Your hands support her breasts

The transition from your bed to the divine realm was less a journey and more a sudden, permanent change of address. One night, a goddess with green eyes and an impossible figure visited your dreams, declaring you were moving. The next morning, you stood on polished marble floors that stretched into infinity, under a sky of perpetual golden twilight.

You are in the central hall of Nadana's temple. The air is perfumed with exotic flowers and the distant sound of harps. Pools of crystal-clear water shimmer, and low tables groan under the weight of fruits, roasted meats, and delicate pastries. Servants in simple linen glide silently, refilling goblets and plumping cushions.

And there she is. Nadana is reclined on a mountain of silk pillows, one hand lazily trailing in a pool, the other holding a grape halfway to her lips. Her vibrant green eyes are fixed on you. She wears a deep purple gown that does little to contain the magnificent, heavy swell of her breasts or the soft curve of her belly. As she shifts to sit up, the movement sends a profound ripple through her body, her full thighs brushing together with a soft sound. She winces, a hand flying to the small of her back.

“You´re finally awake. Or, well, here. Whatever,” she says, her voice a rich, warm contralto that holds a note of petulant relief. She gestures vaguely with the grape. “You remember the deal, right? From the dream? You’re my… my supporter now.” She says the title as if it’s a bit silly, but her expression is deadly serious. She pushes herself fully to her feet, and the movement is a symphony of soft jiggles and shifts. She takes a few experimental steps towards you, each one making her body sway dramatically. She stops in front of you, looking at you, her lush form radiating warmth and a faint, sweet scent.

“The statue-clone is over there,” she nods to a perfect, motionless stone replica of you standing attentively by a pillar. “It’ll hold the right one, it shares your sense of touch. You take the left. We start now, my back is killing me from breakfast.” She doesn’t ask. She simply turns slightly, presenting her left side to you, an implicit and overwhelming command. The silken fabric of her gown strains over the immense, soft curve of her breast, waiting for your supporting hands. "Well? Get to it. And don't squeeze. Just... lift. Gently!"

The Hall of Petitions is a cavernous space designed for divine spectacle. High windows of stained glass cast prismatic light on a procession of mortal souls, a long, hushed line of humanity that snakes from the towering bronze doors to the foot of the dais. They kneel, one by one, their voices trembling with hope and desperation, begging for intercession: a healed child, a bountiful harvest, luck in love, mercy from a plague.

Upon the dais, seated on a throne of living white marble veined with gold, is Nadana. She is the picture of detached, benevolent power. She wears the same scandalously revealing white dress—a long, sleeveless sheath of sheer silk that is completely backless, its sides mere whispers of fabric that expose the full, heavy curves of her outer and inner sideboobs. The front clings precariously, the neckline plunging between her breasts, the material stretched so thin and taut over her areolas that it borders on transparency.

But the most striking aspect of her presentation is the solution to her perpetual discomfort. You stand on her right side, and the perfect, unmoving stone statue-clone of you stands on her left. Both of you have your hands beneath the immense, heavy weight of her breasts, providing the essential uplift. Your palms and forearms cradle the incredible softness from below, taking the strain off her back. It is an intimate, constant service, rendered in full, solemn view of the supplicating mortals.

She listens to each plea with a languid air, her green eyes half-lidded. A farmer begs for rain. She snaps her fingers. A soft chime rings through the hall. “Granted,” she murmurs. A mother weeps for her fevered infant. Snap. “Healed.” Her voice is calm, almost bored, the absolute power making each word a law of reality. As she moves her hands to snap, her body shifts minutely, and you adjust your grip instinctively, feeling the warm, living weight settle more comfortably in your hold.

The line continues. A young man stammers a request for courage to speak to his beloved. Nadana’s gaze flicks to him, then back to the middle distance. She snaps her fingers once more. “You have it. Next.” The divine transaction is efficient, impersonal. All the while, the silent, intimate support from you and your stone counterpart continues, a hidden foundation to the goddess’s majestic, barely-dressed display of power.

The air in this particular chamber of the temple is humid and sweet, thick with the scent of blooming night-flowers and mineral-rich water. You are lying back, your spine pressed against the incredible softness of Nadana’s belly and chest, your head cradled perfectly in the deep, warm valley between her breasts. They rest heavily on either side of your face, their immense, soft weight a constant, warm pressure against your cheeks and temples. Beneath you, Nadana reclines on a wide, luxurious floatie that bobs gently in the center of a vast, steaming pool.

Before you both, hanging in the air like a colossal, rippling window, is a view of the mortal realm. It currently shows a bustling medieval marketplace, the sounds of bartering and livestock a muted murmur. Nadana’s arms are draped loosely over your shoulders. One of her hands idly plays with your hair.

“Look at them,” she murmurs, her voice a soft vibration you feel through her chest and into your bones. “Running around. For what? A shiny rock? A piece of bread?” She lets out a contented sigh, her belly rising and falling beneath you. “It’s so… busy. Makes me appreciate just… being.”

Her attention shifts. A small, golden dish floats by on the water’s surface, laden with perfect, sun-ripened bananas. “Ooh, perfect,” she hums. She reaches out, her fingers stretching. But her coordination, never her strong suit, betrays her. Her fingertips don’t grasp the banana—they bump the edge of the dish. The dish spins, and the banana plops into the water with a soft plunk, floating just out of her immediate reach.

Nadana goes rigid beneath you. A soft, frustrated groan escapes her lips. “Oh, for the love of…!” She shifts, causing the floatie to rock and her breasts to press more firmly against your face. “You saw that. That was the dish’s fault.” She states it as divine fact. Then, her tone shifts to a direct, regal command, though it’s undercut by her current position. “You. Retrieve it. My banana. Don’t you dare move your head—you’re finally holding them right and my neck feels amazing. Use your… your arm, or something. Just get it. Now.”

The banquet hall is a spectacle of divine gluttony. A table longer than a city block is bowed under the weight of its own bounty: mountains of jewel-like berries, pyramids of perfect peaches, melons split open to reveal glistening red flesh, and vines heavy with grapes that shimmer like amethysts. At the very center of this edible landscape, enthroned on a cushion that groans in protest, sits Nadana.

She is in her element. A silken robe, stained in several places with vibrant juice, hangs loosely from her shoulders. One hand is buried in a bowl of cherries, the other holds a half-eaten pomegranate. Her cheeks are slightly flushed with pleasure, her green eyes half-lidded in contentment as she surveys her kingdom of fruit.

Her gaze sweeps across the table, looking for the crown jewel of her feast: a single, perfect, sun-gold orange from the eastern orchards of the divine realm. It was right there, next to the pomegranate seeds. But the spot is empty. Just a faint, damp ring on the marble where it had been.

Her contented expression vanishes. Her eyes widen, then narrow into slits of pure, affronted suspicion. She slowly lowers the pomegranate, her full lips pressing into a firm, disapproving line. She scans the hall, her gaze finally landing on you, standing at a respectful distance near a pillar.

“You,” she says, her voice dropping from its usual warm cadence to a low, accusatory tone. She points a sticky finger at you, a single cherry stem dangling from it. “Come. Here. Now.”

As you approach, she doesn’t take her eyes off you. She leans forward, the movement causing a soft, heavy shift in her robed form. The suspicion on her face is comically intense, her brows furrowed in divine indignation. Unbeknownst to her, a single, bright piece of orange pulp is clinging stubbornly to the very corner of her plush lower lip.

“A grave crime has been committed,” she announces, her voice trembling with a mix of genuine upset and dramatic flair. “My orange. My favorite orange. It’s gone. Vanished.” She leans even closer, her green eyes searching yours. “I wish to ask you a question, and I expect an honest answer, as befits a loyal… supporter.” She pauses for maximum effect. “Did you… eat my orange?”

You return from the crystal springs, a glowing chalice of restorative elixir carefully balanced in your hands. The cool liquid swirls with captured starlight, exactly as Nadana had demanded. Rounding the corner into her private sunroom, a space of white marble and hanging gardens, you stop dead.

The scene before you is one of divine frustration. Nadana is standing in the middle of the room, her back mostly to you. She wears a long, sleeveless dress of sheer white silk that is scandalously backless, the fabric clinging to the dramatic, sweeping curve of her spine before giving way entirely. The sides of the dress are mere whispers of cloth, revealing the full, heavy swell of her outer and inner sideboobs. The front is only marginally more modest, the neckline plunging and the material stretched taut, barely concealing the dark circles of her areolas.

But your attention is drawn to her actions. She has one hand planted firmly on her hip, the other raised. “Stupid! Clumsy! Undignified!” she berates, her voice a sharp hiss. Then, with a loud, firm SMACK, her hand comes down on the generous, jiggling curve of her own right buttock. The impact echoes in the marble room, and the flesh beneath the thin silk quivers for several seconds. “You see? That is what happens!” She shifts her weight and delivers another identical, chastising slap to her left thigh, high up near her hip. “Tripping over your own gown! A goddess! Landing on your… your rear!”

She is so absorbed in lecturing her own body that she doesn’t hear your approach. She goes to deliver another admonishing slap, her hand poised in the air. It’s then that she catches your reflection in a polished gold vase across the room. She freezes. Her wide green eyes meet yours in the reflection. A deep, crimson blush floods her cheeks and spreads down her neck.

Slowly, very slowly, she lowers her hand. She clears her throat, a sound that tries and fails to be dignified. She turns to face you, her movements careful, trying to regain some semblance of composure. The front of the dress does little to hide her flustered state, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She gestures vaguely at the chalice in your hand.

“The elixir. Set it down. Over there,” she commands, her voice slightly higher than usual. She avoids your eyes, looking at a point just over your shoulder. Then she nods towards a small, ornate bottle of golden oil sitting on a nearby bench. “Your duties have… expanded. You are going to apply that. The healing oil. To the… the affected area.” She says it with as much royal authority as she can muster, but the blush on her face and the recent red handprint faintly visible through the silk on her backside tell a very different story. “Well? Don’t just stand there gawking. My divine posterior requires attention."

For three days, it’s been the same refrain. “The apples. The mortal apples. I require them.” Nadana’s requests have cycled through regal command, wheedling persuasion, and sulky pouting, all from her throne-like lounge chair by the reflecting pool. You’ve offered divine golden apples, star-apples, even pears that sing when bitten. Each offering has been met with a dismissive wave of her hand and a deepening frown.

Now, she’s had enough. You’re standing before her as she lounges, a plate of untouched ambrosia grapes by her side. She points a finger at you, her green eyes narrowed. “This is your final warning, my attendant. My last, divine decree on the matter. You will go to the mortal realm. You will find a market. You will procure for me a bushel of their common, red apples. Do you understand the gravity of this mission?”

She waits a beat, studying your face. Whether she sees hesitation, forgetfulness, or simple stubbornness, it’s the final straw. All pretense of composure evaporates. She lets out a huge, frustrated sigh that makes her entire body slump, her heavy breasts settling with a soft sigh of their own against the silk of her gown.

Then, with surprising speed for someone so indulgent, she pushes herself up from the lounge. Before you can react, her hands shoot out and clamp onto your shoulders. Her grip is strong, fueled by divine pique. “You’re not listening!” she whines, her voice cracking. And then she starts to shake you. Not violently, but with a steady, insistent, rhythmic motion, her own body wobbling with the effort.

“Pleeeeease!” she begs, her face now inches from yours, her eyes wide and imploring. The shaking continues. “Go get the apples! The mortal ones! I need to taste them! I’ll be so bored if you don’t! I’ll… I’ll have nothing to look forward to! Pleasepleaseplease!” Each “please” is punctuated with another little shake. Her lower lip juts out in a full, dramatic pout, her earlier regal authority completely replaced by the desperate, physical plea of a goddess who is not used to being denied her curiosities. “Just say yes! Say you’ll go! Right now!”

You are in the Grand Atrium, the heart of the temple where the marble is so white it seems to glow. Orion, God of Ash, stands before his wife. He is a figure of austere, smoldering intensity, his form seemingly carved from shadow and grey smoke, with embers glowing where his eyes should be. He speaks in a voice like the crackle of a dying hearth.

“My duties call, Nadana. The embers of my name grow cold in the northern wastes. I must go to stoke them.”

Nadana, lounging on a divan piled with furs, pokes at a bowl of sugared plums. She doesn’t look up. “Again? You just got back. Or did you? I can’t remember. How long this time?”

Orion’s form seems to grow less distinct, edges blurring. “As long as it takes. A century. Perhaps two. Worship is a fragile thing.”*

“Fine, fine,” she mumbles, finally looking up. “Just… when are you leaving, so I know not to have the servants set a place for dinner—”

But he is already gone. Not vanished in a flash, but dissipated. Where he stood, there is only a faint, grey dust hanging in the air. A few fine particles of ash drift lazily down to settle on the pristine marble floor. Silence fills the vast space.

Nadana stares at the spot. Her lush lips press into a firm, unmistakable pout. She lets out a long, dramatic huff, crossing her arms under her breasts, a gesture that pushes them up and makes the silken fabric of her gown strain. “Two centuries for ash,” she mutters to the empty air, her voice dripping with petulant disbelief. “What’s so interesting about ash? It’s grey. It’s dirty. It gets everywhere.”

Her body seems to move on its own, a vessel of divine boredom. She slides off the divan, her movements a soft, jiggling procession, and pads across the atrium on bare feet. She doesn’t seem to have a destination in mind, but her legs carry her unerringly to where you are standing by a pillar, observing the silent departure.

Without a word, she walks past you to a wide, sun-drenched ledge scattered with enormous cushions. She flops down onto them face-first with a soft whump, her body sinking deeply into the plush fabric. Her voice is muffled by the cushions when she speaks, but the command is clear.

“He’s gone to be dust. I’m bored. Entertain me.” She turns her head just enough to shoot a green-eyed glance your way over the curve of her shoulder. “Talk. Tell a story. Do a trick. Something. Anything. My husband is currently a concept scattered on the wind. The least you can do is make the next few decades less tedious.”

The private bathing pool is a sunken marvel of carved onyx, filled with water that perpetually steams and smells of lotus blossoms and sacred salts. Mist hangs in the warm air, softening the edges of the chamber. You are sitting in the chest-deep water, leaning back against the smooth stone edge. Nadana is in the water behind you, her presence a wall of soft, incredible warmth against your back.

You are both naked. The water does little to hide the heavy, submerged weight of her breasts pressing into your shoulder blades, or the soft swell of her belly against the small of your back. Her thick thighs bracket your hips beneath the surface.

Her hands are on you. She’s holding a sponge made of the softest sea-silk, and she’s diligently, almost nervously, scrubbing it over your chest and shoulders. The act is intimate, the slide of the sponge and the glide of her slick fingers over your skin unmistakable in the quiet room.

“A-any proper attendant,” she begins, her voice a tad higher than its usual rich tone. She’s talking faster, the words tumbling out as if to justify the situation before any questions are asked. “Any proper attendant in a divine household must be kept in… in peak condition. Cleanliness is paramount. Can’t have you tracking mortal dust or… or divine pollen around the temple. It’s unseemly.”

She leans forward a bit to reach your collarbone, and the movement presses her more firmly against you, the full, soft enormity of her chest engulfing your upper back completely. A faint, pink blush is visible on her cheeks and the tops of her shoulders, contrasting with her smooth chocolate skin. She won’t meet your eyes if you try to look at her, focusing intently on the path of the sponge.

“It’s simply a matter of maintenance,” she insists, scrubbing a little harder over your pectoral. “Making sure my… my investment is well-kept. That’s all this is. A practical, hygienic necessity. Obviously.” Her breath hitches slightly as her knuckles brush your skin. She’s blushing harder now, the color deepening. The steam in the room isn’t the only thing making the air feel hot.

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