The nights bled into weeks. Lord Aldric's banners vanished beyond the horizon, and Castle Blackthorn settled into a hush broken only by the secret rhythm of mother and son. By day, Lady Elara glided through the corridors with serene command, her massive breasts swaying beneath modest wool, her dripping cunt clenched tight against the memory of Harlan's thick cock splitting her open. By night, the solar became their altar: furs strewn across the floor, candle stubs guttering in pools of wax, the air thick with the musk of her endless arousal and his relentless seed.
Harlan grew bolder. He would slip into her chambers before the last servant banked the hall fires, stripping her with impatient hands, bending her over the oak table where she once tallied grain stores. Her ass cheeks—plump, pale, trembling—spread wide as he drove into her from behind, his ten-inch shaft slick with her juices, slapping wetly against her thighs. Elara bit down on a linen cloth to muffle her screams, pussy squirting in rhythmic pulses each time his heavy balls smacked her swollen clit. He lasted longer than any mortal man should—ninety minutes, two hours, once nearly three—until her legs shook and her voice cracked from begging.
They believed the keep slept. They were wrong.
Mira, the scullery girl, had drawn the late watch. Sixteen, slight, with a fox-sharp face and ears tuned to every creak of the castle, she carried buckets of slop past the solar door night after night. At first she thought the muffled thumps were rats. Then came the words—low, filthy, unmistakable.
"Take it deeper, my sweet boy… fill your mother's cunt…"
Mira froze, slop sloshing over her clogs. Peering through the keyhole, torchlight painted the scene in hellish orange: Lady Elara on all fours, robe rucked to her waist, tits swinging like church bells, while young Lord Harlan rutted behind her, sweat gleaming on his back, cock pistoning in and out with obscene squelches. Mira's hand flew to her mouth, but her eyes stayed glued. She watched Elara's pussy gush, watched Harlan pull out to paint thick ropes across her ass, watched them collapse laughing into each other's arms.
The next morning, Mira's hands trembled as she scrubbed pots. She told no one—yet. But secrets in a keep are currency, and Mira's family starved in the village below. A word to the right ear could buy bread for a month.
Elara sensed the shift. A servant's glance lingered too long; the steward asked after "nocturnal disturbances" with a smirk he quickly hid. Paranoia prickled her skin like nettles. One dusk, she caught Mira lingering outside the solar, pretending to sweep already-clean rushes.
"Girl," Elara said, voice honey over steel, "you look peaked. Come, I'll dose you with willow bark."
Mira's eyes darted. "No need, m'lady. I'm hale."
But Elara's fingers closed around the girl's wrist—soft, but iron-strong. She dragged Mira inside, shut the door, and pressed her against the wall. The same wall where, hours earlier, Harlan had pinned his mother and fucked her until she sobbed.
"What did you see?" Elara whispered, breath hot against Mira's ear. Her breasts crushed the girl's chest; the scent of her dripping arousal filled the small space.
Mira whimpered. "N-nothing, m'lady."
Elara's hand slid between Mira's thighs, cupping the girl's sex through coarse wool. Mira gasped—shocked, but not untouched; stable boys had taught her rough lessons. Elara's fingers found dampness. "Liar. Your cunt betrays you. You watched us. You want coin? Or something… sweeter?"
Mira's knees buckled. "I—I won't tell. Swear by the Virgin."
Elara smiled, slow and feral. "Good girl. But oaths break. Tonight, you'll prove your silence."
That evening, Harlan entered the solar to find Mira on her knees, blindfolded, wrists bound with Elara's silk girdle. Elara stood behind her, robe open, tits spilling free, pussy glistening.
"Mother?" Harlan's cock leapt against his breeches.
"A loose tongue must be… occupied," Elara purred. She pushed Mira's face between her thighs. "Lick, girl. Taste what my son tastes every night. One sound to anyone, and I'll have you flayed. Please us, and you'll eat meat instead of turnips."
Mira hesitated, then obeyed. Her tongue—timid at first—lapped at Elara's dripping folds, swallowing the slick proof of hours spent impaled on Harlan's shaft. Elara moaned, grinding against the girl's mouth, eyes locked on her son. Harlan freed his cock, stroking the thick length as he watched his mother's juices smear Mira's chin.
"Join us, my love," Elara gasped. "Show her how long you last."
Harlan stepped forward, guiding his cock to Mira's lips. The girl choked at the size, but Elara held her head steady. Inch by inch, he fed her his length while Elara straddled Mira's back, reaching down to finger the girl's cunt. Mira sobbed around the intrusion—fear, shame, arousal warring—as mother and son used her like a toy.
They fucked for hours. Harlan took Mira's virgin cunt from behind while Elara sat on the table, legs spread, forcing the girl to keep licking. Elara came twice, squirting over Mira's face. Harlan lasted the full two hours, pulling out only to paint both women with thick spurts. Mira lay spent, trembling, initiated into their secret.
"Remember," Elara whispered, stroking the girl's hair, "one word, and the dungeon awaits. Serve us well, and you'll never hunger."
Mira nodded, eyes glazed. She would keep silent—for now. But outside the keep, ravens carried word from the battlefield: Lord Aldric survived Crécy. His return loomed like a storm.
And storms break secrets wide open.
The first snow dusted the battlements when the horns sounded again—this time from the south. Lord Aldric was coming home.
He rode at the head of a ragged column: fewer men than had left, armor dented, faces gaunt from the French campaign. Victory at Crécy had cost dearly. Aldric himself looked smaller, as if the war had whittled him down to the size of his cock. His eyes, however, burned with the same petty cruelty.
Elara received him in the great hall, flanked by Harlan and the household. She wore a high-necked gown of somber grey, breasts bound tight, but nothing could hide the sway of her hips or the flush high on her cheeks. Harlan stood rigid beside her, jaw clenched, the memory of last night's debauchery still slick between them—Mira on her knees, Elara riding his face while he flooded the maid's throat.
Aldric dismounted stiffly, mail clinking. "Wife." He pecked her cheek, breath sour with travel and cheap wine. His hand groped her ass once, possessively, then slid away—his prick already twitching in futile excitement. "I've missed the comforts of home."
That night, the marital bed creaked under its old, pathetic rhythm. Aldric pawed at Elara's tits, slobbering over nipples still tender from Harlan's teeth. He fumbled with his breeches, revealing the same sad inch-and-a-half nub. One thrust—wet, shallow, over before it began. His seed dribbled out like watery gruel. He rolled off, snoring within seconds.
Elara lay staring at the canopy, pussy clenching around nothing, dripping with frustration. *One second,* she thought. *My son ruins me for hours, and this worm thinks he's sated me.* She slipped from bed, bare feet silent on the rushes, and padded to the solar.
Harlan waited in the dark, cock already hard, a silhouette of muscle and need. Mira knelt at his feet, mouth stretched around his shaft, tears streaking her cheeks from the sheer size. Elara shut the door.
"Quiet," she hissed. "He's back."
Harlan's eyes glittered. "Then we'll be quieter." He pulled Mira off with a wet pop, bent Elara over the table, and drove into her in one brutal thrust. Her pussy welcomed him like a glove, squirting instantly. Mira crawled beneath, tongue lapping at Elara's clit and Harlan's swinging balls, muffling the mother's cries.
They fucked in whispers—Elara biting her own wrist, Harlan's hand clamped over her mouth. He lasted an hour this time, mindful of the thin walls, before flooding her cunt with thick ropes. Mira licked them clean, swallowing every drop.
But Aldric was no fool in all things. He noticed the new maid's swollen lips, the way Harlan's breeches strained at odd hours, the faint wet patches on the solar's rushes that no amount of herbs could mask. Suspicion festered.
Three nights later, he feigned sleep, then followed the creak of a door. The solar lock was picked with a dagger's tip. Candlelight spilled across the scene: Elara on her back atop the table, legs over Harlan's shoulders, tits bouncing as her son plowed her with slow, deep strokes. Mira sat on Elara's face, grinding, fingers pinching the lady's nipples.
Aldric's roar shattered the silence. "TREASON! INCEST!"
Harlan spun, cock slick and gleaming, still rock-hard. Elara scrambled upright, pussy gaping and dripping. Mira shrieked, tumbling to the floor.
Aldric's sword rasped free. "I'll have both your heads!"
But Harlan was faster—years of training, a body forged for war. He disarmed his father with a twist, blade clattering across stone. Aldric lunged, tiny prick ludicrously tenting his nightshirt. Harlan backhanded him; the lord crumpled, nose spurting blood.
Elara stepped forward, naked and magnificent, breasts heaving. "Listen well, husband. You will say nothing. You will *watch*."
She pushed Aldric into a chair, bound his wrists with his own belt. Harlan hesitated—then, at her nod, resumed. He lifted Elara onto the table again, spread her wide, and sank back in. The wet sounds filled the room. Aldric thrashed, but the ropes held.
"See what a real cock does?" Elara taunted, voice husky. "Your son lasts hours. Fucks me until I can't walk. You? One second of shame."
Harlan pounded harder, grunting. Mira, trembling, was made to kneel and lick Aldric's flaccid nub—humiliation complete. The lord wept as his wife came again and again, squirting over Harlan's shaft, until the young man finally erupted, painting her insides white.
When it ended, Elara leaned close to Aldric's ear. "Speak of this, and the king hears how you lost Crécy's spoils to dice and whores. Your lands forfeit. Your name mud. Keep silent, and you live. Barely."
Aldric nodded, broken. Harlan released him at dawn. The lord limped to his chambers, never to touch Elara again.
The secret held—barely. But winter deepened, and with it, Elara's belly began to swell. A new heir, unmistakably Harlan's. The keep whispered. The storm had only begun.
Winter gripped Castle Blackthorn like a fist. Frost etched the arrow-slits; braziers hissed in every chamber. Lord Aldric kept to his solar, drinking sour wine and staring at ledgers he no longer understood. His pride was a corpse, buried beneath the nightly sounds that leaked through stone: wet slaps, muffled moans, the creak of the great bed in the lady's chamber. He never entered again.
Elara's belly rounded swiftly—too swiftly. By Candlemas, the swell was unmistakable beneath her loosened kirtles. Servants counted on fingers: Aldric had been gone near five months before his return, and the lady had bled openly the week he left. Whispers slithered through the kitchens like smoke.
"The babe's not the lord's."
"Seen young Harlan slip from her rooms at dawn, breeches unlaced."
"Maid Mira's lips are always bruised—says she 'fell on the stairs.'"
Elara felt the eyes. She walked taller, breasts heavier, nipples dark and aching through linen. Her pussy dripped constantly now, slicking her thighs even during Mass. Pregnancy only sharpened her hunger. Harlan fucked her twice daily—morning in the chapel's shadowed alcove, her back against cold stone while he lifted her skirts and plunged in; night in her bed, Aldric snoring two doors down, unaware his wife's cunt milked their son for hours.
Mira became their shadow. The girl's tongue had learned skill; she lapped Elara clean after every session, swallowing Harlan's spend mixed with the lady's cream. In return, she ate meat, wore wool instead of rags, and kept silent. Fear and lust bound her tighter than rope.
One storm-lashed night, the midwife was summoned early—Elara's pains came sudden, waters breaking across the birthing chair. Harlan paced outside, cock half-hard with dread and pride. Aldric watched from the doorway, face grey.
The child arrived screaming: a boy, robust, with Harlan's broad shoulders already budding. The cord was thick, the afterbirth heavy with seed. The midwife's eyes widened—she had birthed enough bastards to know.
Elara cradled the babe, sweat plastering hair to her brow, tits leaking milk in thin streams. "Name him Rowan," she declared. "My lord's heir."
Aldric opened his mouth—then shut it. The threat still hung: speak, and lose everything. He nodded stiffly and retreated.
But the priest had seen. Father Godwin, old and sour, crossed himself at the child's dark curls—so like the young lord's, not the father's thinning grey. Three days later, a sealed letter left for the bishop: *incest, bastardy, sorcery.*
Spring thawed the roads. The bishop's men would come by Easter.
Elara knew. She summoned Harlan and Mira to the solar at dusk. Rain lashed the shutters.
"We leave at first light," she said, voice steady. "North—beyond the Wall. My cousin holds a forgotten tower near the Cheviots. None will follow."
Harlan's hand covered her belly, feeling the next child already quickening—she'd conceived again the night Rowan was born. "And Father?"
Elara smiled, cold. "He stays. With a choice."
That midnight, Aldric woke to a blade at his throat. Harlan loomed, Mira beside him with rope. They bound the lord, gagged him, and dragged him to the cellar. Elara waited, naked save for a fur cloak, belly proudly round, breasts dripping milk onto the dirt floor.
"You'll sign the keep to Rowan," she said, producing parchment. "Claim a wasting sickness took you after Crécy. Then you vanish—Wales, Ireland, the bottom of the river. Your choice."
Aldric's eyes bulged. He nodded frantically. The quill scratched. Witnesses—bought with gold—signed.
Dawn found the family gone: Elara on a palfrey, babe swaddled at her breast; Harlan riding guard, sword at hip; Mira in the baggage cart, clutching a purse heavy with silver. Behind them, smoke rose from the lord's chamber—Aldric's "fever" consuming his corpse, a suicide note pinned to his chest.
The north road swallowed them. Rumors would follow—of a witch-lady with a giant son, birthing heirs like a broodmare—but stone walls and distance bury truth.
Years later, travelers spoke of a wild keep in the hills: a woman with tits like udders, a warrior son who never aged, and children with the same fierce eyes. None dared approach.
The flame burned on, secret and eternal.