The valley of **Vardisfell** lay cupped between two jagged ridges, its fields golden under a late-summer sun. Smoke rose in lazy spirals from the village of **Hearthollow**, where the clang of hammer on anvil never truly ceased. The world here was old, brutal, and strangely generous. Kings warred, serfs starved, and yet the oldest law stood above all: **what was offered freely could not be refused**. A woman might bare her throat in the market square and find three men eager to taste her pulse. A man might drop his breeches at a tavern table and watch a barmaid straddle him mid-sentence. No shame. No coin. Just flesh, hunger, and the endless turning of the world.
Torvald knew this law better than most. At twenty-two, he was broad as an ox, sun-browned, and quiet. His hands were scarred from the forge, his black hair tied back with a leather thong. The other apprentices called him **"the mule"**—not for his strength, but for what swung between his thighs. A cock like a blacksmith's forearm, thick as a woman's wrist, and cursed (or blessed) with a stamina that had outlasted three village widows in a single night. He never bragged. He didn't need to. The whispers followed him like smoke.
That morning, the forge was a furnace. Master **Gunnar** had taken the cart to the river mills, leaving Tor alone with the bellows and a half-finished plowshare. Sweat carved pale rivers down his bare chest, dripping from the dark hair that arrowed beneath his apron. The heat was a living thing, licking at his skin, making his cock twitch against his thigh even as he worked. He was used to it—the constant, low thrum of need. In Hearthollow, desire was as common as bread.
The door creaked. **Lina** stepped inside, basket on her hip. The baker's daughter. Nineteen. Freckled. Her auburn hair was braided tight, but loose strands clung to her damp neck. She wore a simple linen dress, the kind that tied at the shoulders and clung when you sweated. Her breasts were heavy, nipples dark against the fabric. She didn't knock. No one did.
"Morning, Tor," she said, voice husky from the heat. "Ma sent honey cakes. Said you'd be starving."
He grunted, not looking up. The hammer fell. Sparks flew. "Set 'em by the quench barrel."
Lina didn't move. She watched the flex of his arms, the way his apron rode low on his hips. In the free-use world, consent was a glance, a tilt of the chin. She gave it now—slow, deliberate. Her tongue touched her lower lip.
Tor felt it like a brand. His cock stirred, thickening against the rough leather. He set the hammer down. Turned.
"You're not here for cakes," he said.
"No." She stepped closer. The basket hit the dirt floor. "I'm here for *you*."
The forge roared behind them. Lina's fingers found the knot at her shoulder. One tug. The dress slipped, pooling at her feet. She was bare beneath—no smallclothes, no shame. Her body was soft where his was hard: full breasts, a gentle belly, the dark copper curls between her thighs already glistening. She smelled of yeast and honey and woman.
Tor's breath caught. He'd had her before—once, in the hayloft, quick and clumsy. But this was different. Slower. The air between them crackled like the forge.
He stepped forward. His apron fell away. His cock sprang free, heavy and veined, the head flushed dark. Lina's eyes widened, but she didn't flinch. She reached out, fingers barely spanning half his girth. A low sound escaped her—part awe, part hunger.
"Gods, Tor. It's *obscene*."
He smirked, but his voice was rough. "You asked for it."
She sank to her knees in the soot and straw. The forge light painted her skin gold. Her hands wrapped around him—both of them—and still left length to spare. She leaned in, lips brushing the tip, tasting salt and iron. Tor's hand found her braid, not pushing, just holding. Anchoring.
Lina took her time. A slow lick up the underside. A swirl around the crown. Then her mouth opened wide—wider than should've been possible—and she took him in. Not far. She couldn't. But enough to make his thighs tremble. Her tongue worked in lazy circles, cheeks hollowing. Saliva slicked him, dripping down to his balls. She hummed, and the vibration shot straight to his spine.
Tor let her set the pace. This was the slow burn—the tease before the blaze. He watched her breasts sway as she bobbed, watched her thighs press together, seeking friction. Her free hand had slipped between her legs, fingers moving in tight, desperate circles.
Minutes stretched. The forge popped and hissed. Sweat beaded on Lina's back, slid down the curve of her ass. Tor's cock throbbed, but he didn't come. He *couldn't*. Not yet. Not ever, if he didn't want to. The gift—or curse—of infinity.
Finally, he pulled her up. Her lips were swollen, eyes glassy. He kissed her, tasting himself on her tongue. Then he turned her, bent her over the anvil. The iron was warm against her belly. Her nipples dragged across the soot-streaked surface as he kicked her feet apart.
"Tell me," he growled.
"*Please*," she gasped. "Fill me. Break me open."
He did.
One slow thrust. The head breached her, stretching her wide. Lina cried out, fingers scrabbling at the anvil. Another inch. Another. Her walls fluttered, trying to take him, failing, trying again. When he was halfway in—*halfway*—she was already shaking, thighs slick with her own wetness.
Tor paused. Let her breathe. Let her *feel*. Then he moved—long, deliberate strokes, each one dragging against every nerve. Her moans turned to sobs. The anvil creaked beneath them. Outside, a cart rattled past, voices drifting—someone laughing, someone calling a name. Life went on. Inside, there was only heat, flesh, the wet slap of bodies.
He didn't rush. He *savored*. The way her cunt gripped him like a fist. The way her back arched, offering more. The way her voice broke on his name.
When she came, it was sudden and violent—her whole body seizing, a gush of wetness coating his balls. Tor kept moving, slow and steady, drawing it out until she was limp, whimpering.
Only then did he pull out. His cock glistened, angry red, untouched by release. Lina turned, legs unsteady, and sank to her knees again. She looked up at him, awestruck.
"You didn't…"
"Not yet." He tucked himself away, wincing at the ache. "Got a plowshare to finish."
She laughed, breathless. "You're a *monster*."
He grinned. "Aye. But I'm *your* monster."
As she dressed, fingers fumbling with ties, the forge door creaked again. This time, it was **Astrid**—the reeve's wife. Tall, blonde, with hips that had borne three children and still swayed like a promise. She carried a jug of ale, but her eyes were on Tor's apron, on the bulge that hadn't fully softened.
Lina smirked, grabbing her basket. "He's all yours, milady. But fair warning—he don't break easy."
Astrid's smile was slow, predatory. "Good. I like a challenge."
Tor wiped sweat from his brow and picked up his hammer. The forge roared. The day was young.
And the iron seed had only begun to burn.