Elaric woke before the rooster, the hayride's straw still tangled in his hair. The wagon had returned to the village under a fading moon; the women had slipped away giggling, cloaks clutched to their breasts, leaving only the scent of sex and crushed apples on his skin.
He rose stiffly—muscles sore in the best way—and padded to the pump behind the barn. Cold water sluiced over his shoulders, running in rivulets down the ridges of his stomach. His cock, even soft, hung thick and heavy between his thighs, marked faintly purple from the night's worship. He smiled at the memory: three dripping pussies, six hands, three mouths, all devoted to his pleasure for hours.
His mother's voice drifted from the cottage. "Elaric! Eggs need gathering, and the south field wants weeding before the dance tonight."
Slice of life: the ordinary rhythm that made the extraordinary burn hotter.
He pulled on clean breeches—loose, to spare the ache—and went to work. Hens clucked around his boots; he scattered grain, collected warm eggs in a basket. The sun climbed, gilding the barley. He knelt between rows, fingers sinking into cool earth, pulling weeds with steady patience. Sweat beaded, rolled, dripped. Each tug of a root reminded him of gripping plush hips, each breath of soil and green reminded him of the orchard's perfume mixed with feminine musk.
By noon he was at the well again, shirtless, hauling water for the cows. Widow Thorne passed with a basket of laundry. Her eyes flicked to the bulge in his breeches, lingered, then met his with a shy smile. "Evenin', Elaric. Save a dance for me?"
He tipped an imaginary hat. "Wouldn't miss it, Mistress Thorne."
**II. Afternoon Market**
The village square bustled. Stalls groaned under wheels of cheese, honey jars, smoked fish. Children darted between legs; dogs begged for scraps. Elaric bartered two dozen eggs for a wedge of sharp cheddar and a jar of blackberry jam.
Lena the baker's wife manned her stall, apron stretched tight across her massive tits. Flour dusted her cleavage like sugar on warm dough. When she leaned to wrap his loaf, her nipples—hard, dark—pressed visibly against the fabric. "Extra sweet today," she murmured. "Kneaded it myself at dawn… thinking of you."
He paid with a lingering brush of fingers. Mara the blacksmith's wife hammered a horseshoe nearby; sparks flew, matching the heat in her glance. Isolde sold bundles of dried lavender; her basket smelled of last night's sex beneath the herbs.
Slice of life: the village breathed around them, unaware that half its matrons walked bow-legged from one farmer's cock.
**III. The Dance Barn – Twilight**
Lanterns swung from rafters, casting pools of gold. Fiddles warmed up; boots stomped in anticipation. Tables sagged under roast goose, apple pies, flagons of cider. Elaric entered in his best linen shirt—sleeves rolled, throat open. The room hushed for a heartbeat; then the women descended.
Widow Thorne claimed the first dance, her heavy breasts brushing his chest with every turn. Baker's wife Lena spun in next, ass grinding back against his groin to the beat of the reel. Mara lifted him in a playful twirl that left her skirt flared, revealing the slick shine on her inner thighs.
Between sets, he slipped outside for air. The cool night kissed his flushed skin. Isolde followed, pressing him against the barn wall. "They're all wet for you," she whispered, hand cupping his hardening cock through his breeches. "Every wife in there. Smell it on the air."
He kissed her slow, tasting cider and want. "Then let's not keep them waiting."
**IV. The Private Dance – After Midnight**
The fiddlers played softer now, sensual. The barn doors barred from inside. Husbands had long since staggered home drunk; the remaining crowd was entirely female—twenty, thirty voluptuous MILFs in various states of undress. Bodices loosened, skirts hiked, eyes glazed with drink and desire.
Elaric stood in the center, shirt gone, breeches unlaced. His cock jutted proud—thick, endless, glistening from the first eager mouth that had knelt the moment the bolt slid home.
They moved like a tide.
- **Widow Thorne** dropped to her knees first, massive tits spilling free. She took him deep, throat working, drool stringing to her chin.
- **Lena** pressed in from the side, offering a breast; he sucked the nipple until milk-white beads of sweat rolled down her belly.
- **Mara** and **Isolde** orchestrated the rest—guiding wives into a slow, worshipful circle.
Slice of life paused; raw erotic ritual began.
They laid him on a blanket of cloaks. One by one, they mounted—slow, reverent. Each pussy unique:
- Thorne's velvet grip,
- Lena's gushing flood,
- a cooper's wife whose cunt clenched in rhythmic pulses like a heartbeat.
He lasted through twelve, fifteen, twenty—rotating, never rushing. Hands milked his balls; mouths cleaned the slick from his shaft between rides. When one woman trembled into her third orgasm, another took her place. Juices pooled beneath him, soaking the cloaks. The air was thick with moans, the wet slap of flesh, the creak of the barn.
At the peak, they formed a living altar: six women on their backs in a star, legs spread, pussies dripping in offering. Elaric moved from one to the next—slow, deep strokes, painting each womb with a pulse of precum before shifting. When he finally came, it was endless—ropes arcing across tits, bellies, open mouths. They licked him clean, then each other, sharing his seed like communion.
**V. Dawn – The Quiet Return**
Hours later, the lanterns guttered low. Elaric slipped out alone, boots in hand. The village slept. He paused at the well, splashed water on his face, then shouldered his hoe.
Morning chores waited: cows to milk, eggs to gather, earth to tend.
Slice of life resumed—only now, every woman who passed would smile a secret smile, thighs pressed together beneath her skirts, remembering the farmer who never tired.
The harvest moon waned, but the season of plenty had only begun.