Summer crowned Eldenwood in gold and heat.
The Solstice Festival spilled across the village green: ribbons on maypoles, trestles heavy with honeyed ham and blackberry tarts, fiddlers sawing reels that made skirts whirl. Children chased soap bubbles; old men dozed in the shade with tankards. The air shimmered with laughter and the scent of sun-warmed skin.
Elaric moved through the crowd like a quiet storm. Shirt open to the sternum, sleeves rolled, forearms dusted with flour from helping Lena stack her pies. Every woman he passed found an excuse to touch—fingers brushing his wrist, a hip "accidentally" bumping his thigh. Rowena watched from the tax booth, quill tapping, eyes dark with memory.
Then the horns sounded.
A carriage rolled in—lacquered black, drawn by four white geldings. The crest on the door was unmistakable: House Veylaine, the Duchess herself. Whispers rippled. Duchess Aveline had not visited in a decade. She stepped down in a swirl of crimson silk, parasol twirling. Forty summers, widowed twice, legend said she collected lovers the way others collected porcelain.
Her gaze swept the fair—and stopped on Elaric.
**II. Slice of Life – Festival Games**
The afternoon unfolded in bright, ordinary chaos.
- **Apple-bobbing**: Elaric dunked his head, emerging with fruit clenched in teeth. Water streamed down his chest; Isolde "helped" dry him with her apron, palms lingering over his nipples.
- **Sack race**: Mara teamed with him, her massive tits bouncing with every hop. They won; she claimed her prize—a slow, public kiss that left the crowd cheering and her pussy visibly damp through her skirt.
- **Pie-eating**: Lena fed him slices by hand, fingers sticky with berry juice. She licked a stray drop from his lower lip, eyes promising more.
Rowena judged the games, clipboard in hand. When Elaric won the log-splitting contest—shirtless, axe arcing, muscles gleaming—she awarded him a blue ribbon and a whispered, "Tonight. The manor. Bring the axe."
The Duchess watched it all from her canopied chair, fan fluttering, lips curved in amusement.
**III. The Manor – Moonrise**
The lord's manor stood abandoned on the hill, ivy choking its stones. Inside, dust sheets had been stripped; candles flickered in silver sconces. The great hall smelled of beeswax and old roses. A dozen village wives waited—Isolde, Mara, Lena, Rowena, Widow Thorne, and more—gowns loosened, eyes bright with wine and anticipation.
Duchess Aveline entered last. She had changed into a robe of sheer scarlet, nipples dark against the silk. "A private game," she announced. "The plowman versus the peerage. Winner takes all."
She produced a velvet pouch and spilled its contents: carved ivory tokens, each etched with a different act—*Kiss*, *Lick*, *Ride*, *Fill*. A circle formed on the parquet floor. Elaric stood at the center, breeches unlaced, cock already thick with promise.
**IV. The Gambit – Slow, Public Worship**
They played by turns.
1. **Kiss** – Aveline drew first. She knelt, robe pooling, and kissed the head of his cock—slow, reverent, tongue flicking the slit. The wives sighed in unison.
2. **Lick** – Isolde. She lapped from balls to crown in one long stripe, then passed the token left.
3. **Ride** – Mara. She straddled him on the bearskin rug, sinking inch by inch, ass rippling. The hall echoed with wet sounds and her throaty moans.
4. **Fill** – Rowena. She bent over the grand table, skirts rucked, and took him deep. He lasted twenty slow strokes before pulling out to paint her back in thick ropes—then slid back in to push his cum deeper.
The game stretched hours. Tokens were drawn, acts performed in languid rotation. The Duchess orchestrated like a conductor—pairing wives, directing angles, tasting each pussy after Elaric left it creamy and trembling. Candles burned low; shadows danced over sweat-slick curves.
At the final draw, only one token remained: **All**.
**V. The Midnight Orgy**
They moved to the four-poster bed in the master chamber—silk sheets, moonlight through cracked stained glass. Elaric lay at the center, cock glistening with a dozen women's juices. The wives arranged themselves like offerings:
- Aveline and Rowena on their backs, legs interlaced, pussies pressed together. Elaric slid between them, cock dragging over both clits in slow alternation.
- Mara and Isolde knelt above his face, taking turns grinding on his tongue.
- Lena and Widow Thorne milked his balls with oiled hands, licking the slick from his shaft between rides.
He fucked them in waves—slow, deep, endless. Pussies clenched, squirted, overflowed. The bed creaked; the manor groaned like a living thing. When he finally came, it was cataclysmic—ropes arcing across tits, faces, open mouths. They shared it in sloppy kisses, rubbing his seed into skin like sacred oil.
**VI. Dawn – The Quiet Ledger**
Morning found the hall littered with discarded gowns and empty wine flagons. Elaric rose first, muscles aching in exquisite protest. He dressed in silence, then stepped onto the terrace.
Duchess Aveline joined him, robe belted loosely. "The manor is yours," she said. "A gift. For services rendered." She pressed a signet ring into his palm. "And an invitation. My estate lies north. Harvest feast. Bring the village."
She mounted her carriage and was gone before the sun cleared the hills.
Elaric returned to the fields. The barley was nearly ripe. Cows lowed. Isolde waved from her herb garden; Mara hammered at the forge; Lena's pies cooled on a windowsill.
Slice of life resumed—only now, the plowman owned a manor, a duchess's favor, and the undying devotion of every ripe MILF in Eldenwood.
Summer burned on.