Blessed Isles 22: A Quickie Series

Blessed Isles Ch 22

by Saint Limey

Read Time: 22 Minutes

The heated words we exchanged didn’t have a chance to cool before Luula and I were forced from the sanctuary.

There was but a thirty-minute window which I used to wash and rest, aware that appearances mattered in the public eye without needing to be told by Luula.

—which didn’t stop Luula’s lecture on the importance of appearance anyway. I didn’t even pretend to hold interest in her words before she dismissed herself to follow her own advice on the opposite side of the Temple.

Neither of us looked the part to represent the Temple, the other Priestesses, or the Great Saint. In fact—and I could only speak for myself, but—we were barely recognizable to each other.

When we met again on the steps at the front of the temple, I looked Luula over to measure how much of our argument remained on her face after a half hours’ break. She’d managed to dawn the priestess gait, a proud and inviting set to her hips and breasts. She still had the helmet of dark curls and the same deep, dark skin, freshly washed. But her expression hadn’t changed. Her emotions were raw and unfiltered, swears written in the prettiest hand lettering between her eyebrows, an eloquent list of grievances tapped in morse as the smooth skin beneath her right eye twitched.

For a priestess who had essentially kept her spying on me a secret for nearly a week, she did an awful job of keeping her emotions a secret now. Showed that our history was genuine, at least, as her faking it would have been obvious. But since she’d truthfully enjoyed my company before, I knew I could trust her frustration with me now.

There wasn’t a person in this village that wouldn’t know she was pissed at something.

It wasn’t my place to make amends, though. Not how I saw it. I could play nice, but since Luula didn’t want to acknowledge her culpability with Chunali’s injury, then I didn’t see a point in bringing her closer than arm’s length. She wanted to be stubborn? Fine. I had a Trial to complete and could certainly do so with her as my shadow.

We left the priestess sleeping quarters in silence, greater strangers to one another than any of the lingering townsfolk.

By such an hour in the afternoon, the village’s morning bustle had abated. Women shooed gnats away from vegetables they’d gathered before daybreak, the midday heat and local fauna eating away at the value of their efforts. Walkways were dusty and trekked. Waste that tumbled from the backs of carts served as serendipity to coin-sized land crabs that dwelled in patches of grass inches from where business women carted goods.

Young girls gathered up clothes hung out to dry, the last of whom tossed her brown, indigo, and purple skirts into her mother’s basket, eager to join the growing herd of children freed from morning obligations and let loose upon the streets. Older others used the cleared streets for strolling, early afternoons offered to leisure and companionship—both friendly and romantic.

It was as if a singular breath brought life to the village: a breath of life, which was inhaled while I carried water for washing this morning and a longer, deeper sigh now that the work business, for the day, was completed. In the sigh was also the loosening of a cloistered morning—”one must sell goods to make a living, must mend the leaking roof, must fulfill a role”. Without societal demands and expectations, femininity bloomed as women rushed to fill the afternoon with company and connectedness. There was a sense that everyone and everything had arrived at this relieving exhalation by some divine miracle, and that, to make the most of such a miracle, the village ought to celebrate their united rebirth together.

And not a damned chest covering in sight. If that didn’t spell “freedom” with a capital “F” with a side of a “bra-burning”, I didn’t know what would.

Of course, the lack of coverings probably had more of a logistical explanation. Wrapping up every pair of enormous, heaving, milky breasts would take more fabric than it would be worth. As Kkarian women grew, milk stores amplified, leading to an ever-changing cup size. Instead of keeping different outfits for the different weeks, days, or even hours, forcing each woman to wear a tent to accommodate all sizes or developing elastic to conform to any body size (there were many ways that Kkarians were ahead, but lycra and spandex seemed like inventions unique to my old world), it just seemed to make more sense to bend the cultural norms in the “free the tit” direction.

I tried to imagine how impossible it would be to wash a woman’s milky tarp after a few day’s wear. The smell of sweet, syrupy goodness already hung heavy in the village square from the copious leakage that had soaked into the dark, clay grounds. Such a scent would never leave once it was spilled onto a shirt. Not to mention the added difficulty of removing the clothing just to get to said leaky nipples when milking time came. Chest coverings of any kind seemed untenable for Kkarians. Shirts had been an inconvenience for me when I was flat-chested. Now, firmly in the opposite camp chest-wise, I was more than ready to ditch any sort of limiting garments.

Job market for professional tailors be damned.

I’d distracted myself with tits again. . .

“How am I supposed to help these people?” I asked myself.

I’d taken a few steps toward different streets in the village center, pondering which direction I should go toward. What shopkeepers, traders, travelers, or migrants ought I solicit? Even though the village wasn’t as densely packed as the cities I was used to, my options felt limitless. Who of all these Kkarians, occupied by work or life or one another, would humor the lone outsider? I didn’t even speak their language.

“Might I suggest you help load that cart?” I briefly acknowledged Luula’s voice and pointed finger. A wooden handcart was being loaded with mud-stained urns by a heavyset woman.

The sweat-sodden woman had been in and out of a long, flat hut wielding urn-making supplies in her clay work pots. She hugged each basin tight to her round belly and hefty hips so she might handle two of them at once, offloading them on the wooden handcart just outside the hut as she packed in her work for the day.

It was indeed an opportunity. A fine fortuity. But I dismissed Luula and the woman with a, “Nah, she’s probably almost done.” I shrugged and turned one-hundred-eighty degrees from the cart, the pot maker, and Luula’s pointed finger. “I would rather, uh, help those ladies over there. You! Miss, yes. You. Hello!”

Not far off down one of the roads, a pair of ladies wandered off toward the end of the street leading away from the temple. I couldn’t exactly catch them with my awkward, unrestrained breasts clapping together, but my yelling slowed the duo. They turned to face me. A bouquet of emotions played across each of their faces: shock, confusion, amusement. I didn’t have to try hard to be attracted to either of them as both were young and extraordinarily well-endowed.

And taller up close than they appeared at a distance.

I came up to them, huffing from my efforts, chest rising and falling playfully as I spoke. “Hello! I’m Verne. I, uh, couldn’t help but notice that the two of you seemed to have sprung a leak? I don’t mean to be rude, but I wouldn’t mind helping you both out with that—the whole milking thing, that is.” I knew better, but I slowed my words to an offensively lethargic pace in hopes that some sliver of my intention would register with them.

When I stopped talking, the cuties communicated with one another in whispered Kkarian. There were a few sounds I recognized from when Chunali and Luula chatted, but nothing I could put together as a complete sentence.

Thus, I stood in the street, unsure of what to do with my hands or eyes or boobs as other busty Kkarians passed behind us. Surely they wondered what the pale pipsqueak was doing in the company of two of their sister Kkarians. Was I holding them up? Soliciting? Seducing? All three? (Because I was holding them up and soliciting their time and, in my personal estimation, I looked pretty attractive galloping down the street with boobs I could barely handle).

At such proximity, and to avoid worrying about the glares of passersby, I couldn’t help but examine the two. I could see that the girl on the left had a marking just beside her right eye: a birthmark or a mole of some sort. She also had curlier hair than her friend, which caused ringlets to swoop down her body, hugging her neck before dipping behind her shoulders. The other, the one doing most of the murmuring, was covering much of her face with her hand. Though, even without seeing her expression, I found other features to latch on to: like her heart-shaped areola. One looked distinctly cordate—the nipple of love, the heartthrob with a leaky, seductive emphasis on “throb”. Its twin had a more standard dome shape, deep chocolate housing for an engorged nipple to fit snuggly.

Then, at some point between my drooling and lecherous gazing, dot eye and heart areola stopped their muttering. Actually, they went back to their full-on conversation like I hadn’t even been there, strolling down the street yet again as if to leave the momentary, blonde distraction behind them.

The sound that came out of me as I chased after them wasn’t unlike a puppy begging a tired owner to play fetch. They paused again, more annoyed than amused, and beckoned with their eyes for me to make my case.

I sighed, knowing how many people I would offend if they saw what I was about to do.

“You two,” I said, pointing to the two of them. “And me,” I pointed at my chest, still not quite used to having such huge bazongas, finger sinking further than intended into my sensitive skin. The next words came out with a wince as a result. “Ngh! Uh, together. Lactate? Uhh, I help.”

I laced my fingers together to mean “together” and nodded. Then, improvising, I reached for my own tits to emulate expressing breast milk—since they were right there and still jiggling from my previous chasing. Every time I touched my bosom, my brain had to be convinced that the new burden of weight and size and arousal were part of my body. It stalled like a car engine, choked out by a gripping, seizing pleasure. I couldn’t quite reach my nipples unassisted. Instead, I rolled my flesh up like a bunched-up rug, tuft after needy tuft, until a throbbing nipple filled my tiny palm, ready to be squeezed. If I didn’t already have some attention in the Village streets, the awkward way that I had to tuck myself forward and massage myself just to get to my nipple certainly bought me some. I was heady and drunk on pleasure by the time I was able to model myself for dot eye and heart areola, my cream audibly swirling, ready to be unfurled all over the tall, sexy, topless forms that watched me.

“See? Milk! We milk t-together. . .” I nodded along but was cautious as I worked my nipple in my hand. I didn’t dare give it a full-fisted squeeze; wasn’t nearly that bold. I merely twisted and braced against the searing pleasure that tangled itself around my heart. I was halfway to an orgasm just making a large bead of milk appear on the tip of her own nipples. Then, having made my point, I carefully laid my titty down—just dropping it would probably take me to the ground—and relaced my fingers. “I help. We do it together? Yea?”

It was a leap to assume that every villager spoke a small amount of English, but it wasn't an unbased assumption. The temple was a central fixture to this village and the way several women passed by and acknowledged Luula proved that they had some level of familiarity with the priestesses. Maybe everyone here wasn't a priestess, but all of them should at least be able to recognize my use of the English language.

Maybe with the addition of a horny visual aid, my broken language could reach them.

After several long beats of silence during which I was able to feel the crushing weight of awkwardness through the smiles of pretty women, heart-areola took a step forward.

The grin on her face was sympathetic but also somewhat understanding. Then she spoke.

In Kkarian.

Then, she smirked, grabbed hold of my nipple between the knuckles of her index and middle finger, and twisted like she was trying to open a doorknob. I yelped, knees slamming the dry, packed clay walkway, blazing pain rifling through me as my node twisted violently without warning.

"Fucking shit!" I yelled, summoning the strength to swat at the woman's hand. “Stop it, you bitch! Fuck fuck fuck!

I didn't have to do much else for long before the two girls went skipping off, giggling at my pain as they disappeared down the road.

I was on all fours, dizzy from the startling pain of the titty twister I’d just received. Even though there was a puddle of milk forming underneath me, I couldn’t be happy. All I could do was throb with pain, wincing as thick milk forced its way through my wounded stem. I was in too much pain, hypersensitivity earned from carrying Mardha's milk making titty twisting pranks far too much for me to handle without a great deal of foreplay.

I was completely unlubed for the situation. I was still seeing stars for several minutes after. And over what? Bullying? Pranking? There were certainly better ways to tell me to buzz off, but they resorted to what they knew would stop me in my tracks.

I heard more Kkarian being spoken on my left side and moved toward a building to the right. Would other Kkarians come and kick me while I was down? I’d barely braced against the side of a hut before Luula’s presence attended to me.

"Verne? You okay? I shouldn't have let you talk to them. They're bad girls. I—" Luula said, the words rushing out of her in a flurry as she looked me up and down.

"You know them?" were the first words out of my mouth.

"I know their kind. I saw them coming, too. They’re why I asked you to help the woman with the cart—you should have listened and helped the woman with the cart, Verne."

"You should have warned me that they might do something like this. If you knew—Ngh! G-god it stings." I hissed, disheveled and undone. Sharp daggers still sliced through my right breast. The entire soft pillow groaned as one, making me into a pathetic mess from a single assault. I didn't know what it was like to be kicked in the nads and didn't exactly see myself in a childbearing situation, but I’d always had sensitive nipples, even when they were smaller. Making them larger and tripling their sensitivity made me all the more vulnerable to stupid, childish pranks. I should have known that.

But part of me didn't want to believe that Kkarians were capable of it. I, as a lover and student of many cultures, had fallen for a common pitfall of glorifying people I didn't know instead of treating them like humans—spoiled, mean, bullying humans.

"Are you going to be okay? Do you need me to find you a mender?" Luula came down onto her knees, a gesture that was less difficult for her as her breasts were enormous by typical standards but small for a Kkarian priestess.

I couldn't answer. I tilted my head to the side and found some other building to look at. I ignored her to limited success, as the only available angle that wasn’t filled by cute, caring, infuriating Luula was full of more walkers.

Would these walkers ask different questions? Would they wonder why a priestess was kneeling next to a sobbing white girl? Would they assume I was being punished or assisted?

Luula spoke before I could get lost in mental musing. "If you don't answer, I'm going to get that mender."

"Don't bother," I answered.

"See? You can't even tell that I'm worried about you. If you’re hurt and I'm the one who's supposed to be keeping you safe then what does that say about me? Don't you care at all about anyone but yourself?"

"Oh sure," I answered, voice dripping with venom. "I care about others. I even care about you. I just question why when you intentionally let me talk to two girls who want nothing to do with me except cause me pain for the fun of it.”

"I tried to get you to help replace the pots you and Mardha destroyed on your way to the sacrifice!"

"Which we destroyed because we were both so huge because I showed that I cared when one of the priestesses was having trouble milking herself."

"You ‘helped’ because you wanted to drink Mardha’s milk. You’ll really have me believe that you drank breast milk because it was the right thing to do?"

We bickered in the street, voices growing louder and louder. However, we had to pause when the commotion around us grew to eclipse our argument. Luula looked toward the end of the main street in the middle of my rebuttal. A small crowd of Kkarians had gathered. People no longer strolled pleasantly but sprinted to the bustle, a standing ovation’s worth of clapping, boulder-sized breasts—and not a single woman being slowed by them as I had been. Some gestured with furrowed brows, the cadence of their flowing, musical language becoming pizzicato.

When my lethal dosage of argument slapped harmlessly against Luula’s cheek, I looked toward the end of the street myself. I was just in time to see the crowd parting for someone of obvious Kkarian descent: tall, muscular, naked, and well-endowed. Though instead of walking forward as one would expect of, well, everyone, this woman trudged backward. Those that had stormed past Luula and I (the athletic women of the village, it seemed) darted ahead to grab the village visitor by the arms, shoulders, and waist, digging in their heels to pull the woman further into the Village proper.

"Who…" I began, my voice trailing as I slowly massaged my nipple, doing what I could to try to solve the ringing pain.

As always, Luula had the answer, though rather than snarkily telling me off, her singular word came out as a gasp. "Vaenis..."

"Who?"

"One of the elders. Overseer Vaenis. What is she doing here?" Luula's words so, so quiet.

Whatever was happening was immensely serious.

Vaenis was an elder over one of the large villages in the Blessed Isles. Her village, the one I was currently a refugee in, and one other were all part of a combined treaty. They traded, protected, and assisted one another through the difficult jungle life, sending supplies and rescue parties when needed and operating outside of the domain of the Spirit Queens.

Just as I’d predicted, there was more to the Isles than endlessly spanning jungle wilderness with pockets of feral exiles in-between.

Better yet, villages seemed to run smoothly and, in large part, autonomously, strengthened as much by their contact as they were by their own powers. On occasion, a messenger might bring updates on local projects or needs. At even scarcer intervals would the Elders or Village leadership have meetings to renegotiate their terms. Much of the meeting between the villages had to do with the adoption of exiles, appraising the abandoned woman’s talents, and slotting her into the place where she was the best fit; the idea Luula had outlined before.

Never would anyone of village leadership have any reason to appear at another village unannounced unless something too important to be trusted to a messenger needed conveyance. They rarely left their posts, needed among their people to serve, guide, and settle disputes. Exceptions only involved issues of the utmost significance.

Like finding the outsider who had kidnapped the Kkarian princess. In such a case, the Old Ones left their village to go hunting themselves.

What was of such importance that Overseer Vaenis would drag her enormous, body-eclipsing breasts across the jungle?

The village hive mind worked to meet Vaenis’s unspoken demands. There was a small shed beside one of the many flowing rivers just outside of town; the remnants of an old fishing structure. Salt-bitten nets dangled from hooks. Vines formed strappy sandals for the dock pilings whose barnacled feet were buried beneath steadily churning waters. A holey roof had been naturally patched with a wild green moss, completing a charming but half-rotten relic of a Kkarian past, the jungle retaking this spot on the river.

This locale was the only place Vaenis could reasonably fit, as she herself was an immense woman without counting the dark, squishy hills she dragged along with her. After her long journey, the only place with a door wide enough to contain her was the small fishing structure downriver. The water also helped, since floating her breasts was much easier than dragging them.

Many of the large group that had seen her come in had left to return to their duties, namely, gossiping about what Vaenis’s presence meant. A smaller number of them assisted Vaenis to the riverside and kept her boobs from catching on stray pieces of driftwood. Just a few more announced that they were going to inform the Old Ones about what was going on.

“Are any among you priestesses?” Vaenis asked, barely allowing herself time to be settled.

"We are," Luula replied taking a step toward the missing fourth wall that divided the lowered deck portion from the raised rain-shelter portion where Vaenis perched on a cheap, makeshift stool, her mammaries at least two-thirds of the way to the mossy roof while reclined underneath.

I stayed behind, my eyes on the enormous woman. I was more than happy to assist for various reasons, chief of which was that I myself understood the exhaustion on the elder’s face. If I’d been asked to trek miles through a jungle with a pair of tits like twin-sized beds, I wouldn't have made it out of Passha or Erro’s back door.

But my gawking had to be put on pause when Vaenis sharply jerked her head and shamelessly soaked me in.

"You're a priestess?" Vaenis asked with genuine curiosity. "But you were an outsider. How did you manage something like that?"

"She's, um, in training," Luula answered. She gestured with an open palm toward me, speaking on my behalf in the presence of someone far more important than either of us. "She is an outsider, but she has done a fine job thus far at observing our tenants and serving the sisterhood."

"How long has she been training?"

Luula winced. "It's been about a week."

"You’re a terrible liar. Has anyone ever told you that everything you say appears on your face before you say it?" Elder Vaenis spoke candidly. I had to listen twice to what she said, not because of her thick Kkarian accent, but to question how anyone could speak so forthrightly about what they observed.

"She has a knowledge of our scriptures and an eagerness to serve. Her real training started this morning, but she has been through plenty as it is. Plenty of the priestesses already recognize her as one of our own," Luula spoke back, head slightly bowed after being called out on her fib.

"Of course the other Priestesses recognize her. She's hot! They probably want to sleep with her."

"Elder Vaenis, I…"

"Tell me I'm wrong," Vaenis answered, her full petal lips creased in the middle as she smirked. "They want to sleep with her and so do you. In fact, you probably already have. I can tell that the two of you have some history—you’ve got that ‘we’ve sexed each other energy’."

Luula was mute at this.

Vaenis guffawed uncomfortably loud for a woman laughing at her own joke.

I. . . was somewhere between those two reactions.

“Did your priestess training rob you of your voice? I know Reffi is pretty strict around here, so it’d come as no surprise to me to find your nethers sewn shut.” This time, the elder angled her comment toward me.

“Umm. . .” I answered, unclear if, well, if I was being invited to have a conversation in the first place. Vaenis was larger than life in at least a dozen ways, the two largest of which were, apparently, her personality—seconded swiftly by her gigantic rack.

And a woman had to have quite the personality to have it be more distracting than body-dwarfing tits.

“Well then? You got a word or two for me? I promise I was just joking about your womanhood being sewn shut. . . unless you make Reffi really mad.”

“Wh-What should I say?” I answered, honestly a little skeptical of this whole routine. This was probably the most sober I’d been around a pair of boobs her size since I’d been on the isles.

“Have you and your perky little priestess friend over there been sexing around?” Vaenis asked, voice too sweet to be describing sex acts.

I wasn’t reluctant to answer because I thought sex talks were tabboo. I was reluctant because I didn’t yet know the scope of this situation. Was I still an outsider? Need I be careful who I talk to? I didn't think Vaenis had rubber arms that could reach far enough to pinch my sore nipple, so I spoke. “We have in the past. A time or two.”

“See? Now, was that so hard?” Vaenis tilted her head along with the words, mocking Luula’s burning, embarrassed expression. “It’s fine. It’s not like you’ve taken any vows yet, have you? You’re far too young for it.”

At the idea of being ‘too young’ Luula and I looked at one another, neither one of us thinking about priestess vows for ourselves. We clearly thought about Chunali; how the princess priestess wasn’t that far removed in age from the two of us—maybe a few years older based on build and life experience, but not much. If Vaenis thought Luula was too young for vows, what would she say when she learned about the vows I was hoping to eventually get the right to take with Chunali—the Kkarian devotion to monogamy.

“Ah, but you two know people who have taken vows,” Vaenis replied, dark eyes growing in size as if to see more than what was right in front of her.

Luula groaned, “Elder Vaenis. . .”

“If you want me to stop reading you, then stop writing everything on your face!”

“I can’t help it!” Luula pouted.

Vaenis laughed. Of course, I stopped and considered what this meant. If Vaenis could read everything on Luula’s face, it didn’t benefit us to keep anything from the woman. She would see straight through us. Not that my intention was to keep her in the dark, but I’d hoped to be brief enough with the woman to get out of this situation and return to the village where two women with rings awaited my assistance.

Vaenis simply couldn’t be one of the people I was looking for. She had just arrived in the village a few minutes ago.

“Now then, pretty girl,” Vaenis addressed me, silky but firm. “You are a priestess, yes? Might I ask that you assist in relieving me? It has become quite difficult to move about, and I didn’t have time to stop on my way here.”

“Actually, Elder Vaenis—. . .” I began, only to be cut off.

Elder Vaenis held up a hand, her palm much lighter than her deep, chocolate skin. “If you need to be somewhere, don’t think twice about it. Of course, I do have a favor to ask if you need to leave.”

That was. . . surprisingly easy. “Okay,” I replied.

“It will be a while before I can make it there myself, so I need you to be a messenger for me. Go tell Reffi that those damned Spirit Queens are up to something big. . .”

Because of her accent and the sudden shift from jovialty to direness, I didn’t compute exactly what was said for several moments. “Did you say the Spirit Queens? Passha and Erro?”

Vaenis nodded, though she tilted her head and gave the side of her breast a solid swat. “So you are related to that other outsider. And you know of the situation. Good, good.”

“Is she alright? Hannah?” This was the first lead I’d gotten back to my boatswain ever since we’d fled from Passha’s wrath. Even the tiny wisps of possible information crashed on my heart like anvils. “Please, tell me you know about her—that she isn’t in any danger.”

“Do you not see me here patting my breasts, girl? Come! Now!” Elder Vaenus barked.

Her voice, carrying authority that banished anxiety, had me tucking over into a lowered pose and waddling my way toward her. Once in range of her wide, thick arms, she wrapped herself around my neck and yanked me till my breasts squeezed powerfully against the side of her booby mountainside. With force and inertia in her favor, I continued till my nose crushed against her soft flank, cheek squished to flatness, breasts conforming to the shape of her wall of flesh. Her fingers lost themselves in my hair in a manner, coddling me.

“She is safe, your Hannah. But you are wound up. What troubles you, daughter of the Great Saint?”

If I studied myself deep enough, I could easily rattle off a long list of things to be bothered about. And as much as it wasn’t like me to just vent all of my frustrations out on a complete stranger—or much at all with anyone that I didn’t fully trust—I allowed the rampant anxiety surrounding the topic of Hannah to spring forth and take control of my tongue away for just a moment.

Plus, Vaenis at least seemed to care. Unlike the pranksters before her touch was motherly, not yet having taken advantage of the opportunity to physically harm me.

I looked up into her enormous brown eyes, traced the shape of her rounded hair wedges, kept short but tidy; a mini-afro.

She seemed too strong to crumble under my concerns, so I let fly.

“Hannah isn’t safe with Passha. I need to rescue her, but first I need to pass these trials or else I won’t be accepted as a priestess and will be on the run again from yet another Kkarian village, and I don’t know where I am or how I’m going to get home, and my nipple hurts really bad from where those girls twisted it, and. . .”

“Mhmm. Mhmm,” Vaenis went along, nodding as she stroked me.

A tear grew large enough to sit on my lower lashes without falling. Everything that had built up inside of me seemed so surreal that I couldn’t even acknowledge it all enough to cry. Had my emotions seriously not been processed for this long?

Of all the things I was open about—sex, love, relationships—had my worries really been clamped so tightly?

“And then there’s Luula—” I said, realizing too late that the words were out of my mouth and into the air where they’d sprouted wings and were uncatchable. “I-I mean—”

“Nope! Speak, child.”

“I’m not upset with her or anything,” I started, knowing it wouldn’t satisfy Vaenis. There was no way of deflecting this conversation, not that I could fabricate. When you put one of your closest companions on the same list as a demonically-possessed Queen, it’s quite tough to make amends. “We just had a little bit of a. . . disagreement.”

Vaenis made an understanding sound, something that made her tightly-pressed lips vibrate. Her stroking came to a pause so I could lean my head back, already missing the sound of her booby ocean, milk sloshing around inside of her mountains and the warming comfort they brought along with them.

“Was it before or after the sexing?” Vaenis asked, somehow completely serious with the question.

It came as such a contrast to my list of grievances that I had to giggle. “After! After the sexing.”

“So after the sexing, you two had a disagreement? And it’s bad enough to put on the list with nipple pinching and captive friends?”

Just as I expected: an Elder understood. She was wise beyond her years—looked about ten older than Reffi, but still an attractive, mature older woman.

“The disagreement was about something else. It was after the sexing, but has nothing to do with sexing,” I answered, ready to be grilled.

Luula stepped up, however. "I don't think it's all that important that one of the elders knows what our sexual history is. Elder Vaenis, what is it that you needed to see Reffi about?"

"Sex doesn't always have to be surpressed, you know?" I grumbled, just as low as Luula had earlier in the stands, just low enough for her to hear but also question hearing.

By the look on her face she didn't have to guess for very long. "Not everything should be so plain and out in the open either," she replied.

"There's nothing shameful about what happened with us. Nothing shameful about our bodies. If anyone knows that, an elder should understand."

"Just because she should know it doesn't mean she has to know. And just because somebody asks about how many women you sleep with doesn't mean you should be so eager to brag about it."

"Well, unlike you, I prefer to have things out in the open. It's more enjoyable and safer if you do things like that in public. That way, people can step in before things get too dangerous. That is if those people care about what's going on."

Vaenis spoke. "You would think that the woman with tits the size of a small building would be a lot harder to ignore in conversation. You two have some serious issues to work out." She said so after flipping on an air of authority, a voice that reminded both Luula and I that this woman was well in control of the situation in spite of her silence.

We stopped our quibbling at once.

"Now then, about Reffi. And about your little friend, Goldie," Vaenis didn't hold me so cuddlingly anymore. She let me go and I took a step or two back to take in as much of her body as was possible while remaining close enough to listen. "I received word that Passha has been making some very serious and alarming claims about the Great Saint. It would seem that things have grown more dire in the past few hours and if something is not done, it could mean the end of the Blessed Isles as we know them."