My backpack slung heavy over one shoulder, map crumpled in my fist, I trudged with the crew toward Lake Ouarium’s edge. Transit glitch—no teleport, just this endless woods hike. Dark Woods felt like some anonymous airport lounge, no one knows us here. Tomorrow’s push to Bloody Mound loomed, but tonight? Fuck it, total freedom.
Cleared the trees into her glade. Tiny hut like a budget motel room. There she stood: Níniel, copper curls to mid-back, pale freckled skin, silver eyes gleaming. Five feet, barely 80 pounds, orphan half-elf brewing potions for villagers who shun her. Shy as hell, but her gaze locked on me. Heart raced—mine and hers.
The Clearing Layover
Hermine intros us: her, elf bard Mella in sky-high boots, dwarf fighter Gardain, me Krill. Níniel blushes crimson. ‘Saw you in dreams,’ she whispers, voice like silk. ‘You come for me, adventures and pleasures.’ Gods’ thirst hit her too. Rabbit for dinner, our deer haunch backup. No rush, vibes perfect.
Inside hut too cramped, we ate outside. Mella strips naked but for stiletto boots. Hermine follows, sandals on. Níniel stares, pinks up, stays clothed. I ditch armor, cock twitching at six inches hard under pants. She glances, flushes deeper. Talk quests, paths north risky with goblins, south safer but long.
She brews ‘Lapine Raide’—hot aphrodisiac tea, steaming mugs. Ten minutes, fire ignites. She grabs my hand, pulls me inside. Door shuts. Her lips tentative, then hungry. I taste her neck, freckles salty. Clothes off—tiny A-cups, stiff pink nipples, fat smooth pussy lips, fiery bush above. Virgin tight, but potion slicks her.
Raw Transit and Farewell
First, I fuck her mouth deep, she gags but sucks eager. Then pussy, slow thrust, her moans echo. Flip to ass—her balm makes it glide, no pain. She cums screaming, gong bongs level up. Out I go, cock still rigid. She wants more, calls for Gardain too. Double team: me throat, him ass. Her holes stretch, loving it.
Mella next, titty-fucks dwarf outside while I recover. Hermine watches, then joins. Rotations spin: all five pile in hut, then grass. Pussy eating chains, double pentrations. Níniel’s silver eyes wild now, no more shy. Rabbit stew fuels round two—me and Gardain spitroast her on all fours, Mella-Hermine 69 nearby. Cum sprays, gongs ring chaotic.
Night deepens, lake view shimmers like city lights. Woods whisper like hallway echoes. Her hut key—simple wooden latch—feels like mag card swipe. No names beyond dreams, pure transit fuckfest. Bodies slick, smells of sex and herbs mix.
Post-feast, repus—stomach and loins. Tent up, elf charm repels beasts. All crash nude inside, limbs tangled. Mella’s flute lulls. Sleep hits hard, her head on my chest. Dawn? North to orcs, her with us. This stopover? Best detour ever. Anonymity burned bright, urgency of roads ahead makes it legendary.