Waking Up to a Harsh World
The first thing I noticed was the silence.
No traffic.
No buzzing phone.
No controller in my hand.
Instead, there was the smell of damp earth and smoke—like a village after rain, thick and clinging to the back of my throat. A faint trace of animal musk lingered in the air, mixed with the sharp tang of woodsmoke curling from a dying fire in the corner. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a straw mat inside a mud-brick house. The ceiling was wooden beams darkened by years of fire soot, rough and splintered under my fingertips as I reached up instinctively. The mat scratched against my bare back, coarse fibers digging into skin that felt strangely sensitive, every nerve awake.
"Yeah… this isn't my apartment."
My last memory was grinding an all-night gaming session, half-asleep, headset still on, my cock half-hard from some idle late-night scrolling. Now? I was wearing coarse linen clothes that rasped against my thighs and groin with every shift, the fabric thin enough that I could feel the cool morning air teasing my balls through the loose weave. My hands were rough, calloused from labor I didn't remember doing, my body thinner—but stronger, muscles taut and defined under sun-baked skin that carried the faint salt of old sweat.
Outside, the sounds told me everything I needed to know.
Shouting soldiers, their voices hoarse and commanding.
Crying children, high-pitched and desperate.
The heavy thud of tax collectors' boots on packed dirt, stirring dust that I could already taste on my tongue.
This wasn't a game world.
This was an ancient one—scarred by war, crushed by taxes, and barely holding together.
A World That Takes More Than It Gives
I learned quickly.
The kingdom had just come out of a long war. Fields were ruined, blackened stumps where crops once grew. Men had died in droves, their bodies left to bloat under the sun. Food was rationed, and taxes were merciless—collectors ripping the last scraps from trembling hands. Most families survived day by day, the air heavy with the sour stink of hunger and unwashed bodies, praying the next collection wouldn't break them.
And then came the decree.
To rebuild the population and stabilize society, the government announced a wife distribution.
Widows. Abandoned women. Women whose families couldn't afford to keep them, their bodies offered up like livestock to seed the next generation.
Single men were summoned to the town square.
I went, not expecting anything.
I was poor. Barely surviving. No land, no wealth—just a pair of hands and a stubborn will to live, my cock stirring traitorously at the thought of what this might mean, even as my stomach growled.
The Ones Left Behind
By the end of the selection, laughter and celebration filled the square—men groping their new wives openly, hands sliding under skirts, rough kisses claiming mouths still swollen from grief.
Except for one corner.
Three women stood there.
Unchosen.
Not because they were ugly—far from it.
They were too mature.
Women who had lived. Loved. Lost. Carried the quiet dignity of hardship in their eyes, bodies ripe and full from years of bearing life's weight.
One had gentle features and tired warmth, like someone who had spent years caring for others—her breasts heavy and swaying softly under her threadbare blouse, nipples dark shadows pressing against the fabric, hips wide and inviting, the kind that promised a soft, wet heat.
Another stood tall and calm, her expression composed, but her clenched hands betrayed anxiety—long legs shifting subtly, thighs thick and smooth where her skirt rode up just enough to reveal the pale curve of skin leading to the shadowed cleft between them, a faint dampness glistening there from nerves or unspoken need.
The last looked the strongest—sharp eyes, confident posture—but even she couldn't hide the fear of being abandoned again. Her body was toned yet voluptuous, ass firm and rounded under her clinging dress, breasts high and full, straining the seams, her lips parted slightly as if aching for touch, her scent—musky, aroused, desperate—cutting through the dusty air.
They weren't crying.
They were begging quietly, with bowed heads and pride barely intact, bodies trembling faintly, the subtle shift of hips and the way their chests rose and fell betraying a deeper hunger born of loneliness and neglect.
No one wanted the "extra burden."
Older women meant mouths to feed, bodies that might not quicken as easily—but gods, the way they stood there, curves lush and experienced, pussies no doubt slick and ready from years of knowing exactly what they craved.
A Stupid Decision
I should have walked away.
I could barely feed myself.
But something inside me—maybe the gamer who hated leaving quests unfinished, maybe the man who couldn't ignore people in need, maybe the sudden throb in my cock at the thought of claiming them all—stepped forward.
"I'll take them."
The square fell silent.
Three wives?
The official stared at me like I'd lost my mind.
"You understand what this means?" he asked. "You're responsible for all of them. Their bodies, their bellies, their pleasure and their pain."
"I know," I said.
I didn't.
But I said it anyway, my gaze lingering on the way their nipples hardened under the scrutiny, the subtle parting of thighs as if already imagining my hands, my mouth, my cock buried deep inside each of them.
The System Awakens
The moment their names were written beside mine—
A voice echoed in my head.
[Marriage System Activated]
Condition Met: Multiple Legal Wives (All Adults)
Reward Pending…
I froze.
A system.
Of course there was a system.
I glanced at the three women now standing beside me—confused, cautious, hopeful. Their bodies pressed close in the crowd, the heat of their skin radiating through thin fabric, breasts brushing my arm, hips grazing my thigh, the faint wetness of arousal seeping through their skirts as they shifted, eyes dropping to the growing bulge in my linen pants.
This wasn't a cheat skill for combat.
This wasn't power.
This was responsibility.
Three mature, aching women whose cunts hadn't been filled in far too long, whose bodies trembled with the promise of nights spent wrapped around me, milking my cock dry while I claimed every inch of them.
And somehow…
It felt like the start of a life I never knew I wanted—one where I'd bury myself balls-deep in their slick heat night after night, breeding them full, watching their bellies swell as the system rewarded every thrust, every moan, every hot spill of cum deep inside
A Roof, a Lamp, and Three Quiet Heartbeats
Night fell quickly in the village.
There were no streetlights—only oil lamps flickering like fireflies through cracked shutters, casting golden pools on the dirt paths, and the pale moon hanging low over tiled roofs, its silver light slipping through gaps to trace pale lines across sweat-damp skin. By the time we reached my house, the sounds of the day had softened into crickets chirping in rhythmic pulses and distant coughing from tired homes, the air thick with the scent of cooling earth and faint woodsmoke that clung to our clothes.
My house was small.
One room.
A clay stove still holding the day's faint heat.
A single wooden table with three legs that didn't quite agree with each other, its surface scarred and sticky from old spills.
I stopped at the door, suddenly aware of how absurd this situation was—three women trailing behind me, their bodies close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from their curves, the subtle brush of hips and breasts as we crowded the threshold.
"Sorry," I said, scratching the back of my head. "It's… not much."
None of them spoke right away.
The air inside was heavy, thick with the mingled scents of their bodies—earthy sweat from the day's tension, the faint musk of arousal that had been building since the square, and the sweeter undertone of feminine heat seeping through thin fabric.
Then the woman with the gentlest eyes stepped forward.
"It's warm," she said softly. "That's enough."
Her voice alone eased something in my chest, low and soothing, like a hand sliding slowly down bare skin.
Wife 1 – Lian
Her name was Lian.
She looked to be in her early thirties—clearly older than me—but there was nothing fragile about her. She moved with practiced calm, the kind that came from years of managing a household, soothing others, and enduring quietly. Her breasts swayed heavily beneath her loose blouse with each step, nipples stiff and visible through the worn linen, dark peaks begging to be pinched and sucked. Her hips rolled subtly, the curve of her ass full and plush under her skirt, promising a grip that would swallow my hands whole.
Her hair was tied loosely behind her back, a few damp strands clinging to the nape of her neck where sweat had gathered. Her sleeves were rolled just enough to show hands marked by work, not neglect—strong fingers that I couldn't help imagining wrapped around my thickening cock. When she smiled, it wasn't bright or flirtatious—it was steady, reassuring, her full lips parting just enough to reveal the wet pink of her tongue.
The kind of smile that said things will be okay even when they weren't—while her thighs pressed together subtly, the faint scent of her slick cunt drifting up as she shifted.
She noticed everything.
The cracked bowl on the shelf.
The empty grain sack.
The cold stove.
Without asking, she set down her small bundle and began tidying—gentle, careful, never intrusive—bending forward to reach low shelves, her skirt riding up to expose the soft undersides of her thighs and the shadowed cleft where her pussy lips swelled against damp fabric, glistening faintly in the lamplight.
I opened my mouth to stop her, then closed it, my cock twitching hard against my linen pants as I watched the way her heavy tits hung and swayed with each motion.
For the first time since waking up in this world… someone was treating this place like a home.
Awkward Beginnings
The other two women sat quietly near the wall, watching, their breaths coming a little faster now in the close air.
No one knew what to say.
Three strangers. One house. One decision that changed all our lives—their ripe bodies mere feet away, nipples hard and straining, thighs parted just enough that I could smell the collective heat of their neglected cunts, wet and ready.
"I'll sleep outside," I blurted out, my voice rough as my erection throbbed painfully, pre-cum already leaking to stain the front of my pants.
All three looked at me, eyes dropping instinctively to the bulge I couldn't hide.
Lian frowned—not sharply, but with concern, her tongue wetting her lower lip unconsciously.
"That won't do," she said. "You're our husband now. If you fall sick, who will work tomorrow? Who will… take care of us?"
Her words weren't overtly seductive.
They were practical.
Still, my ears burned, and my cock jerked at the unspoken promise—three slick, aching pussies waiting to be filled, stretched, bred.
"I—I mean—"
"We'll arrange things properly," she continued calmly, though her chest rose and fell faster, breasts heaving as her nipples poked insistently. "Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, we survive."
Survive.
That single word grounded everything, even as the air thickened with the raw scent of arousal, their bodies subtly shifting closer, thighs rubbing together with soft, wet sounds.
A Simple Meal
We shared what little I had: thin porridge, a bit of salted greens, steam rising to mingle with the musky heat between their legs.
I expected complaints.
There were none.
Lian divided the portions carefully, making sure everyone had enough—even slipping some into my bowl when she thought I wasn't looking, her fingers brushing mine deliberately, lingering just long enough to send a jolt straight to my balls.
"Eat," she said gently, her voice husky now. "You need strength… for what's coming."
No one had said that to me in a long time, and the way her eyes flicked down to my straining cock made it clear exactly what strength she meant—for pounding into her dripping cunt until she screamed, for flooding all three of them with hot cum until their bellies swelled.
The system window flickered faintly at the edge of my vision.
[Daily Condition Met: Shared Meal]
Stability +1
Household Harmony +1
I ignored it.
For once, numbers didn't matter—only the throbbing need building in the room, the way their scents mingled and thickened the air.
Night Under One Roof
We laid down blankets across the floor, the straw mats scratching against bare skin as clothes were loosened for sleep—blouses slipping open to reveal deep cleavages slick with sweat, skirts hiked high enough to expose the dark curls and swollen lips of their pussies, glistening wet and parted in silent invitation.
No touching.
No expectations.
Just four people breathing in the same space, the air heavy with the raw smell of arousal—wet cunts aching to be filled, my cock hard and leaking as it strained toward them.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable—just heavy with things unsaid, with the wet sounds of subtle shifts, thighs rubbing slickly, breaths hitching as fingers brushed accidentally close to throbbing cocks and dripping slits.
As the lamp dimmed to a low, golden glow that painted their curves in shadows and light, I heard Lian whisper softly, almost to herself, her voice thick with need:
"Thank you… for choosing us."
I stared at the ceiling, cock pulsing painfully.
"I didn't do anything special," I replied, voice rough.
She turned slightly, her body heat washing over me, one heavy breast brushing my arm, nipple hard as stone against my skin.
"You did," she murmured, her hand resting lightly—innocently—on my thigh, inches from where my erection throbbed. "And tomorrow… we'll show you how grateful we can be."
And for the first time since arriving in this brutal world, sleep came easily—haunted by dreams of slick heat clamping down, of moans echoing as I buried myself balls-deep in each of them, one after another, claiming every inch of the wives I'd taken.