here with my junk in the hand of a woman who’s lived through more than half a millennium, and her wife who’s even older is standing there telling her that anatomy doesn't work like water balloons.
“That’s...” I trail off, because I don’t even know what to say. “That’s insane.”
Tisha’s hand finally releases me, and she stands up straight.
“I never really had to learn about male anatomy before,” she mumbles defensively.
Meira’s eyes close for a moment. When they open again, exhaustion mixes with the exasperation.
“Testicles don’t store semen, Tisha.”
“Oh.” Tisha’s response is tiny.
I glance at the bucket Meira brought in, trying to shift focus away from the awkward anatomy lesson.
“What’s in the bucket?”
Meira brightens instantly. The fatigue vanishes, replaced by genuine excitement that lights up her silver eyes. She moves toward the bucket with quick, purposeful strides.
“Your lunch!” Her voice has a warmth I rarely hear from her. She gestures toward the table. “Come sit.”
I swing my legs off the bed, careful as I stand. The tunic falls to mid-thigh, and I’m acutely aware that I’m still not wearing pants.
“Wait!” Meira’s hand shoots out, palm forward, panic flashing across her face. “Don’t crush your testicles when you sit down. Just... be careful.”
“Okay…”
I walk toward the table, my bare feet silent against the wooden floor. Meira’s hand finds the back of the chair, pulling it out for me with deliberate care. The gesture feels oddly formal, like I’m some kind of guest instead of property.
I lower myself into the seat, hyper-aware of every movement. The wood is cool against my thighs.
Before I can settle completely, Meira drops to her knees beside me. Her hands rest on my legs, gently guiding them apart. Her silver eyes focus between my thighs with the same intensity she’d use examining a valuable artifact.
Her fingers cup me carefully, and my face heats despite everything.
“Good.” She lets out a relieved breath, like she’d been genuinely worried I was going to flatten them.
“Meira, I’m fine.”
She stands, brushing off her knees with brisk movements. Her attention shifts back to the bucket, and she reaches inside to pull out a plate. The smell hits me immediately, briny and sharp.
Oysters.
I watch her arrange them with careful precision. Each one sits in its half-shell, gray and glistening. They look clean, at least. Fresher than anything I’d expect from a fantasy world.
I’ve never had oysters before. Never really wanted to, and the texture always looked questionable in pictures. Now I’m staring at a plateful of them.
“Eat up, Vincent,” Tisha encourages as she sits across from me. Meira settles beside her, both of them watching me expectantly.
I pick up one of the shells, turning it in my hand. The oyster slides slightly inside, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with it.
“I’m not sure how to even eat this.” The admission slips out uncertainly.
Meira’s chair scrapes against the floor as she pulls it closer. The movement is quick, decisive. Her thigh presses against mine as she settles in, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body.
“Are you asking me to feed you, slave?” Her words carry an edge of amusement mixed with accusation.
“No, I...” I glance at the oyster in my hand, then back to her face. “If you just show me...”
Her demeanor softens. The teasing edge vanishes, replaced by earnestness.
“No, it’s alright, Vincent.” Her hand reaches out, gently taking the shell from my fingers. “Taking care of you is our duty.”
Tisha moves around to my other side, visibly pleased.
“Indeed, Meira.”
I watch the oyster in Meira’s hand, the gray flesh glistening in the afternoon light. My stomach turns slightly at the thought of swallowing it.
“Is it really okay to eat these things uncooked?”
Meira’s eyes meet mine with absolute certainty.
“It’s imperative.”
Before I can question that logic, she lifts the shell to my lips and tilts it forward. The oyster slides into my mouth, cold and slippery. The texture is worse than I imagined, like swallowing something alive. The briny taste floods my tongue, and I force myself to swallow quickly rather than dwelling on it.
Tisha picks up another shell from the plate.
“Open up, Vincent.”
I part my lips, and she tips the oyster in. This one tastes saltier, which helps out a lot.
They take turns feeding me. Meira’s movements are deliberate and measured, each shell presented with care. Tisha’s approach is more playful, occasionally making me chase the shell slightly before letting me have it.
By the fifth oyster, I’m starting to get used to the texture. By the eighth, I almost don’t hate it.
Tisha leans back in her chair, watching me swallow another one. Her grin widens as she looks at Meira.
“If I knew having a slave was going to be this much fun, Meira, we could have gotten one forever ago.”
Meira’s hand pauses, an oyster shell held between her fingers.
“It’s not that having a slave is fun, Tisha.” Her tone levels out, each word chosen with precision. “It’s that our slave is fun.”
Tisha’s grin falters. She pauses, processing the weight behind the correction. Her green eyes move to me, then back to her wife. The silence stretches for a long moment.
“Yeah...” Tisha murmurs, thoughtful. “You’re right.”