The forge had cooled to a dull red when **Astrid** stepped fully inside, letting the door thud shut behind her. The jug of ale swung from two fingers, foam slopping over the rim. She wore a kirtle of deep green wool, laced tight beneath her breasts, the fabric straining with every breath. Her braid was thick as a rope, the color of ripe wheat. At thirty-five, she was the kind of woman who made men forget their oaths.
Tor leaned against the anvil, arms crossed. His apron was back in place, but the leather did little to hide the ridge beneath. Astrid's gaze flicked there, lingered, then rose to meet his eyes.
"Thirsty work, blacksmithing," she said, voice low. "Thought you might need cooling."
He took the jug. Drank deep. Ale spilled down his chin, cutting pale tracks through the soot. When he lowered it, his lips glistened.
"Reeve send you?" he asked.
"My husband's busy counting grain." Astrid stepped closer. The scent of her—lavender, woodsmoke, and something darker—filled the space between them. "I'm collecting a different tithe."
In Hearthollow, the reeve's wife was law in flesh. Astrid had taken lovers before—stable boys, merchants, once the priest's acolyte. None had complained. None had lasted. Tor knew the stories. He also knew the law: *what was offered freely could not be refused*. Astrid offered now, with the tilt of her hips and the slow untying of her laces.
The kirtle parted. Her breasts spilled free—heavy, pale, nipples the color of bruised plums. A faint lattice of stretch marks silvered her belly, proof of the three babes she'd borne. She let the wool pool at her waist, then shimmied it down over her hips. No smallclothes. Just skin, golden in the forge light, and the neat triangle of blonde curls above her slit.
Tor's cock jerked, straining against leather. He set the jug aside.
"You've a reputation, boy," Astrid murmured. "They say you fucked Widow Hagen till she forgot her dead husband's name. Say you made the cooper's wife squirt so hard she soaked the hay."
"Talk's cheap," Tor said. "You want proof?"
Her laugh was husky. "I want *use*."
She closed the distance. Her hands went to his belt, deft and sure. The apron fell. His cock sprang up, thick and flushed, a bead of precum pearling at the slit. Astrid wrapped her fingers around the base—her grip practiced, but still not enough to circle him fully. She stroked once, slow, watching his face.
"Gods below," she breathed. "It's *monstrous*."
Tor caught her wrist. "On the bench."
The workbench was low, scarred oak. Astrid sat, then lay back, legs spreading wide. Her cunt was already slick, lips swollen and parted. She cupped her breasts, pinching her nipples until they stood hard. An invitation.
Tor knelt. The forge's heat baked his back as he dragged his tongue up her slit in one long, deliberate lick. Astrid gasped, hips bucking. He did it again, slower, circling her clit with the flat of his tongue. She tasted of salt and honey, her thighs trembling under his palms.
He took his time. This was the burn—the slow stoking of fire. He sucked her clit gently, then harder, until her breath hitched. Two fingers slid inside her, curling, stroking the spot that made her sob. Her walls clenched, hot and wet, but he didn't let her tip over. Not yet.
When she was writhing, begging in broken whispers, he stood. His cock hovered at her entrance, the head nudging her folds. Astrid's hands scrabbled at his hips, trying to pull him in.
"Slow," he growled. "You'll take what I give."
He pushed in—inch by agonizing inch. Astrid's back arched off the bench, a low moan tearing from her throat. She was tighter than Lina, her body seasoned but still greedy. When he was halfway buried, she was already shaking, nails raking his arms.
"More," she panted. "Give me *all* of it."
He gave her another inch. Then another. Until his balls pressed against her ass and she was stuffed full, impaled on his length. Her eyes rolled back, a guttural sound escaping her. Tor paused, letting her adjust, letting her *feel* every throbbing vein.
Then he moved.
Slow, deep strokes. Each one dragging against her front wall, the head kissing her cervix. Astrid's legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back. The bench creaked beneath them. Outside, a dog barked. Inside, there was only the wet slap of flesh, the ragged symphony of her cries.
He shifted angles, grinding against her clit with every thrust. Astrid came hard—her cunt spasming, a flood of wetness coating his balls. He didn't stop. Kept the same relentless pace, drawing out her climax until she was babbling, tears streaking her temples.
Only when she went limp, chest heaving, did he pull out. His cock glistened with her juices, untouched by release. Astrid stared at it, dazed.
"You didn't—"
"Not yet." He tucked himself away, wincing. "Got a scythe to sharpen."
She laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "You're *inhuman*."
Tor grinned. "Aye. But I'm *useful*."
Astrid dressed slowly, fingers trembling. As she tied her laces, the forge door creaked *again*. This time, it was **Joran**—the reeve himself. Tall, broad, with a beard like rust and eyes sharp as a tax ledger. He carried a ledger, yes, but his gaze went straight to his wife's flushed cheeks, the damp sheen on her thighs.
Astrid didn't flinch. "Collected the tithe, love. Tor's... *thorough*."
Joran's jaw tightened. He looked at Tor—at the bulge still straining the apprentice's breeches—and something dark flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Not quite.
"Reeve," Tor said, nodding. Respectful. Always respectful.
Joran stepped closer. His voice was low. "My wife speaks highly of your... *tools*. Perhaps I'll inspect them myself."
Astrid's smile was slow, wicked. "Careful, husband. Some tools bite."
Tor said nothing. The forge popped, sparks flying. The day was far from over.
And the iron seed burned hotter still.