The sun hung heavy over Eldenwood, a swollen orb that baked the earth and turned the air thick as warm honey. Elaric trudged back from the south field in the late afternoon, his shirt slung over one shoulder, skin glistening with sweat. The ploughing was done; the soil lay dark and fertile, ready for seed. His muscles ached in that satisfying way that promised a deep sleep—yet sleep was the last thing on his mind.
As he passed the communal well at the village crossroads, the usual cluster of women lingered, drawing water and trading gossip. Buckets clanged, laughter rose like birdsong. Elaric's pulse quickened. Among them stood Isolde again, this time alone, her basket brimming with fresh-picked mint and rosemary. The neckline of her blouse had slipped lower in the heat; a damp curl clung to the slope of one enormous breast, tracing the curve where pale flesh met shadow. She bent to fill her jug, and the motion lifted her skirts just enough to reveal the generous swell of her ass—round, plush, the fabric clinging to it like a second skin.
Elaric slowed his steps. Gods, look at her.*The sight stirred his cock instantly, thickening it against his thigh. He could almost feel the weight of those cheeks in his palms, the way they'd spill over his fingers when he kneaded them. He imagined pressing his face between them, inhaling the musky scent of her arousal, tasting the slick heat that surely dripped from her mature, hungry pussy.
Isolde straightened, catching his stare. Instead of looking away, she smiled—slow, knowing. "Afternoon, Elaric. Hard at work, I see." Her voice was low, almost a purr. She lifted the jug to her shoulder, and the motion made her tits jiggle heavily, nipples stiff against the thin linen.
He swallowed, throat dry despite the well nearby. "Aye, Mistress Isolde. Soil's turned. Needs a day to breathe before seedin'." His gaze dipped to the bead of sweat sliding down her cleavage, disappearing into the valley he ached to bury his face in.
She noticed. Of course she did. Her tongue touched her lower lip, a fleeting gesture that sent a bolt of lust straight to his groin. "Hot work, ploughing. You'll be wantin' a cool drink." She tilted her head toward her cottage, just visible beyond the baker's. "I've fresh elderflower cordial. Come, rest a spell."
Elaric's heart slammed against his ribs. *An invitation.* He nodded, voice rough. "Thank ye. I could use it."
Isolde's home smelled of dried lavender and woodsmoke. Sunlight filtered through latticed windows, painting golden bars across the rush-strewn floor. She set the jug on the table, then reached for a clay cup on the high shelf. The stretch lifted her breasts, straining the laces until one popped free with a soft *snap*. She didn't flinch; instead, she glanced back at him, eyes gleaming.
"Clumsy me," she murmured, but made no move to fix it. The gap revealed a sliver of pink areola, the edge of a nipple thick and dark. Elaric's cock surged, now fully hard, the head pushing past his waistband to nudge his belly. He shifted, hoping the table hid the bulge.
Isolde poured the cordial, the liquid pale and fragrant. She handed him the cup, fingers brushing his. Hers were warm, callused from herb-work, yet soft in a way that made him imagine them wrapped around his shaft—stroking slow, learning every vein.
He drank deeply, the cool sweetness sliding down his throat. She watched his mouth, then his neck as he swallowed. "You've grown strong, Elaric. Your father must be proud."
"Aye," he managed. "Takes after him, I suppose."
Her laugh was rich. "Not just him." She stepped closer, close enough that he smelled her skin—sun-warmed, faintly floral, with an undercurrent of womanly musk. "I remember you as a lad, all knees and elbows. Now…" Her gaze drifted down, lingering at his bare chest, the line of hair arrowing beneath his breeches. "Now you're a man full-grown."
Heat flooded him. His cock throbbed, a bead of precum wetting the fabric. He set the cup down, hands flexing. "Mistress Isolde—"
"Isolde," she corrected softly. "No need for titles between us." She reached out, tracing a fingertip along the sweat-slick groove between his pecs. "You're filthy from the fields. Let me fetch a cloth."
She turned, hips swaying as she crossed to the basin. The motion made her ass bounce, the skirt clinging to every curve. Elaric's mouth went dry. When she bent to wet the cloth, the fabric rode higher, revealing the backs of her thighs—smooth, thick, dimpled at the crease where they met her glorious rear. He imagined parting those thighs, spreading her cheeks to watch her pussy glisten, lips swollen and slick, dripping with need.
Isolde returned, cloth in hand. "Sit," she said, nodding to the bench. He obeyed, legs spread to ease the ache of his erection. She stood between them, close enough that her skirt brushed his knees. Slowly, she pressed the cool cloth to his brow, then down his cheek, his neck. Her breasts hovered inches from his face, rising and falling with each breath. The popped lace had loosened further; he could see the full swell of one tit, the nipple now fully visible—fat, erect, begging to be sucked.
"Better?" she whispered.
He nodded, unable to speak. Her hand drifted lower, cloth forgotten, palm flat against his chest. She traced the ridges of his abs, then lower still, stopping just above his belt. His cock jerked visibly, the outline obscene against his breeches.
Isolde's breath hitched. "Elaric…" Her thighs pressed together; he saw the subtle shift, the way her hips rocked forward. A faint damp spot darkened the front of her skirt. *She's wet. Soaked for me.
He reached out, hands settling on her hips. The flesh was plush, yielding. He squeezed gently, thumbs brushing the curve where waist met ass. She gasped, but didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in, her tits brushing his chest, nipples dragging across his skin.
"I shouldn't," she breathed, but her hands were already at his belt, fingers trembling. "Gods help me, I've thought of this since I saw you at the stream…"
The belt loosened. She tugged his breeches down just enough to free his cock. It sprang up, thick and veined, the head flushed dark and slick with precum. Isolde's eyes widened, a soft moan escaping her. "Seven hells… it's huge."
Elaric groaned as she wrapped her hand around the base—her fingers didn't meet. She stroked once, slow, marveling at the girth. "So thick… and hot." Another stroke, and a bead of precum oozed from the slit. She caught it with her thumb, spreading it over the crown.
He couldn't wait. His hands slid to her ass, gripping hard, pulling her closer. She straddled his lap, skirts rucked up, her dripping pussy hovering over his shaft. He could feel the heat of her, the wetness seeping through her smallclothes. With a desperate sound, she ground against him, soaking the length of his cock.
"Not yet," he growled, voice rough with restraint. He wanted to savor her—every inch of this voluptuous MILF who'd haunted his fantasies. His mouth found her neck, kissing, sucking, then lower to the exposed breast. He latched onto her nipple, sucking hard. Isolde cried out, back arching, her pussy gushing more slick onto his cock.
"Elaric… please…" She rocked faster, clit dragging along his shaft. He could feel her pulsing, so close already.
He switched to the other tit, freeing it fully, both massive breasts spilling into his hands. He kneaded them, thumbs flicking nipples, as she rode his length without penetration—slow, wet slides that coated him in her juices. Her ass bounced in his grip, cheeks spreading with each grind.
Minutes stretched—five, ten. His stamina held; he could go hours. Isolde was lost, whimpering, her pussy clenching around nothing. "I need you inside," she begged.
He lifted her easily, laying her on the table amid scattered herbs. Skirts shoved to her waist, smallclothes torn aside—he groaned at the sight. Her pussy was *dripping*, pink lips swollen, clit peeking from its hood, a steady trickle of arousal running down to her asshole. He knelt, spreading her thighs wide, and buried his face in her.
The taste—sweet, tangy, pure mature woman—exploded on his tongue. He lapped at her folds, sucked her clit, fucked her with his tongue until she screamed, hips bucking. Her hands fisted his hair, pulling him deeper. He didn't stop; he feasted , hands squeezing her ass, fingers digging into plush flesh.
When she came, it was with a guttural cry, pussy spasming, squirting a gush of fluid onto his chin. He drank it all, cock throbbing painfully.
Rising, he notched his cock at her entrance. The head stretched her, inch by thick inch. Isolde's eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream. "So big… filling me…" He pushed deeper, slow, relentless, until he bottomed out—balls deep in her sopping heat.
Then he began to move.
Slow, deep thrusts. Each one dragged along her walls, the ridge of his cockhead catching her G-spot. Her tits bounced wildly; he caught one in his mouth, sucking in rhythm. Isolde's legs wrapped around him, heels digging into his ass, urging him harder—but he kept the pace languid, torturous.
Minutes turned to an hour. She came again, then again, pussy milking him, juices pooling on the table. Still he lasted, sweat dripping, muscles flexing. Only when she was a trembling, sobbing mess did he let go—pulling out to paint her belly and tits with thick ropes of cum, marking her as his.
They collapsed together, her head on his chest, both panting. Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting the room in amber.
"This is only the beginning," he murmured, fingers tracing her ass.
Isolde smiled, sated but hungry. "Then the harvest will be bountiful