The wagons rumbled into Eldenwood under a sky the color of steel. Frost silvered the thatch; breath plumed white. The village square was quiet—children back from grandparents, men repairing tools for winter. Yet every doorway held a woman's smile, soft and secret.
Elaric unloaded the last crate of northern wine. His muscles ached in deep, delicious ways; his cock, even now, carried the faint scent of a duchess's perfume. Isolde met him at the manor gate—*his* manor now—keys dangling from her fingers.
"Welcome home, my lord of the plow," she teased. "The wives have been… restless."
**II. Slice of Life – The New Normal**
Winter settled like a quilt.
- **Mornings**: Elaric milked cows before dawn, steam rising from warm udders. Widow Thorne brought fresh butter; her fingers lingered on his when she passed the crock.
- **Afternoons**: He split firewood in the manor yard. Mara joined him, axe in hand, tits straining her wool bodice with every swing. Sparks flew; so did glances.
- **Evenings**: Lena's bakery became a gathering place. Pies cooled on racks; beneath the tables, feet found his calves, toes tracing higher. Rowena tallied manor accounts by candlelight, quill forgotten when he bent her over the ledger desk for a slow, quiet fuck—pages rustling with each thrust.
The manor itself transformed. Dust sheets vanished; hearths roared. Bedrooms were aired, mattresses stuffed with fresh straw and lavender. The great hall echoed with feminine laughter long after dark.
**III. The First Rite – Full Moon**
They called it the Order of the Plow.
Membership: every ripe MILF in Eldenwood—and a few from neighboring villages who'd heard whispers. Initiation: one night of service to the plowman. Oath: silence, devotion, endless hunger.
The first rite was held in the manor's cellar—stone walls, low ceiling, warmth from a roaring brazier. Twelve women entered at moonrise, cloaks falling to reveal nothing beneath but skin and want.
- **Circle of Offering**: They knelt in a ring, thighs spread, pussies glistening in firelight. Elaric walked the circle slow, cock hard and heavy, trailing precum like a painter's brush. He stopped at each—fingertips tracing nipples, clit, entrance—leaving them trembling.
- **Altar of Straw**: A low platform piled with fresh hay. Isolde was first. She lay back, legs over his shoulders, and took him deep—slow rolls of hips, tits bouncing, pussy squirting in rhythmic pulses.
- **Rotation**: One by one they mounted—missionary, dogged, reverse—each ride lasting exactly fifteen minutes by the hourglass. Juices soaked the straw; moans blended into a single hymn.
At the rite's peak, they formed a living throne: six women stacked in a pyramid, pussies aligned. Elaric moved from bottom to top—slow, deep strokes—until the structure trembled and collapsed in a laughing, cum-soaked heap.
**IV. The Letter – Midwinter**
Snow lay deep when the raven arrived.
It tapped at the manor window, leg banded with crimson silk. The parchment was sealed with black wax—a stag rampant.
> *To the Plowman of Eldenwood,*
> *Word of your gift reaches even the Iron Marches. I am Sir Aldric of Blackthorn Keep—once betrothed to Lady Rowena, now her rival in legend. My cock is longer, my seed more potent. Come spring, I challenge you. A contest of endurance. Loser yields his harem.*
> *The field is neutral: the old stone circle at Dawn's Edge. Be there—or be forgotten.*
> *—A.*
Rowena read it aloud, voice trembling—not with fear, but with dark excitement. "He's real," she whispered. "Thicker than a forearm, they say. Lasted a full day with seven women."
Elaric folded the letter, expression calm. "Then we train."
**V. Training Montage – Through Winter**
The manor became a temple of preparation.
- **Stamina drills**: Elaric fucked from dawn to dusk—two women at a time, then three, then four. Edging for hours, denying release until his balls ached.
- **Diet**: Lena's honeyed oats, Isolde's ginseng tea, Mara's protein-rich stews. His cock grew heavier, veins more prominent.
- **Technique**: Rowena taught tantric breathing; Seraphine (visiting from Thornvale) introduced slow, grinding hip circles that made pussies gush in minutes.
- **Group worship**: Nightly rites with the full Order—twenty bodies, one cock, endless variations. They measured his cum in silver cups; the volume increased weekly.
By the last thaw, he could fuck for six hours straight, come a dozen times, and still stand tall.
**VI. The Night Before Departure**
Snow melted into mud. The Order gathered in the great hall—cloaks, candles, silence.
Isolde anointed his cock with warm oil. "Whatever happens," she said, "you are ours."
Mara strapped a small dagger to his thigh. "And we are yours."
Rowena pressed the ruby ring into his palm. "Win or lose, come home."
They made love one last time—slow, reverent, all twenty women taking turns until dawn painted the windows pink. When he finally came, it arced across the hall like a comet, splattering tits, faces, the stone floor. They licked it clean, tears in their eyes.
**VII. The Road to Dawn's Edge**
Spring's first caravan left at sunrise—three wagons, the Order in cloaks of green and gold. Elaric rode ahead on a black stallion, the rival's letter tucked in his vest.
Behind him, Eldenwood bloomed—fields green, skies wide, the manor waiting.
The true harvest was about to be tested.