The succubus's mark burned like a brand under Garrick's skin, a low, constant throb behind his balls. It didn't hurt. It *hungered*.
Every milf he passed in the market—buxom bakers, wide-hipped washerwomen, the guild's own quartermaster—left him half-hard and ravenous. By the time the horns were sold and the thousand crowns clinked into his purse, he was feral.
He needed *more* than the Velvet Veil's stable. He needed a feast.
The rumor came from a drunken mercenary in the tavern below the brothel: the Matriarch of House Veldrin, a widow of forty summers, kept a private harem of retired courtesans in her cliffside manor. All milfs. All *starved* for cock. The catch? She only opened her gates to men who could best her in the old dueling circle beneath the estate. Win, and the harem was yours for a night. Lose, and you left with your balls intact but your pride in tatters.
Garrick was at the manor gates by moonrise, sword sheathed, cock straining against his breeches.
The Matriarch waited in the circle, torchlight gilding her curves. Lady Seraphine Veldrin was a vision of decadent maturity: raven hair streaked with silver, tits like overripe melons straining a black velvet gown, hips wide enough to birth empires. Her ass, when she turned, was a sculpted marvel, round and firm beneath the fabric. Between her thighs, the gown clung to the swell of her mound, already damp.
"No weapons," she said, voice smoky. "Just flesh. First to yield loses."
Garrick stripped. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, the succubus's mark glowing faintly at the base. Seraphine's eyes widened, then narrowed with hunger.
They circled. She moved like a panther, gown whispering. Then she lunged, hands going for his throat. Garrick caught her wrists, spun her, slammed her back against the stone wall. Her tits heaved, nipples hard as diamonds. He ripped the gown down the front—fabric tore like parchment—and those glorious breasts spilled free, heavy and swaying.
Seraphine laughed, low and filthy. "Take what you want, hunter."
He did.
His mouth latched onto a nipple, sucking hard. She moaned, fingers tangling in his hair. He shoved a thigh between hers, grinding against her soaked cunt. The gown fell away completely, revealing a body built for sin: soft belly, thick thighs, an ass that jiggled when she walked. Her pussy was a work of art—plump outer lips framing a slick, pink slit already dripping down her legs.
Garrick dropped to his knees, burying his face in her. She tasted like spiced wine and raw need. His tongue speared her, lapping up her cream, teeth grazing her clit. Seraphine's legs buckled; he held her up by the ass, fingers digging into plush flesh. She came with a guttural cry, squirting into his mouth, thighs clamping his head.
He stood, spun her, bent her over the dueling circle's central altar. Her ass arched high, cheeks parting to show her winking holes. Garrick spat on her pussy, then *slammed* home. She screamed, back bowing, tits dragging across the stone. He fucked her like a beast, hips pistoning, balls slapping her clit. Each thrust sent ripples through her ass, her cunt clenching like a fist.
"More," she snarled, pushing back. "Give me *everything*."
He pulled out, slick with her juices, and pressed against her ass. She didn't flinch. One slow, relentless push buried him in her tight ring. Seraphine *wailed*, fingers scrabbling at the altar. He reamed her, stretching her wide, the succubus's mark flaring hot. Her ass milked him, greedy, until she came again, pussy untouched, gushing onto the floor.
Garrick wasn't done. He flipped her onto the altar, legs spread wide. Her cunt gaped, creamy and ruined. He plunged back in, fucking her through another orgasm, then another, until her voice was a broken sob and her body shook with aftershocks.
Only then did he let go. With a roar, he pulled out and painted her—thick ropes across her tits, her belly, her face. Seraphine rubbed it in, licking her fingers, eyes glazed with bliss.
"You win," she panted. "The harem is yours."
The harem chamber was a cathedral of flesh. Seven milfs, all over thirty-five, all lush and dripping. A redheaded dwarf with tits like cannonballs. A dark-skinned orc matron whose ass could crush stone. A pair of twin elves, silver-haired and heavy-breasted, pussies already glistening. They descended on Garrick like a tide.
He lost hours. Mouths on his cock, cunts grinding his face, asses smothering him. He fucked them across silk sheets, against walls, over tables. The dwarf rode him reverse, her ass clapping, squirting down his balls. The orc took him in her throat until she gagged, then begged for his cock in her cunt. The twins tag-teamed him—one on his shaft, the other on his tongue—until they came in unison, soaking the bed.
Seraphine watched from a throne, fingers buried in her own pussy, directing the orgy like a conductor. When Garrick finally staggered out at dawn, coated in cum and milf nectar, she pressed a signet ring into his hand.
"Come back anytime, hunter," she said, voice hoarse. "My gates are always open to the man who tames a matriarch."
Back in Varnholt, the succubus's mark pulsed stronger. Garrick's purse was fat, his cock raw, and his hunger *endless*.
The cycle had evolved. Hunt. Conquer. *Devour*.
And somewhere in the dark, the demon laughed, tasting every milf he claimed.
The succubus's mark no longer throbbed; it *sang*.
Every heartbeat pulsed with the memory of Seraphine's ass clenching around him, the dwarf's tits smothering his face, the twins' twin gushes soaking his beard. Garrick's cock was a constant ache, half-hard even when he slept. The guild's new postings blurred into one another. He took them all—bandit camps, rogue elementals, a nest of harpies—because the hunt kept him sane, and the coin bought nights he could drown in.
But the mark wanted *more*. It whispered of a coven in the Blackroot Glade, witches who'd bargained with the same demon that branded him. They were said to be ancient, insatiable, their cunts dripping with centuries of unspent lust. The guild offered no bounty. This was personal.
The glade was a cathedral of twisted oaks and bioluminescent moss. The air tasted of ozone and wet pussy. Garrick stepped into the circle of standing stones and found them waiting.
Three witches. All milfs. All *perfect*.
The first, Morgara, was tall and pale, skin like moonlight, tits so massive they defied gravity, nipples black as obsidian. Her ass was a sculpted marvel, high and round, thighs thick enough to crush a man's skull. Between them, her cunt was a dark, glistening flower, lips swollen and dripping slow rivulets onto the moss.
The second, Thalira, was shorter, curvaceous, skin the color of burnt honey. Her breasts were heavy teardrops, nipples pierced with bone rings that clinked softly. Her ass spilled over her hips, a plush cushion begging for teeth marks. Her pussy was shaved smooth, clit protruding like a ripe berry, already slick.
The third, Vyssara, was the oldest, silver hair cascading to her waist, body soft and maternal. Her tits sagged just enough to be obscene, nipples wide and dark, leaking a thin, pearlescent milk. Her ass was monumental, two pale moons that jiggled with every breath. Her cunt was a veteran's—loose, welcoming, *dripping* like a faucet.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The mark flared, and Garrick's clothes hit the ground.
Morgara moved first, dropping to her knees, mouth engulfing his cock in one smooth motion. She took him to the root, throat bulging, eyes watering but never breaking contact. Thalira knelt behind him, tongue tracing the succubus's mark, then lower, rimming his ass with slow, deliberate licks. Vyssara stood before him, pressing her leaking tits to his chest, milk smearing his skin as she kissed him deep, tasting of earth and sin.
Garrick groaned into her mouth, hips fucking Morgara's face. Spit and precum dripped down her chin onto her tits. Thalira's tongue pushed inside him, and he *bucked*, nearly coming then and there. The witches sensed it, pulling back with wicked grins.
"Not yet," Morgara purred, voice like smoke. "We've waited *decades* for a cock marked by our mistress."
They arranged themselves on the mossy altar, a triangle of dripping cunts. Morgara on her back, legs spread wide, pussy gaping invitingly. Thalira on all fours, ass high, cheeks parted to show both holes glistening. Vyssara straddling Morgara's face, tits dangling, milk dripping onto the pale witch's tongue.
Garrick took Morgara first, slamming into her with a wet *schluck*. She was scalding, walls rippling like a serpent. He fucked her hard, tits bouncing, her screams muffled by Vyssara's cunt grinding down. Thalira reached beneath, fingers circling Morgara's clit, then his balls, smearing their combined slick.
He pulled out, cock shining, and moved to Thalira. Her ass welcomed him like a glove, tight and hot. He reamed her, watching her cheeks ripple, her pussy dripping untouched onto the altar. Vyssara leaned forward, licking where they joined, tongue flicking his shaft, Thalira's clit, the stretched ring of her ass. Thalira came with a howl, squirting across Morgara's tits, who lapped it up greedily.
Garrick wasn't done. He flipped Vyssara onto her back, legs over his shoulders, and *plunged*. Her cunt was a furnace, loose but greedy, sucking him deep. Milk leaked from her nipples in steady streams; he caught one in his mouth, sucking hard as he pounded her. Morgara and Thalira knelt on either side, tongues dueling over his balls, his shaft, Vyssara's clit. The old witch came with a sob, pussy gushing, milk spraying in arcs.
They rotated like that for hours—cunts, asses, mouths, tits. Garrick lost count of orgasms. Morgara rode him reverse, ass clapping, squirting down his chest. Thalira took him between her tits, bone rings clinking, until he painted her face. Vyssara sat on his face, drowning him in her cream while the others milked his cock with hands and cunts.
When he finally came, it was apocalyptic. He had Morgara bent over the altar, Thalira beneath her licking her clit, Vyssara behind him, fingers in his ass. His roar shook the glade as he unloaded into Morgara, overflow dripping into Thalira's waiting mouth. The witches collapsed in a heap, bodies slick with cum, milk, and pussy juice, pussies twitching in aftershocks.
Dawn painted the glade gold. The witches gifted him a vial of their combined essence—thick, pearlescent, pulsing with magic. "Drink when the mark burns too hot," Morgara said, kissing his cock. "It'll keep you hard for days."
Garrick left the glade bow-legged, cock raw, the vial warm against his chest. The succubus's mark *purred*, sated for now.
Back in Varnholt, the Velvet Veil waited. Veyra. Seraphine. The harem. And now, three witches who'd promised to visit when the moon was full.
The cycle had become a spiral. Hunt. Fuck. *Ascend*.
And the demon's laughter was a lover's whisper in his ear, promising the next feast was already ripening.
The vial from the witches lasted three days.
Three days of relentless, impossible hardness. Garrick hunted by day (goblins, a rogue minotaur, a pack of shadow-wolves) and spent every night buried in milf flesh. Veyra's ass. Seraphine's throat. The twins' twin cunts. When the vial ran dry, the succubus's mark *screamed*, a white-hot lance behind his eyes. He needed more. Needed *everything*.
The answer came on a parchment sealed with crimson wax, delivered by a silent raven at dawn:
**"The Queen of the Hollow Crown invites the Marked Hunter to her court. Come alone. Come hard."**
The Hollow Crown was a city carved into the roots of a mountain, lit by veins of glowing crystal. The palace was a labyrinth of silk and shadow, every corridor scented with dripping pussy and old magic. Guards (all women, all milfs in half-plate that did nothing to hide their curves) led him to the throne room.
Queen Isolde awaited on a dais of black glass. She was *ancient* and *perfect*. Skin like polished ivory, hair a river of midnight silk, tits so colossal they rested on her thighs even seated, nipples crowned with jeweled clamps that dripped a slow, golden fluid. Her ass filled the throne, overflowing, a plush throne of its own. Between her legs, a slit of royal purple glistened, lips fat and parted, a steady stream of nectar pooling beneath her.
Around her, the court: six noblewomen, all milfs, all naked save for golden collars. Their bodies were a gallery of excess (tits leaking, asses marked with handprints, cunts shaved and dripping). They knelt in a semicircle, fingers buried in their own holes, eyes fixed on Garrick's cock as he entered.
Isolde did not speak. She simply spread her legs wider, clamps chiming, and *beckoned*.
Garrick crossed the floor in three strides. The court parted like water. He climbed the dais, cock already out, the succubus's mark blazing. Isolde's hands (long, elegant, ringed in gold) wrapped around his shaft, stroking once, twice. Her touch was fire. She leaned forward, tits enveloping him, the jeweled clamps cold against his skin. Her mouth followed, taking him deep, throat working like a velvet fist.
The court moaned in unison, fingers moving faster. One noble (a redhead with tits like overripe fruit) crawled forward, licking where Isolde's lips met Garrick's shaft. Another (dark-skinned, ass tattooed with runes) pressed her cunt to his thigh, grinding, leaving slick trails.
Isolde pulled off with a wet pop, golden fluid stringing from her lips to his tip. "On your back," she commanded, voice a royal purr.
Garrick obeyed. The dais was warm, slick with her nectar. Isolde straddled him, tits swaying, and *sank*. Her cunt was a cathedral (vast, scalding, walls rippling in waves). She rode him slow, deliberate, every inch of her descent a prayer. The clamps chimed with each bounce, golden fluid spraying across his chest. The court closed in.
Redhead straddled his face, pussy dripping honey-sweet. Dark-skin took his hand, guiding his fingers into her ass. The others formed a chain (mouths on tits, tongues in cunts, fingers everywhere). The air filled with wet sounds, moans, the slap of flesh.
Isolde leaned forward, tits smothering his chest, and *whispered* in the succubus's voice:
**"I am her vessel. Fuck your queen, hunter. Fill me until I overflow."**
He did.
He flipped her onto all fours, the court scattering. Her ass was a marvel (two pale moons, jeweled plug winking between). He removed it with his teeth, then *slammed* into her cunt. She screamed, royal composure shattered, tits dragging across the glass. The court watched, masturbating furiously, some squirting onto the dais.
Garrick fucked her like a warhammer (hips bruising, balls slapping her clit). Each thrust sent golden fluid spraying. He pulled out, spun her, and took her ass in one brutal push. Isolde *wailed*, wings of shadow flaring from her back (the succubus manifesting, riding her body). Her ass clenched, milking him, and she came in a gush that soaked the dais.
The court descended. Garrick was lost in a storm of milf flesh (cunts, asses, tits, mouths). He fucked them across the throne, the floor, the walls. Redhead's throat until she gagged golden fluid. Dark-skin's ass until she squirted runes across the glass. One by one, they broke, collapsing in puddles of their own making.
Isolde saved herself for last. She bent over the throne, ass high, cunt and ass gaping, golden fluid dripping like a faucet. Garrick took both holes in turn, alternating, until she was a sobbing, trembling mess. When he came, it was with her tits pressed to the glass, his cock buried in her cunt, the succubus's laughter echoing in his skull. He filled her until it overflowed, golden and white mixing, dripping down her thighs.
Dawn found the throne room a battlefield of spent milfs. Isolde, still impaled on his cock, pressed a crown of black crystal into his hand.
"Wear it," she whispered, voice her own again. "The Hollow Crown is yours to command. Return when the mark burns. My court will be *wet* for you."
Garrick left at noon, crown in his sack, cock raw, the succubus's laughter now a *choir*.
The cycle was no longer a spiral. It was a *crown*.
Hunt. Rule. *Devour*.
And the demon wore his face in the dark, smiling at the empire of dripping cunts he'd built.