The village of Eldridge lay cradled in the shadow of the Ironspine Mountains, where the air carried the scent of pine and forge-smoke. Cobblestone streets wound past thatched roofs, and the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil echoed from the smithy at the heart of the village. It was a place of simple folk, bound by tradition, yet whispers of desire stirred in the quiet hours after dusk.
Thorne Blackthorn, the village's newest blacksmith, was no ordinary man. Broad-shouldered and towering, his hands were calloused from years of wielding hammer and tongs, his dark hair tied back with a leather cord. But it was not his strength that turned heads—it was the rumor that clung to him like sweat on a summer day. They said Thorne was blessed, or cursed, depending on who told the tale, with a manhood so prodigious it could sate even the most insatiable. And sate he did, though only for those who stirred his particular hunger: mature women, their bodies ripe with curves, their breasts heavy and swaying, their hips wide and inviting, their desires dripping like honey from a comb.
Thorne had no taste for the lithe maidens who giggled behind their hands at the market. His eyes sought the widowed matrons, the forgotten wives whose husbands had long since passed or grown cold. Women like Lysandra, the baker's widow, whose apron strained against her ample bosom each morning as she kneaded dough, her hips rolling with a rhythm that made Thorne's blood simmer.
It was late autumn, the air crisp, when Thorne first noticed her watching him. Lysandra's bakery sat across from his forge, its windows fogged with the heat of her ovens. She was forty summers, her auburn hair streaked with silver, pinned loosely to frame a face still soft with youth's echo. Her breasts, full and unbound beneath her linen dress, pressed against the fabric as she leaned over the counter to hand a loaf to a customer. Her ass, round and plush, swayed as she turned to fetch another. Thorne's gaze lingered, his cock stirring beneath his leather apron, thick and heavy even in repose.
He wanted her. Not just to fuck, but to unravel. To see those emerald eyes glaze with need, to feel her slick heat clench around him as she begged for more. But Thorne was patient. Desire, he knew, was a fire best stoked slowly.
That evening, as the village settled into quiet, Thorne locked his forge and crossed the street. The bakery's door was ajar, the scent of fresh bread mingling with something sweeter—Lysandra's perfume, perhaps, or the warmth of her skin. She was alone, wiping down the counter, her sleeves rolled to reveal creamy forearms dusted with flour.
"Evening, Mistress Lysandra," Thorne said, his voice low, like gravel underfoot.
She startled, then smiled, her cheeks flushing. "Thorne. You're out late. Hungry?" Her eyes flicked to his, then away, lingering on the breadth of his chest.
"Starving," he replied, stepping closer. The counter stood between them, but the air crackled. "Your bread's the best in Eldridge, but I'm after something… warmer."
Lysandra's breath hitched. She was no innocent—her husband had been dead five years, and the village gossips whispered of her loneliness. Yet Thorne's presence, his raw masculinity, made her thighs clench beneath her skirts. "You're bold," she murmured, but her voice lacked conviction.
Thorne leaned forward, his forearms resting on the counter, close enough that she could smell the forge's heat on him. "Bold's one word. Honest's another. I see how you look at me, Lysandra. When you think I'm not watching."
Her lips parted, but no words came. Her nipples, Thorne noted, were hard beneath her dress, straining against the fabric. He imagined their weight in his hands, the way they'd spill over his palms as he sucked them slow and deep. His cock twitched, thickening, and he made no effort to hide the bulge pressing against his trousers.
"I'm a widow," she said finally, her voice trembling with something between defiance and invitation. "Not some tavern wench."
"No," Thorne agreed, his eyes locked on hers. "You're a woman. A woman with needs. And I'm a man who knows how to meet them."
The days that followed were a dance of glances and half-spoken promises. Thorne would linger at the bakery each morning, buying a loaf he didn't need, his fingers brushing Lysandra's as she handed it over. Each touch sent a jolt through her, her pussy growing slick beneath her skirts, her body aching for something she hadn't felt in years.
One night, after the village slept, Lysandra invited him to her home under the pretense of fixing a broken oven hinge. The bakery's back room was warm, the air thick with the scent of yeast and her own musk. Thorne worked shirtless, his muscles gleaming with sweat as he bent over the oven. Lysandra watched, her thighs pressed together, her cunt throbbing with a need she could no longer ignore.
"Done," Thorne said, straightening. He turned to find her close, too close, her breasts heaving with each breath. "Lysandra…"
She didn't let him finish. Her hands found his chest, fingers tracing the hard planes of muscle, and then her lips were on his, hungry and desperate. Thorne groaned, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her against the rigid length of his cock. It was massive, straining against his trousers, and Lysandra gasped at the feel of it, her pussy clenching with anticipation.
"Gods, Thorne," she whispered, her voice thick with lust. "Is it… as big as they say?"
"Bigger," he growled, lifting her onto the counter. Her dress rode up, revealing thick thighs and the glisten of her arousal soaking through her undergarments. Thorne's hands slid up her legs, pushing the fabric aside to reveal her cunt—pink, swollen, dripping with need. He inhaled her scent, musky and sweet, and his cock throbbed painfully.
He didn't rush. His fingers parted her folds, stroking slowly, teasing her clit until she whimpered. Her breasts spilled free as he tugged down her bodice, heavy and perfect, nipples dark and begging for his mouth. He sucked one, then the other, his tongue swirling as she moaned, her hips bucking against his hand.
"Thorne, please," she begged, her voice breaking. "I need you inside me."
He freed his cock, and Lysandra's eyes widened. It was enormous—thick, veined, the head glistening with precum. He rubbed it against her slick entrance, coating himself in her juices, teasing her until she was sobbing with need. Then, slowly, he pushed inside.
Her pussy stretched around him, tight and hot, gripping him like a vice. Thorne groaned, his control fraying as he sank deeper, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. Lysandra's head fell back, her breasts bouncing with each shallow thrust, her cunt gushing around him.
He fucked her slow at first, savoring every clench, every moan. Her walls fluttered, her arousal dripping down his balls as he drove into her, his stamina unrelenting. Hours passed, or so it seemed, her orgasms crashing one after another, her body trembling as he filled her again and again, never softening, never stopping.
When he finally came, it was with a roar, his seed flooding her, spilling out around his cock as she shuddered through one last climax. They collapsed together, sweat-slick and sated, but Thorne's hunger was far from spent.