The wagon train rolled out of Eldenwood at first light, eight carts in all, wheels groaning under the weight of grain, wine, and women. Elaric rode at the front, reins loose in one hand, the Duchess's signet glinting on the other. Behind him, the village wives had transformed: Isolde in a low-cut traveling gown of forest green, Mara in leather-trimmed riding skirts that hugged her ass like a second skin, Lena with a basket of honey cakes balanced on her lap, Rowena perched primly atop the tax chest—ledger forgotten, thighs already damp.
The road north wound through sun-dappled woods and open meadows. Birds wheeled overhead; the air smelled of pine and crushed grass. Every rut in the path jostled the wagons, setting breasts bouncing and skirts riding higher. No one complained.
**II. Slice of Life – Roadside Rhythms**
They made camp each dusk by a stream or beneath an ancient oak. The work was familiar, comforting:
- Elaric and the men (those few husbands who'd been invited as "escorts") set up canvas tents, started cook-fires, watered the horses.
- Isolde brewed tea from wild mint and lemon balm, passing tin cups with a wink.
- Mara sharpened axes and flirted with the blacksmith's apprentice, her laughter rolling like thunder.
- Lena baked flatbreads on hot stones, feeding Elaric by hand, licking crumbs from his lips.
- Rowena tallied the caravan's stores, quill scratching, but her free hand kept drifting to the bulge in Elaric's breeches whenever she thought no one watched.
At night, the wives gathered around the fire to sing—old planting songs, bawdy harvest rhymes. Children (left with grandparents in Eldenwood) were missed, but the freedom was intoxicating.
**III. Roadside Teasing – Day Three**
The third noon found them stalled at a shallow ford. The lead wagon's wheel had cracked; repairs would take an hour. The women seized the chance.
They stripped to shifts and waded into the sunlit stream, shrieking as cold water met hot skin. Elaric stood on the bank, shirt off, mending the wheel with steady hands. Water beaded on the women's curves—nipples stiff, fabric clinging to every swell and valley.
Isolde floated on her back, massive breasts bobbing like twin islands. "Elaric! The water's *perfect*. Come cool that beast of yours."
He set the mallet down, breeches already tenting. The wives formed a loose circle in the shallows, eyes hungry. He waded in, water lapping his thighs, then waist. Mara reached him first—hands sliding under the surface to free his cock. It sprang up, thick and flushed, breaking the surface like a dolphin.
Lena produced a bar of lavender soap. "Can't have our plowman smelling of axle grease," she teased. They washed him slowly—six pairs of hands gliding over chest, abs, the heavy weight of his shaft. Soap bubbles clung to his crown; Isolde licked them away with a slow swirl of tongue.
Rowena, ever proper, knelt in the shallows and took him in her mouth—deep, methodical, throat relaxing to take half his length. Water sloshed around her knees; her braid came undone, black hair floating like ink. The others watched, fingers circling their own clits beneath the surface.
Elaric lasted twenty minutes of slow, wet worship—hands in hair, mouths on balls, tongues tracing veins—before pulling free. He lifted Rowena onto a smooth boulder, spread her thighs, and entered her in one slick glide. The stream echoed with the wet slap of flesh. She came quickly, pussy clenching, squirting into the current. He followed, painting her tits with thick ropes that floated downstream like cream on milk.
They finished the repairs still half-naked, sun drying their skin. The caravan rolled on, laughter trailing behind like ribbon.
**IV. Arrival – The Duchess's Estate**
They crested the final hill at twilight.
Veylaine Manor sprawled across the valley—white stone, ivy, fountains shaped like naked nymphs. Lanterns glowed along the drive; music drifted from open windows. Servants in crimson livery took the horses. The Duchess herself waited on the grand staircase, robe of gold silk, hair unbound.
"Welcome to the Harvest Feast," she purred. "Seven nights. No rules. Only pleasure."
**V. The First Night – The Grand Hall**
The hall was a riot of excess: tables groaning under roast peacock, candied figs, flagons of spiced wine. Musicians played on a dais; silk banners hung from rafters. Noblewomen from across the kingdom mingled with Eldenwood's wives—silk gowns, pearl chokers, eyes bright with curiosity.
Elaric was led to a raised dais at the hall's heart. A velvet cushion waited. The Duchess raised a goblet. "To the plowman of legend. May his seed bless every field."
The feast dissolved into ritual.
- **Course One**: Aveline fed him grapes from her own lips, then knelt beneath the table to take his cock in her mouth while nobles watched, flushed and fascinated.
- **Course Two**: Isolde and Mara performed a slow dance, stripping each other, then crawled to Elaric to share his shaft in a wet, messy kiss.
- **Course Three**: Rowena was bent over the table, skirts rucked, and fucked slow and deep while dessert was served around them—moans harmonizing with the clink of silver.
The night stretched into dawn. Bedrooms, balconies, the moonlit rose garden—every corner claimed. Elaric's stamina was tested against duchesses, countesses, and village wives alike. Pussies dripped, tits heaved, cum painted silk and skin.
**VI. The Week Unfolds – A Glimpse**
The days blurred:
- **Morning**: Lazy baths in marble pools, wives washing him with scented oils.
- **Afternoon**: Croquet on the lawn—mallets abandoned for slow, public fucking behind hedges.
- **Evening**: Masquerade balls where masks hid nothing; Elaric took three masked noblewomen at once on a balcony, their cries echoing over the valley.
- **Night**: The grand bedchamber—twenty bodies writhing on silk sheets, Elaric at the center, cock never soft, seed never spent.
**VII. Departure – The Eighth Dawn**
On the final morning, the Duchess pressed a second ring into his palm—this one set with a ruby. "Return any solstice," she murmured. "Bring your harvest. We'll sow new fields."
The wagons rolled south, lighter by grain but heavy with gifts—silk, gold, and the scent of a week's debauchery. Eldenwood's wives dozed against each other, thighs sticky, smiles soft.
Elaric drove the lead cart, sun on his face, cock stirring at the memory of every dripping pussy he'd claimed.
Autumn waited. The true harvest was yet to come.