268: Same same but… different?

The EroWriter Website Is Now Live

Hey everyone,

I’ve finally put the new EroWriter website live.

Before I start treating it as the main home for my novels, I’d really appreciate some help testing it in the real world.

You don’t need to be a Patreon member or do anything complicated. Just visit the site, browse around, open the novels and available chapters, and use it the way you normally would as a reader.

If you notice anything strange, please let me know. In particular, I’d love to know:

If you find a problem, a screenshot and the page where it happened would help me enormously.

You can simply report it like this:

Device:

Browser:

Country:

Page:

Problem:

Screenshot: if available

Even if everything works perfectly for you, telling me “Site works normally for me — [country/device/browser]” is useful, because I want to make sure the site is accessible properly from different countries and devices.

This is still the early live-testing stage, so there may be a few things that need fixing. I’d rather find those problems now than after I begin moving more content over.

Thanks to everyone who takes a few minutes to check it out. It genuinely helps. Comment in this chapter, or private message me on my Patreon. Anything helps.

EroWriter

~~

**Chapter 268**

“I can escort you the rest of the way,” I said, taking my chance after taking a good look at that ass.

She didn’t tell me no.

The hall was empty except for the two of us and the last of the daylight. One turn brought us to her door. She reached for the latch, and the robe pulled across her as she leaned, the seams giving up until the split of her ass sat in a heavy line no rite had ever planned for.

I put my hand on her ass.

It wasn’t a brush, and it wasn’t an accident. My palm landed on the right cheek and sank through the cloth into heat and give, the flesh rising between my fingers until the grip looked too small for what it was holding.

I squeezed once, slowly, and the weight of her kept coming, spilling toward the cleft, warm enough that the robe might as well have been an afterthought.

I took the left side with the other hand because one palm wasn’t doing the job. Both cheeks filled at once. They moved like they had their own heartbeat, but that was probably my imagination only. They stayed in my hands when I lifted, thick and heavy, a warm mass that swallowed my grip and made the corridor feel narrower than it was.

She stopped with her fingers still on the latch.

She didn’t spin, and she didn’t slap my wrist. Her eyes turned just enough that I knew she was looking at me over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“The hem folded when you reached forward,” I said. “If I leave it like that, it pulls wrong across the back, and the seam might split.”

She accepted it the way she accepted a folded hem, with no heat in the question and no meaning behind the pause. In this world, my hand on her clothes that might tear was a practical matter.

I used that excuse for everything it was worth. I ran my palms down both sides as if I were smoothing fabric, then hooked my fingers under the swell and lifted, letting each cheek hang in my grip before I set it down again. The right one overflowed my thumb and dropped with a slow, living weight. The left one did the same. I pressed the heels of my hands into the fullest part and felt the flesh roll out and come back. The white warmed under me. When I finally let go, the cloth stayed creased in the shape of my fingers.

“I noticed your body is very tense. Perhaps because you’ve been standing all morning. Would it be alright if I massaged for a bit? To help relieve the tension.”

She thought about it for a breath.

“Very well.”

I followed her in and closed the door. The room was big, but not my big, and barely used. One large bed. One chair and one big ass rectangular couch. A case she hadn’t unpacked. She stood in the middle of the floor as if she were still in the corridor, waiting to be told where her body was supposed to go.

“On the bed,” I said. “Face down. Would be better if you could remove your clothes.”

“I cannot facilitate that request.” She simply replied, without giving an explanation.

“It’s alright. I can still do it.” I replied without pushing forward. Those clothes didn’t leave much to the imagination anyway.

She lay down.

What rose under the cloth was a single thick claim on the mattress, wider than the bed looked ready for, the cleft sitting in a heavy shadow the fabric couldn’t close. I started at her head because putting my hands on her rear first would’ve been a different kind of obvious, even in a world that didn’t have a word for what I wanted.

My fingers found the base of her skull and pressed into the tendon there until her breathing changed against the pillow. I worked down the neck without hurry, feeling the line of her and the warmth coming through the cloth. Her shoulders were dense in a way a life of prayer didn’t explain, muscle packed under softness packed under cloth, the kind of packing a physical training put there. Those clothes were hiding more than her body. I drove my thumbs along the blades and dragged them outward, and a small sound left her that was only relief.

“Hnn.”

I followed the spine after that. The waist didn’t last long enough to count as a waist. The flare started early and kept going, and the heat under the robe climbed the lower my hands traveled. I spent time on the small of her back that the tightness didn’t strictly need, circling with my thumbs, pressing with the heels of my hands, feeling her sink into the mattress inch by inch. Every pass brought me closer to the part of her that had pulled my hands in the hall. I let that wait until her breathing had gone slower, until the shoulders I had started with were actually loose, and then I put both hands where I had been walking her toward since the latch.

I sank in to the wrist.

The robe went taut and then slack as she pushed into my palms, hot and enormous, a slow roll that filled every gap between my fingers. I worked from the underside first, gathering what wouldn’t fit in one grip, lifting until the weight hung off me, then letting it fall back with a settle I felt all the way through my forearms. The flesh was scalding even through the extra layer. It had a give Valeria’s hadn’t had, a softness that kept arriving after I thought I had taken all of it.

I changed how I held her ass. The heels of my hands ground into the fullest part until the flesh rolled and the robe whispered. My knuckles walked the outer swell where the cloth was tightest, following the place her hip turned into something a blessing had no language for. My thumbs dragged the inner line of the cleft through the robe without opening her, just enough pressure that she shifted on the bed and the shadow between her ass cheeks deepened.

Sweat started under the fabric and made it cling. I kept going. I took the right side in both hands and really owned it, pulling it up toward her spine, spreading it, packing it back into my palms. Then I did the left. Then I took both cheeks together and kneaded them until the whole of her quaked and settled, quaked and settled, a slow, heavy answer that had nothing to do with prayer.

“Your hands are heavy,” she said into the pillow.

“That’s the point. Light pressure won’t reach through this cloth, and it won’t reach the muscle you’re actually carrying.”

I told her to turn over. While I may not have had enough of her ass, it was time to see if her tits were as soft as her ass, or hard as the rest of her.

She did, eyes on the ceiling. The robe settled across her chest and lost the argument immediately. Two serious mounds held the white up, the points already tight from how she had been lying, the valley between them a shadow the cut of the garment had never planned for. I lifted the weight from the sides the same way I had lifted her shoulders, thumbs crossing the peaks until they stood clearer through the fabric. I worked the undercurve where the robe had gone damp from her own heat, lifting, settling, lifting again, feeling how much of her the cloth was failing to hide. She breathed out through her nose.

“Haa…”

First sign that the massage was doing something to her. Which was strange. She didn’t give that reaction when I was playing with her ass.

I took the massage down her ribs after that, felt the give of her stomach where the robe was baggy and told me almost nothing except her six-pack was better than mine, then her thighs, which were thick enough that my hands looked honest again, and thankfully soft, not hard like almost the rest of her.

I spent time there I didn’t need either, dragging my palms from knee to hip, stopping short of the part I was ultimately going to touch.

But…

“Let me turn around now. Please focus on my back.”

She didn’t give me enough time to respond. As if she could sense I was going for her pussy, she stopped me before I could get close. Or it was probably my imagination. No way that concept existed in this world.

She turned back on her stomach, which was a sight to see, because that ass turning was not an easy feat.

I put a forearm across her lower back so she wouldn’t drift forward and used the other hand to take one side of her ass at a time, burying my fingers, pulling the mass up toward her spine, spreading it just enough that the cleft deepened and the cloth sank into the heat between. The robe was damp now. A faint wet drag came off it wherever my palms had stayed too long.

But strangely, it was only her sweat, and she still wasn’t giving off any reaction.

I switched sides and gave the other cheek the same treatment, slow and thorough, until that half of her was as marked by my hands as the first. Then I took both cheeks together again and worked them until her hips tried to follow the motion.

She didn’t tell me to stop.

When the muscle had finally gone loose under me, I left one hand where it was, still idly holding a handful of her, and reached for the knot at the back of her head with the other.

Without letting her know, I undid it, so when she turned around, her face would be exposed.

“Can you please turn around now?”

She did, which was a spectacle to see again.

And just as I had expected.

Alena Monroe. The knightess that came from the royal palace with Elara.

Fat Lord Ruuthaven’s knightess.

Same eyes. Same mouth. The only difference was her tits and ass, which were a lot bigger than theirs.

She turned her head to me, maybe not realizing her veil had come off.

“Are you finished?”

“Yes,” I replied without a moment’s hesitation.

My goal was fulfilled. I had confirmed who she was. A few new questions had formed in my mind, and no answers, just the questions before. And since I’d also had some fun and groped that unrealistic ass, which I might have to kill in a few weeks, maybe it was time to leave and gather my thoughts.

I opened the door.

“Sleep well, Sister Anne.”

I left and shut the latch behind me.

~~

Let me know if there are any mistakes.