In the shadowed halls of Castle Blackthorn, nestled amid the rugged hills of medieval England, the year was 1348. The Black Death ravaged the lands beyond, but within these stone walls, another plague festered—a forbidden desire that burned hotter than any fever.
Lady Elara, the mistress of the keep, was a vision of ripe, untamed beauty. At thirty-five summers, her body was a testament to fertile abundance: massive breasts that strained against the laces of her kirtle, heavy and full like overripe melons, with dark nipples that poked insistently through the thin linen on cooler days. Her ass was a wide, jiggling expanse, swaying hypnotically with each step, the kind that made serfs whisper and stable boys stumble. And between her thighs, her pussy dripped endlessly, a slick, aching need that soaked her undergarments from dawn till dusk. She was obsessed with her son, Sir Aldric's heir, young Lord Harlan—nineteen, broad-shouldered, with a cock that hung thick and veined even in repose, a monstrous ten inches when aroused, capable of pounding for hours without release.
Her husband, Lord Aldric, was a cruel jest of fate. His manhood was a pitiful nub, barely three inches hard, and he spurted his worthless seed in a single, pathetic thrust—gone in one second, leaving Elara frustrated and feral. For years, she'd endured his fumblings in the marital bed, her body screaming for more while he snored obliviously.
One crisp autumn morn, the horns blared. Lord Aldric rode out to join King Edward's forces against the French at Crécy. "Guard the keep well, woman," he barked, mounting his destrier. His tiny prick had failed him again the night before, collapsing after one feeble poke into her dripping folds. Elara smiled sweetly, curtsying low, her massive tits nearly spilling from her gown. "As you command, my lord." Inside, her pussy clenched in anticipation, juices trickling down her thighs.
As the gates clanged shut behind the departing army, Elara's obsession ignited fully. No more stolen glances, no more brushing against Harlan in the corridors, feeling his massive bulge twitch against her ass. Tonight, she decided, she would claim him secretly. Their bond had simmered for years—whispers in the solar, her hand "accidentally" grazing his crotch during lessons, his eyes devouring her cleavage as she bent to serve wine. Nobody knew. Nobody could know.
The great hall emptied as servants retired. Harlan trained in the yard, his sweat-slicked body gleaming under torchlight, swinging a broadsword with grunts that made Elara's cunt throb from her window above. She watched, fingers slipping under her skirts, rubbing her swollen clit as her pussy gushed, soaking the stone floor beneath her.
"Harlan, my sweet boy," she called softly that eve, summoning him to her private chambers under pretense of discussing estate matters. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on tapestries of ancient battles.
He entered, clad in a simple tunic and breeches, his muscular frame filling the doorway. "Mother? What troubles you?"
Elara locked the door with a click, her heart pounding. She wore a loose robe of crimson silk, barely containing her enormous breasts, nipples hard as pebbles. "Come closer, my love. Your father is gone... and I can no longer deny this fire between us."
Harlan's eyes widened, but his cock stirred instantly, thickening down his thigh. He'd dreamed of this—jerking his massive shaft in the stables to thoughts of burying it in her dripping heat. "Mother... we cannot—"
"We can, and we will," she hissed, shrugging off the robe. Her body unveiled: tits like pendulous orbs, ass cheeks spreading as she turned, and her pussy—shaved smooth in secret, lips puffy and glistening, dripping strings of arousal onto the rushes. "Look at me, son. Your father's cock is a worm. Yours... gods, I've felt it against me. It's a battering ram. Fuck your mother. Secretly. Forever."
She dropped to her knees, yanking down his breeches. His cock sprang free—thick as her wrist, veined and throbbing, the head already leaking precum. "So big... so perfect," she moaned, engulfing it in her mouth. Her lips stretched wide, saliva dripping as she sucked greedily, tits bouncing with each bob. Harlan groaned, hands tangling in her hair, thrusting gently at first, then harder.
Elara pulled back, strings of spit connecting her lips to his glistening shaft. "Bed. Now." She pushed him onto the feather mattress, straddling him. Her pussy hovered over his cock, dripping copiously onto the tip, lubricating it further. "I've waited years for this, my obsession. Your seed will fill me where his never could."
Harlan gripped her wide hips, marveling at her ass as it jiggled. "Mother... you're so wet... so hot."
She sank down, impaling herself inch by thick inch. Her walls stretched obscenely around him, pussy squirting in ecstasy as he bottomed out, his balls slapping her ass. "Fuuuck!" she screamed, tits heaving. Unlike Aldric's one-second shame, Harlan lasted—thrusting up with relentless power, pounding her for what felt like eternity.
Hours blurred. She rode him reverse, ass cheeks clapping against his thighs, pussy creaming down his shaft. He flipped her, rutting doggystyle, tits swinging like pendulums as he hammered her G-spot. "Cum in me, son! Breed your mother!" she begged, orgasms crashing one after another, her juices flooding the sheets.
Finally, after two full hours of nonstop fucking—positions shifting from missionary to her atop him again, his cock never softening—Harlan roared, flooding her womb with thick ropes of cum. It overflowed, mixing with her drippings, as she collapsed atop him, both panting.
"This is our secret," she whispered, kissing him deeply. "Every night he's gone. Nobody knows."
But in the shadows of the keep, whispers began. A maid had glimpsed the locked door, heard the moans. Their forbidden flame burned bright... but for how long?