The hay wagon creaked out of Eldenwood just after moonrise, drawn by two sway-backed mares. Straw was piled high in the bed, sweet-smelling and prickly, covered by a patchwork of wool blankets. Torches guttered at the corners; their flames painted the women's skin in shifting gold.
Isolde, Mara, and Lena had planned this.
They'd sent the driver home with a jug of mead and a wink. The reins now lay across Elaric's lap—though steering was the last thing on anyone's mind.
Isolde sat astride the bench facing him, skirts already rucked to her waist. Moonlight silvered the sweat on her colossal breasts; they swayed with the wagon's gentle rock. Mara knelt in the straw behind Elaric, her thick thighs spread over his hips, pussy grinding slow circles against the small of his back. Lena reclined against a hay bale, legs wide, fingers lazily stroking her bare slit—glistening, swollen, dripping onto the blanket in steady pulses.
"Drive us slow, love," Isolde murmured, leaning forward to drag her nipples across Elaric's bare chest. "We've all night."
The wagon rolled onto the old orchard road, wheels rumbling over packed earth. Apple boughs brushed overhead, perfuming the air. Elaric flicked the reins once; the mares settled into a lazy plod. Then he dropped them, hands free to roam.
He cupped Isolde's heavy tits, thumbs flicking the stiff peaks. She moaned, reaching between them to free his cock. It sprang up between her thighs—thick, veined, already slick with precum. She stroked once, twice, then guided the fat head to her entrance.
"Watch," she whispered to the others.
She sank down in one languid glide. Her pussy swallowed him inch by inch, walls fluttering, juices coating his shaft in a hot gush. When her plush ass met his thighs, she paused—letting them all feel the stretch, the impossible fullness.
Mara's breath hitched against his neck. "Gods, look how she takes him. I can see it bulging in her belly."
Lena crawled closer on hands and knees, tits dragging through the straw. She licked a stripe up Isolde's inner thigh, tasting the slick that leaked around Elaric's buried cock. Isolde shuddered, hips rolling in tiny, teasing circles.
Elaric groaned. The wagon's rhythm matched Isolde's—slow, rolling, relentless. Each rut in the road lifted her half an inch, then dropped her back down, driving him deeper. Her tits bounced hypnotically; he caught one in his mouth, sucking hard while his hands kneaded her ass.
Minutes stretched. The moon climbed. Isolde's moans grew ragged. When she came, it was with a low, keening cry—pussy spasming, squirting in hot pulses that soaked Elaric's balls and the blanket beneath. She didn't stop riding; she slowed, savoring the aftershocks, until her thighs trembled.
"My turn," Mara growled.
They rearranged like a sensual puzzle. Elaric lay back in the straw, cock jutting proud. Mara straddled him reverse, presenting her glorious ass. She reached back, spreading her cheeks—revealing her dripping pussy, pink and gaping with need. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself. The head breached her; she hissed, pausing to adjust to the stretch. Then she sank—deeper, deeper—until her ass rested on his pelvis, his entire length buried in her clutching heat.
Lena and Isolde knelt on either side. Isolde fed Mara her still-dripping tits; Mara sucked greedily, teeth grazing nipples. Lena dipped her head between Mara's thighs, tongue flicking the place where Elaric's cock disappeared into her friend. She lapped at Mara's clit, at the slick shaft, at Elaric's balls—tasting their mingled arousal.
Mara began to move—slow rises and falls, ass rippling with each impact. The wagon rocked harder now; the mares flicked ears but kept their steady pace. Straw clung to sweat-slick skin. Elaric's hands gripped Mara's hips, guiding but never rushing. He could feel every flutter of her walls, every pulse of her heartbeat around his cock.
Lena rose, straddling Elaric's face. Her pussy hovered above his mouth—bare, dripping, clit swollen. He pulled her down and *feasted*. Long, slow licks from entrance to clit, tongue fucking her in time with Mara's bounces. Lena ground against his face, tits bouncing, hands braced on Mara's shoulders.
The orchard road curved; moonlight spilled through the trees in silver shards. Mara came with a guttural scream, pussy clamping so hard Elaric saw stars. She collapsed forward, still impaled, trembling. Lena followed seconds later—squirting onto Elaric's tongue in sharp, sweet bursts.
He was nowhere near done.
They rotated again. This time all three faced him, knees in the straw, pussies lined up like offerings. Elaric knelt behind them—Isolde first. He slid home in one thrust, her cunt welcoming him with a fresh flood of cream. Ten slow strokes. Out. Into Mara—her walls still fluttering from her last orgasm. Ten strokes. Out. Into Lena—tight, slick, *desperate*. Ten strokes.
He kept the rhythm for what felt like hours—rotating, teasing, never letting any one pussy adjust. Their moans blended into a symphony: Isolde's husky whimpers, Mara's filthy encouragements, Lena's broken pleas. Juices coated his cock, his thighs, the straw. The wagon creaked beneath them, a steady cradle.
Finally, when the moon hung high and their legs shook with exhaustion, Elaric pulled them into a tight circle. He stood in the center, cock glistening with their combined slick. One by one, they knelt.
Isolde took him in her mouth first—deep, slow sucks, cheeks hollowing. Mara licked his balls, tongue swirling. Lena kissed along the shaft, sharing it with Isolde in wet, messy kisses. Hands everywhere—stroking, squeezing, worshipping.
Elaric's stamina held until the pressure was unbearable. With a roar that startled night birds from the trees, he came—thick, endless ropes painting their faces, tits, open mouths. They licked him clean, then each other, sharing his seed in slow, languid kisses.
The wagon rolled on, mares patient. Elaric pulled the women against him—warm, sated, straw in their hair. Isolde nuzzled his neck. "Tomorrow's the harvest dance," she murmured. "Private barn. All the village wives will be there…"
Elaric's cock twitched against her thigh, already stirring.
The harvest was infinite.