In the heart of the kingdom of Verdantia lay the village of Eldenwood, a haven of peace and plenty nestled between rolling hills and ancient forests. The soil here was rich and black, kissed by the sun and nourished by gentle rains that fell like a lover's whisper. Wheat swayed in golden waves under the summer breeze, orchards heavy with apples and pears dotted the landscape, and wildflowers bloomed in riotous colors—poppies red as passion, daisies white as innocence. Deer grazed fearlessly in the meadows, birds sang from everyily branched oaks, and the people of Eldenwood lived in harmony, their thatched cottages smoke curling lazily from chimneys as they tended to their farms. No wars touched this place; no lords demanded cruel taxes. It was a prosperous land where hard work yielded bountiful harvests, and neighbors shared ale and laughter under the stars.
Elaric was born of this earth. At twenty-five summers, he was a strapping farmer like his father before him, and his mother who still tended the herb garden with hands callused from years of love for the land. His parents, Harlan and Mira, worked a modest plot on the village's edge—a few acres of barley, a vegetable patch bursting with carrots and turnips, and a small herd of cows that gave milk sweet as cream. Elaric had grown tall and broad-shouldered from hauling ploughs and bales of hay, his muscles honed by the rhythm of the seasons. His hair was dark and tousled, his eyes a deep hazel that sparkled with quiet mischief. But it was what lay hidden beneath his rough-spun tunic and breeches that set him apart in ways no one in Eldenwood suspected: a cock of impressive girth and length, thick as a man's wrist at its base, with a stamina that could outlast the longest harvest day. He'd discovered this gift in stolen moments alone in the barn, stroking himself to thoughts that made his blood run hot.
Elaric rose with the dawn, as he always did. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew-kissed grass and blooming lavender from the fields beyond. He pulled on his boots, splashed water from the basin onto his face, and stepped out into the morning light. His parents were already at work—Harlan mending a fence post, Mira humming as she milked the cows.
"Mornin', lad," Harlan called, wiping sweat from his brow. "Fields need turnin' today. That south patch is ripe for ploughin'."
Elaric nodded, grabbing his tools. "Aye, Father. I'll see to it after breakfast."
Mira smiled warmly, her apron dusted with flour from the bread she'd baked. She was a comely woman in her forties, her figure softened by years and childbirth, but still curvaceous in ways that stirred Elaric's deepest secrets. He pushed the thought away—*family*, he reminded himself—but it lingered like the warmth of the sun on his skin.
As he ate his porridge by the hearth, Elaric's mind wandered to the women of the village. Eldenwood was home to many, but it was the mature ones, the MILFs with their ripe, experienced bodies, that haunted his dreams. Women like Widow Thorne, with her massive breasts straining against her bodice, her ass round and full like overripe melons swaying as she walked the market path. Or Baker's wife, Lena, whose pussy—he imagined—dripped with wetness at the slightest provocation, her big tits heaving with every breath as she kneaded dough. He loved them: the way their curves spoke of fertility and desire, their laughter lines adding to their allure. Young maids were pretty, but they held no fire for him like these voluptuous matrons, their bodies begging to be worshiped slowly, thoroughly.
Shaking off the haze, Elaric headed to the fields. The plough bit into the earth, and he guided the ox with steady hands. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his neck into the collar of his tunic. Hours passed in rhythmic labor, the sun climbing higher. By midday, he paused at the stream that bordered their land, stripping off his shirt to splash cool water over his torso. His cock twitched in his breeches, half-hard from the heat and unspoken thoughts. He adjusted himself discreetly, the thick length pressing against the fabric—a promise of endurance that could drive a woman to ecstasy for hours.
That's when he heard voices drifting from the path nearby. Laughter, feminine and rich. Peering through the willows, Elaric saw her: Isolde, the village herbalist. She was in her late thirties, widowed young, with a body that could make a saint sin. Her breasts were enormous, heavy orbs that bounced softly with each step, barely contained by her low-cut blouse laced tight. Her ass was a masterpiece—plump, jiggling cheeks that filled her skirts to bursting, swaying hypnotically as she bent to pick wild herbs. And though he couldn't see it, Elaric's imagination ran wild: her pussy, shaved or neatly trimmed in his fantasies, always dripping wet, slick with need from the simplest touch.
Isolde was accompanied by her friend, Mara—the blacksmith's wife, another MILF with tits like ripe pumpkins and an ass that could crush a man's resolve. They were gathering flora for potions and poultices, their baskets overflowing with vibrant blooms.
"Oh, Mara, these elderflowers will make the finest tea," Isolde said, her voice husky and warm. She straightened, arching her back slightly, which thrust her massive boobs forward. A bead of sweat glistened in her cleavage, drawing Elaric's gaze like a moth to flame.
Mara laughed, fanning herself. "Aye, and it'll cool us in this heat. My, it's warm today. Feels like my shift is stickin' to me somethin' fierce." She tugged at her bodice, revealing more of her deep valley, her nipples faintly visible through the damp fabric—hard peaks begging for attention.
Elaric's cock thickened fully now, straining painfully. He imagined approaching them, his hands cupping those big, soft tits, thumbs circling nipples until they ached. Squeezing that glorious ass, feeling it yield under his grip. And lower... parting their thighs to find pussies soaked and ready, dripping juices down their legs as he teased them with his fingers, his tongue, before sliding his massive shaft in slow, deep.
But he stayed hidden, heart pounding. This was Eldenwood—peaceful, proper. Desires like his burned slow, like embers in a hearth. One day, perhaps, he'd stoke them into flame.
Little did he know, Isolde had glanced toward the stream, her sharp eyes catching a glimpse of the young farmer's muscled form. A flush crept up her neck, her thighs pressing together instinctively. Her pussy tingled, a familiar wetness beginning to gather. Gods, that boy... all grown now.
The day was young, and the harvest of desire had only just begun.