The thaw came sudden and wet. Snow melted into rivulets that sang down the hills; the earth steamed under a pale sun. Eldenwood woke to the smell of turned soil and green shoots. Plows bit deep, and the village hummed with the old, familiar rhythm.
Elaric was in the south field at dawn, guiding the ox with a steady hand. His shirt clung to his back, sweat cutting clean lines through the dust. The work was honest, endless, perfect. Between furrows he paused to drink from a leather flask—Isolde's elderflower brew, laced with something that kept his blood hot and his cock half-hard all day.
Word traveled faster than the meltwater: the reeve's sister had come from the capital to audit the spring taxes. Lady Rowena of House Blackthorn—widowed, thirty-eight summers, sharp as winter steel. Rumor painted her severe: high cheekbones, raven hair in a tight braid, gowns buttoned to the throat. The men grumbled about extra tithes; the women whispered of the ledger she carried like a blade.
Elaric only smiled. He'd seen the way the village wives bloomed under a firm hand and a slow tongue. A new challenge was welcome.
**II. Slice of Life – The Tax Day**
The audit began at the village hall. Long tables groaned under ledgers and wax-sealed scrolls. Farmers queued with sacks of grain and jars of honey. Elaric arrived mid-morning, shirt sleeves rolled, forearms streaked with soil. He dropped two heavy sacks of barley on the scale.
Rowena stood at the head table, quill poised. Her gown was severe—charcoal wool, high collar—but it did little to hide the body beneath. Breasts full and high, straining the fabric with each breath; hips flared beneath a cinched waist; an ass that filled the chair like a promise. Her eyes—ice-blue—flicked up and locked on him.
"Name," she said, voice crisp.
"Elaric of Eldenwood. Harlan's son."
She wrote, quill scratching. "Yield looks… generous." A pause. "Unusually so."
He leaned on the table, close enough to smell ink and rosewater. "Good soil. Long hours. Strong hands."
Her gaze dipped to those hands—calloused, thick-veined—then lower, to the unmistakable ridge in his breeches. A faint flush climbed her throat. "I'll need to inspect the fields personally. Tomorrow. Dawn."
**III. The Field Inspection – Slow Seduction**
She arrived on a grey mare, riding sidesaddle, skirts hiked just enough to reveal trim ankles. Elaric waited at the field's edge, pitchfork in hand. The barley was knee-high, shimmering green.
They walked the rows in silence at first. Rowena's boots sank into the soft earth; she steadied herself once on his arm, fingers lingering. He pointed out irrigation ditches, crop rotation, the new compost pit. She nodded, making notes, but her eyes kept drifting—to the flex of his shoulders, the way his breeches clung to his thighs.
At the far end, where the field met the willow copse, she stopped. "Your yield is double the neighboring plots. Explain."
He stepped close, voice low. "Patience. Care. Knowing exactly how deep to go." He let the words hang, then drove the pitchfork into the soil—slow, deliberate. The muscles in his back rippled. Rowena's breath caught.
She turned away, but not before he saw her nipples peak beneath the wool. "I'll need… samples. From the granary."
**IV. The Granary – Midnight**
The granary stood at the village's edge, stone walls cool even in spring. Moonlight slanted through cracks, striping the floor in silver. Elaric arrived first, shirt unbuttoned, lantern glowing low. He'd left the door unlatched.
Rowena slipped in near midnight, cloak clutched tight. She'd traded the severe gown for a simple shift—linen, thin, clinging to every curve. Her braid was undone; black hair spilled over her shoulders like ink.
"You're late," he said.
"I'm thorough." She set the ledger on a sack of wheat. "Show me your… methods."
He closed the distance in two strides. She didn't retreat. His hands went to her waist—firm, possessive. She gasped as he lifted her onto the sacks, thighs parting instinctively. The shift rode up, revealing the dark thatch between her legs, already glistening.
"Lady Blackthorn," he murmured, "taxes are paid in full."
Then he knelt.
His mouth found her pussy slow and reverent—long licks from entrance to clit, tongue circling, teasing. Rowena's hands fisted in his hair, hips rocking. She was *dripping*, slick coating his chin, running down the wheat sacks in steady pulses. He sucked her clit gently, then harder, until her thighs clamped around his ears and she came with a sharp, shocked cry—back arching, tits straining the linen.
He rose, cock jutting thick and proud. She stared, eyes wide. "Seven hells…"
He entered her in one slow glide. The granary echoed with the wet sound of her cunt taking him—inch by thick inch. Rowena's head fell back, mouth open in a silent scream. He fucked her steady, deep, the sacks shifting beneath them. Her tits bounced free; he caught one in his mouth, sucking hard while his thumb circled her clit.
Minutes stretched into an hour. She came again, then again—pussy clenching, squirting onto the grain. Only when her voice was hoarse did he pull out, painting her belly and tits with thick ropes of cum. She rubbed it into her skin like oil, eyes glazed.
**V. Dawn – The New Ledger**
Morning found them in the field again. Rowena rode beside him on the ox cart, hair braided tight, gown pristine. She stamped the ledger with the reeve's seal.
"Taxes… adjusted," she said, voice steady but cheeks flushed. "Eldenwood is granted a surplus exemption. Indefinitely."
Elaric grinned. "Generous."
She leaned close, lips brushing his ear. "I'll return monthly. For *inspections*."
Behind them, the village wives watched from their doorways—Isolde with a knowing smile, Mara with a wink, Lena licking jam from her thumb. The harvest was secure.
Spring had only begun.