The Rusty Tankard stood at the edge of Eldridge, where the cobblestones gave way to packed earth and the scent of ale mingled with horse sweat from the stables. It was the village's heartbeat after dusk—merchants, farmers, and wandering sellswords crowding its benches, their laughter drowning the creak of beams overhead. Behind the bar ruled **Mira Voss**, a widow of forty-three summers whose reputation was as potent as her brew.
Mira was a vision of ripe abundance. Her raven hair, pinned in a loose knot, framed a face etched with laugh lines and knowing eyes the color of storm clouds. Her bodice, laced tight, could barely contain the swell of her breasts—massive, pendulous orbs that swayed with every pour of ale, nipples often visible through the damp linen when the fire's heat kissed her skin. Her hips flared wide, her ass a plush, jiggling promise beneath skirts that clung to thighs thick enough to crush a man's resolve. The regulars joked she could smother a man with her tits and drown him in her cunt, and Mira only laughed, her voice husky, her gaze sharp enough to cut through lies.
Thorne had watched her for weeks. Each night he nursed a tankard at the bar's end, his eyes tracing the way her breasts bounced as she hefted kegs, the way her ass filled the doorway when she fetched more stock. Mira felt his stare, met it sometimes with a smirk that promised she knew exactly what he craved. Her pussy, long neglected since her husband's death in a border skirmish, ached at the thought of him. She'd heard the whispers—Lysandra leaving the bakery flushed and limping some mornings, her eyes bright with a secret glow. Mira wanted that. Needed it.
---
It was a frigid night, the first snow dusting the ground, when the Tankard emptied early. A traveling troupe had drawn the crowd to the square, leaving Mira alone to wipe down tables. Thorne lingered, his cloak dusted with frost, his presence filling the room like heat from a forge.
"Closing soon," Mira said, not looking up, though her pulse quickened as his boots thudded closer.
"I'm not here for ale," Thorne replied, his voice a low rumble. He leaned against the bar, his massive frame dwarfing the space. "I'm here for you."
Mira's cloth stilled. She met his eyes, her lips parting. "Bold, aren't you? Lysandra's barely cooled from your bed, and you're sniffing after me?"
Thorne's smile was slow, predatory. "Lysandra's a taste. You're a feast."
Her cunt clenched, a gush of wetness soaking her undergarments. She turned away, pretending to stack mugs, but her hands trembled. "I'm not some desperate widow to be tumbled in the hay."
"No," Thorne said, rounding the bar. He stopped behind her, close enough that she felt the heat of him, the brush of his cock—already half-hard—against her ass. "You're a woman who knows what she wants. And I'm the man to give it."
Mira's breath hitched. She should slap him, send him out into the snow. Instead, she pressed back, just enough to feel the thick ridge of him. "Prove it," she whispered.
---
He didn't rush. Thorne's hands, rough from the forge, slid up her sides, cupping her breasts through her bodice. They overflowed his palms, heavy and soft, her nipples stiffening as he pinched them gently. Mira moaned, her head falling back against his shoulder, her ass grinding against his cock. It was massive, thickening with every heartbeat, and she imagined it splitting her open, filling her until she screamed.
Thorne unlaced her bodice with deliberate slowness, peeling it down to free her tits. They spilled out, glorious and unrestrained, nipples dark and begging. He turned her to face him, lifting one breast to his mouth, sucking deep and slow, his tongue swirling as she gasped. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, her pussy throbbing with every pull of his lips.
"Gods, Thorne," she panted, her skirts hiked up by his roaming hands. He found her cunt, slick and swollen, her juices coating his fingers as he stroked her clit. She was dripping, her thighs trembling, her arousal dripping down her legs.
He lifted her onto a table, spreading her wide. Her pussy glistened in the firelight, pink and needy, her clit peeking from its hood. Thorne knelt, inhaling her musk, then dragged his tongue through her folds. Mira cried out, her hips bucking as he lapped at her, slow and thorough, savoring every drop. Her orgasms came fast, one after another, her cunt gushing as he sucked her clit, his fingers curling inside her to stroke that spot that made her sob.
When he stood, his cock was free, monstrous and pulsing, the head slick with precum. Mira's eyes widened, her pussy clenching at the sight. "Fuck me," she begged, spreading herself wider. "Fill me."
Thorne didn't need urging. He rubbed his cock through her slickness, coating himself, teasing her entrance until she was writhing. Then he pushed in, slow and relentless, her cunt stretching around his girth. Mira's back arched, her tits bouncing as he sank deeper, inch by thick inch, until he was buried to the hilt. Her walls fluttered, her juices squirting around him as he began to move.
He fucked her for hours, the table creaking under them, her moans echoing through the empty tavern. Her pussy gripped him like a fist, her orgasms endless, her body shaking as he pounded into her, his stamina unyielding. Her tits bounced with every thrust, her ass jiggling as he gripped her hips, her cunt dripping down his balls.
When he came, it was with a guttural roar, his seed flooding her, spilling out as her final climax milked him dry. They collapsed together, sweat-slick and breathless, but Mira's eyes gleamed with hunger.
"This isn't over," she murmured, her hand stroking his still-hard cock.
Thorne grinned. "Never is."