The New World
Copyright© 2024 by Dark Apostle
Chapter 4: Reincarnation with Perks
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 4: Reincarnation with Perks - The story follows James Smith, a man who dies and finds himself in a surreal afterlife courtroom, where his life is judged as "zero sum"—neither good nor evil, just utterly average. Dissatisfied with being consigned to eternal mediocrity, he manipulates the cosmic bureaucracy into granting him a second chance in a new world, where he is reincarnated as a child with his memories intact and perks... - edited by my lovely Steven.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Mult Coercion NonConsensual Reluctant Slavery Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fan Fiction Farming High Fantasy Rags To Riches Restart Alternate History DoOver Extra Sensory Perception Body Swap Furry Magic Incest Mother Sister Politics Royalty Violence AI Generated
The cockerel sang.
Grunting, James woke, groaning and sighing as his eyes fluttered open. He lay on his back, bundled under a patchwork of animal furs, staring up at the rough wooden slats beneath his parents’ bed. For a moment, he simply breathed, taking in the musty scent of old straw and sweat, listening to the scrape and creak of timbers shifting above him.
What a change, he thought. One lifetime ago, he’d had a reasonably comfortable existence—nothing fancy, but not dirt poor either. Now? This was about as low as it got. Not exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d negotiated with Death for another shot, but c’est la vie. As the saying goes. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. At least, that’s what he told himself.
The setup was interesting. He didn’t mind sleeping under his parents’ bed; privacy was a unknown luxury here. What he could have done without, though, was the hour he’d spent listening to the relentless, rhythmic pounding of the bed above. His old man had stamina; he’d give him that. The muffled moans from his mother had made James grin—turns out, she was a grunter too.
The most frustrating thing was not being able to do anything about it, not being able to join in, or ask if he could watch. It would be considered extremely odd, even for a family with no modesty at all, if he popped up and asked.
“Can I watch?”
Still he’d crawled out of the bed, lifted up and seen Marta on all fours, the old man’s cock plowing in and out of her plump wet pussy as the bed shook and shook.
“Uhn, uhn, uhn,” he’d leaned around and caught a glimpse of those, heavy, pendulous tits, bouncing around and jiggling as the wet schlopping noise of the older man’s cock sliding in and out of her cunt, continued for a good while. Only when they were done, did he quietly slip back under.
The most frustrating thing was not being able to do anything about it—not being able to join in, or even ask if he could watch. As casual as nudity was in this cottage, even here there were boundaries that no one talked about, but everyone understood. There was a difference between seeing bodies and seeing what bodies did together.
So James had stayed hidden. But curiosity, old and stubborn, wouldn’t let him rest. Just this once, he’d lifted the hem of the furs and peered out, heart thumping in his small chest. The moonlight had slanted through the cracks in the wall, catching on the curve of his mother’s back as she knelt on all fours atop the bed, his father behind her, moving with the slow, relentless rhythm of rutting animals. The sight struck him hard—a mix of shock, awe, and arousal.
He watched, unable to look away. Garrick’s hands clamped tightly on Marta’s hips, pulling her back with each thrust. Her heavy breasts swung beneath her, swaying and bouncing, sometimes slapping together in time with the wet, sticky sounds that filled the cramped room. Sweat glistened on her back and shoulders. The bed shuddered with every movement, creaking and groaning in protest, the headboard thudding gently against the wall. Marta’s face was half-buried in a pillow, but her muffled grunts and moans leaked out, rough and real, nothing like what he remembered from soft, polite bedrooms in his old life.
James’s heart hammered as he took it all in. The animal urgency, the pure physicality, left no room for secrets or shame. It was the most intimate thing he’d ever seen—more so for the fact that it was his own parents, these rough strangers who were now family. And yet, somehow, it made sense here. In a world with no privacy, no modesty, this was just another part of life. Still, he couldn’t ignore the prickling guilt, the sense that he was trespassing in a way even this open household wouldn’t tolerate.
He stayed quiet, hidden, barely breathing, until Garrick finally slowed, burying himself deep with a final shudder. The room filled with the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant cockerel’s cry outside. Only then did James carefully let the furs fall and slide back in.
God.
The sight of his mother’s cunt, stretched wide around his father’s thick cock, left James frozen. Every detail was vivid—the way her dark, coarse pubic hair framed her swollen labia, glistening with wetness, lips parting further each time Garrick plunged in. He couldn’t quite see her anus, hidden behind the father’s muscular hips, but the man’s buttocks flexed and clenched with every steady thrust, driving deeper, harder, relentless. The smell in the little room was overwhelming—sweat, sex, the sour tang of bodies rutting in the close heat of the night.
The rawness of it pulled him back to memories he’d tried to bury. Nights in his old life, lying alone, listening to his past lives’ mother, Christine’s desperate moans and the slap of skin as Sean fucked her with raw, reckless need. He’d never seen more than a glimpse, but that one morning in Hawaii had burned itself into his mind: Christine, naked and sprawled on white sheets, her ass arched high, skin perfect and unblemished, a vision that made his mouth go dry.
He’d never dared act, only fantasized, the guilt knotting inside him. Here, now, the same forbidden ache returned—sharper, closer, impossible to ignore.
What he’d give to see Christine’s breasts again, just once, to hold and knead them, to suckle them and bury his face between her legs. In his old life, he’d glimpsed Christine’s cunt only a handful of times—a deep, dark, triangular bush between her thighs. He’d never seen her labia, not with the unfiltered clarity that Marta’s body had given him tonight, and the difference left him with a hollow ache. It was a strange sadness, almost nostalgic, woven through with lust and a twinge of regret. Still, if Death had truly done what he’d promised, then somewhere in this world, at some point in this new life, he would see his original mother again. Next time, he promised himself, he’d have her, and she would fuck him without shame.
A slow grin spread across his lips as he slid out from under the bed and studied the sleeping couple. Marta lay tangled in sheets, limbs splayed, utterly unashamed. Her breasts were massive—easily H-cup, he reckoned—and even now, after years of marriage, they’d remained the talk of the town. From what little he’d managed to coax out of Lilly and the others, there’d once been fierce competition for Marta’s affections, but his father had won out in the end. She’d chosen the man with stamina, the one who still managed to make her grunt and shudder deep into the night.
James’s gaze drifted over the heavy, round breast as it rested against Marta’s chest, the thick nipple pinched gently between her fingers, even in sleep. He felt a pulse of envy and hope, mingled with desire. God, he hoped fate was kind this time—maybe he’d find a woman with tits that big.
He sighed, grabbing his pants and shoes from the foot of the bed. Here, a man could walk around naked as the day he was born, but he’d learned quick enough that there were exceptions—especially when it came to dealing with the livestock. The first morning, he’d tried going out bare-assed, only to discover the hard way that animal piss and shit didn’t care about anyone’s pride. It was bad enough stepping into a freezing puddle of cow piss, but the threat of getting his cock snagged or even cut by some rusted bit of farm equipment made him rethink his whole approach.
So, he wrestled his legs into the rough, patched trousers, the homespun cloth doing a piss-poor job against the cold but at least keeping the worst of the filth at bay. Shoes followed—cracked leather, stiff with dried mud and who knows what else. He wrinkled his nose at the stench wafting up from the barn, a reminder that today would bring the usual round of hauling muck, dodging angry geese, and hoping he didn’t slip in shit and break his neck. It was a far cry from his old life, but at least he still had all his parts.
The difference between being in a young body and an older one hit him every day, in ways both small and brutal. Everything felt oversized and awkward—the trousers too long, the shoes too loose, the buckets too heavy. Where once he’d moved with confidence, the ease of a grown man who knew his own strength, now every task was a reminder that his limbs were thin and he tired easily, his hands were sometimes clumsy. His stomach rumbled with the hunger of childhood, sharp and insistent, a gnawing emptiness that left him half-distracted until the next meager meal.
He remembered how, as an adult, he could work for hours, lift crates, run down streets, and never feel sore until bedtime. Now, a morning spent shoveling shit left his back aching and his arms weak.
But the worst difference was how powerless he felt. As a man, he’d known how to assert himself, talk back, bluff, and even fight if necessary. Now, he was smaller than everyone, forced to look up at adults, forced to wait his turn, to obey, to listen. He couldn’t talk his way out of chores, couldn’t claim authority, couldn’t even trust his own body not to betray him with a childish slip or stumble.
All he could do was work in silence, jaw set, eyes always moving. He’d learned quickly that words were cheap and listening was worth more than gold. In this new life, keeping your mouth shut—watching, learning, never giving away too much—was the best way to survive. As the old saying went: know when to hold ‘em.
He sorted out the goats, the ornery bastards with sharp little horns, jostling and bleating as he refreshed their water and mucked out their bedding. Sheep huddled by the fence, picking at the thin grass, their wool matted and yellowed from the rain. James scooped droppings, shoveling shit and sodden straw into a wheelbarrow that wobbled under the weight. The barn reeked of ammonia and damp wool, every surface streaked with stains and feathers.
The chickens were the worst—squawking, flapping, forever underfoot, shitting everywhere, pecking at his boots. He scattered feed, dodged a vicious old rooster, and collected what few eggs hadn’t been smashed in the scramble. Through it all, he kept his thoughts close, letting his eyes catalog every routine, every weakness, never giving anyone more than a grunt or a nod.
Still, he liked the chickens. The hens would gather around him the moment he stepped into the coop, a flurry of feathers and low, greedy clucks, all jostling for a handful of grain. The rooster held himself apart, chest puffed out, head high, strutting like he owned the yard. Something about his posture—bold and almost arrogant—made James smile. He crouched, chuckling softly as he held out his small hand, palm full of scattered feed.
The rooster eyed him warily, sizing up the boy with quick, clever tilts of his red-crowned head. For a moment, the two simply regarded one another, the barnyard quiet except for the soft cooing of the hens and the distant bleat of a goat. Finally, sensing no threat, the rooster stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. He pecked at the feed, quick and precise, and James watched with quiet fascination.
It was a small thing, but it felt like a kind of understanding. The hens darted in around the rooster, picking at stray kernels, their soft bodies brushing against James’s shins. He found comfort in the simple rhythm of their presence, the flutter of wings, and the soft thrum of life that filled the yard.
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