Oswin stepped out of the hut into blinding morning sunlight, still fumbling with the rough hide loincloth his mother had tossed him with a playful wink. The thing was laughably inadequate, it was just a thin strip of leather that barely covered anything and shifted with every step, making his half-hard cock rub distractingly against his thigh. He tried to walk like a normal person but he failed miserably.
'This place is going to kill me before breakfast.'
The village unfolded around him like a fever dream from the horniest survival-sim eroge he had ever played. Circular clusters of mud-and-thatch huts ringed a central fire pit where smoke drifted lazily upward. Women moved through the morning routines everywhere he looked—carrying water in clay pots balanced on hips, tending small garden patches, stirring pots over open flames. All of them wore next to nothing: short skirts of soft fur or woven grass that rode high on thick thighs, narrow bands of hide or cloth that strained to contain heavy breasts, leaving cleavage, toned midriffs, and long legs bare to the warm air.
No bras. No panties. No shame.
Breasts bounced freely with every step. Skirts flipped up when someone bent over. A few women didn't even bother with tops, letting full, swaying tits hang naturally as they worked. And every single one of them glanced at him with open, appreciative interest when he passed.
Oswin swallowed so hard his throat clicked.
---
Okay narrator here with the world-building recap for the new save file: This is a primitive tribal society. Resources are scarce and dangers are everywhere. There were beasts in the forest, rival groups raiding for food and women—so men don't last long. The result of this lead to very few guys around and very high female-to-male ratio.
Apparently, the cultural solution to that problem is: fuck like it's going out of style. Casual touching, public flirting, family "helping" the young men relieve themselves… everything was normal.
Rey—sorry, Oswin—spent years fantasizing about exactly this setup. Now it's real, and his brain is 404 Error.
---
He tried to look anywhere but at the jiggling scenery and ended up locking eyes with a woman in her late thirties stirring a big pot of stew near the central fire. She had plump cheeks, warm brown skin, and breasts so full and heavy they rested against the wooden paddle she was using. She caught his stare and broke into a bright, welcoming smile.
"Oswin! Come here, sweet boy. Taste what your village mothers have been cooking up."
Before he could think of an excuse, she scooped a spoonful of thick, savory stew and held it to his lips. He opened his mouth automatically—and of course, she "accidentally" let a drop fall. It landed right in the deep valley between her breasts and began a slow, glistening trail downward.
"Oops," she giggled, not making the slightest move to wipe it. "Clumsy me. Tradition says it's good luck if the chief's son cleans up after us. With his tongue, preferably."
The two women beside her burst into throaty laughter, one fanning herself dramatically.
"I—I'm okay, really," Oswin stammered, face burning as he backed up a step. His loincloth was doing a terrible job hiding how much that mental image affected him.
"Suit yourself," the plump woman sighed, scooping the drop up with two fingers and sucking them clean while holding his gaze. "But don't complain later when you're starving for something… warmer."
Oswin speed-walked away to the sound of their amused chuckles.
'This is slice-of-life on nightmare mode.'
He passed a small garden patch where two younger women who seemed to be sisters in their early twenties weeding side by side on their hands and knees. Their short skirts had ridden up completely, offering an unobstructed view of firm, round asses and the smooth skin between their thighs. One glanced back over her shoulder, dark hair falling across her face.
"Need a hand, Oswin?" she called sweetly. "Or maybe something else? We're almost done here…"
Her sister elbowed her with a grin. "Let him breathe, Mara. He's headed to Lira's. Don't steal Auntie's fun."
They dissolved into giggles again as Oswin hurried past, pretending he hadn't just seen everything.
'Deep breaths. You're the protagonist. Act like it.'
At the edge of the village, where the huts thinned out and the forest loomed closer, he found a slightly larger dwelling framed by hanging bundles of drying herbs. A simple carved wooden sign hung above the open entrance: Lira – Herbalist & Warmth-Giver.
The hide flap was tied back invitingly.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dried flowers, woodsmoke, and something earthier and more primal. The shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars of roots, leaves, and oddly shaped tubers. A low table held a mortar and pestle still dusted with green powder.
And in the center of it all stood Aunt Lira.
She was taller than his mother, broader through the hips, with long black hair streaked silver at the temples pulled into a loose braid that reached her waist. Lira had bronze skin marked with faint old scars only made her look more commanding. A wide leather band crossed her chest in a vain attempt to contain breasts that threatened to spill out with every breath. Below, a short fur skirt clung to wide hips and thick thighs, leaving almost everything to the imagination—and failing spectacularly.
She turned at the sound of his footsteps and her amber eyes locked onto him. A slow, predatory smile curved her full lips.
"Well, well," she drawled, voice low and smoky like a fire just starting to catch. "The chief's precious boy finally graces his favorite aunt with a visit."
She set down the bundle of herbs she had been sorting and sauntered closer. Each step sent her breasts swaying hypnotically.
Oswin's mouth went dry.
Lira stopped inches away, so close he could feel the warmth rolling off her body. She reached out, dragged one finger slowly down the center of his chest, then lower, pausing just above the very obvious tent in his loincloth.
"Your mother told me you woke up… enthusiastic this morning." Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "She wasn't exaggerating."
Oswin made a strangled noise that was supposed to be words.
Lira laughed—deep, throaty, vibrating through him.
"Don't be shy, nephew. In this house, we teach properly. With hands. With mouths. With anything that feels good." She leaned in until her lips brushed his ear. "Your lessons start now. And trust me, sweet boy… I don't believe in rushing."
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, pupils dark with hunger.
"So," she murmured, tracing the outline of his erection through the thin hide with one teasing fingertip. "Shall we begin with something simple… or do you want Auntie to show you how a real woman welcomes a growing man home?"
Oswin's heart slammed against his ribs.