Winter gripped Eldenwood like a jealous lover. Snow blanketed the fields in silence; the oaks stood skeletal against a pewter sky. Smoke rose straight from every chimney, and the village huddled close to its hearths.
But beneath the frozen earth, the hot springs still boiled.
The Solstice rite was ancient: at the turn of the longest night, the village women gathered in the hidden cave behind the bathhouse. Steam rose in fragrant clouds; pine resin and dried rosehips scented the water. Torches guttered in iron sconces, painting the cavern walls amber. The pool steamed like a living thing, its surface broken only by slow ripples and the soft splash of bare feet.
Elaric arrived last, as tradition demanded. The women parted like curtains of silk. Thirty bodies—maybe more—glistened in the half-light. Isolde, Mara, Lena, Widow Thorne, and a dozen familiar faces from the harvest dance. But one was new.
She stood at the pool's edge, snow still melting in her dark hair. A traveler's cloak hung open, revealing a body built for sin: breasts heavier than any in Eldenwood, nipples thick and dark as blackberries; hips wide enough to birth nations; an ass so round it cast its own shadow. Her pussy was bare, lips already swollen, a single bead of arousal trembling at the seam.
"Seraphine of Thornvale," Isolde introduced, voice low with reverence. "Heard tales of our *plowman*. Traveled three days through the blizzard to see if they were true."
Seraphine's eyes—storm-grey—locked on Elaric. "They say one cock feeds a village. I aim to test the harvest."
**II. Slice of Life – The Solstice Prep**
Before the rite, the day had been ordinary in the way only winter allowed.
Elaric rose at dawn, breath fogging in the frigid air. He broke ice on the water trough, fed the cows extra hay, mucked the barn with steady strokes. His mother pressed a mug of hot broth into his hands. "Mind you don't freeze that gift of yours," she teased—half-joking, half-knowing. Village gossip traveled faster than sleds.
At noon, he hauled firewood to the bathhouse. Mara met him at the door, cheeks flushed from the forge. She wore only an apron, tits spilling over the top. "Stack it high," she murmured, pressing a quick, filthy kiss to his mouth. "We'll need the heat tonight."
By dusk, the village square glowed with bonfires. Children roasted apples; men drank mulled wine and sang off-key. Elaric shared a quiet moment with Isolde near the communal oven. She slipped him a small bundle—dried elderflower and mint. "For stamina," she winked. "Though you scarcely need it."
**III. The Rite Begins – Slow Worship**
The cave was a womb of steam and stone. The women formed a circle, hands linked, chanting softly in the old tongue. Elaric stood at the center, naked, cock already thick with anticipation. Snowmelt dripped from the ceiling, hissing where it met the pool.
Seraphine stepped forward first. She knelt, water lapping at her thighs, and took him in her mouth—slow, reverent. Her lips stretched wide around his girth; her tongue traced every vein. The others watched, fingers drifting to their own clits, pussies dripping in unison.
When she pulled back, a string of saliva connected her lips to his cockhead. "True," she breathed. "Thicker than my wrist."
The circle tightened.
They bathed him first—slow, sensual. Soft cloths soaked in scented water glided over his chest, his abs, the heavy weight of his balls. Isolde washed his back, tits pressed to his shoulder blades. Mara oiled his thighs, fingers teasing the crease where leg met groin. Lena poured warm water over his cock, watching it twitch and swell.
Then the worship turned carnal.
**IV. The Marathon – Hours of Steam and Flesh**
They took him to the sunken ledge at the pool's heart—water waist-deep, heat rising in waves. Seraphine mounted first, facing him, legs spread wide. Her pussy was *scalding*, slick as melted butter. She sank slowly, eyes rolling back as he stretched her to the limit. "Gods… I feel you in my throat."
Elaric gripped her ass—two overflowing handfuls—and guided her rhythm. Slow rises, slower falls. Water churned gently around them. Her tits bounced in his face; he sucked one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing. The other women formed a living cradle—hands on her back, her hips, stroking, encouraging.
Seraphine came with a guttural cry, pussy spasming, squirting into the spring in hot pulses. She didn't stop; she ground through the aftershocks, chasing a second peak. When it hit, she collapsed forward, trembling.
Mara took her place without pause—reverse, ass presented like a throne. She lowered herself inch by inch, moaning at the stretch. Lena and Isolde knelt in the water, tongues lapping where cock met cunt, tasting Seraphine's cream on his shaft.
The rotation began.
- **Widow Thorne**: on her back in the shallow end, legs over his shoulders, tits jiggling with each deep thrust.
- **Lena**: bent over a smooth boulder, ass rippling, pussy gushing down her thighs.
- **Isolde**: straddling his face while another rode his cock, her dripping cunt smothering him in bliss.
Hours blurred. The torches burned low. Steam thickened the air until breathing was like inhaling sex. Elaric's stamina was mythic—thrusting, licking, sucking, never flagging. Pussies clenched, squirted, milked him in endless waves. The cave echoed with wet slaps, broken moans, the splash of bodies in water.
At the deepest hour—when the solstice night reached its blackest—Seraphine returned. She lay on her back in the center of the pool, legs spread wide, pussy gaping and dripping. "Fill me," she begged. "Mark me as yours."
The others formed a circle, hands linked again, chanting. Elaric entered her slow, deep, relentless. Her walls fluttered; her tits heaved. He fucked her through three shattering orgasms—each one louder, wetter—until her voice cracked.
Only then did he let go.
His release was volcanic—thick ropes flooding her cunt, overflowing, mixing with the spring. The women dove to taste, tongues lapping at the creamy mess, sharing it in sloppy kisses. Seraphine's belly swelled slightly with the sheer volume; she rubbed it reverently, eyes glazed.
**V. Dawn – The Return to Light**
The first hint of grey touched the cave mouth. The women lay in a tangle of limbs—sated, marked, glowing. Elaric stood at the edge, cock finally softening, skin flushed from heat and exertion.
Seraphine rose, legs shaky, and kissed him slow. "I'll winter here," she murmured. "Thornvale can wait."
Outside, snow had stopped. The village stirred—smoke from chimneys, the creak of shutters. Elaric pulled on his boots, shouldered a bundle of kindling. The cows would be waiting. The fields would thaw come spring.
Slice of life resumed.
But every hearth he passed, every woman who smiled from her doorway, carried the memory of the longest night—and the plowman who never tired.
The wheel turned. The harvest endured.