High on the hill overlooking Eldridge stood **Blackthorn Manor**, seat of Lord Harlan Greystone, a man whose wars kept him far from home and whose absence left his wife, **Duchess Elara**, a prisoner of silk and solitude. At forty-six summers, Elara was the village's unspoken fantasy: golden hair coiled in pearls, skin like fresh cream, and a body that mocked the years. Her gowns, imported from distant courts, strained against breasts so full they seemed sculpted by lust itself—heavy, round, with faint blue veins tracing their curves. Her waist nipped in before flaring to hips that swayed like a promise, her ass a plush, heart-shaped temptation that made stable boys stammer and priests avert their eyes.
Elara had heard the whispers. They drifted up the hill on market days: *the blacksmith with the cock like a warhammer… Lysandra walking bow-legged… Mira humming as she poured ale.* Her husband had not touched her in three years. Her bed was cold, her fingers a poor substitute. Her pussy wept at night, slick and aching, dreaming of something thick enough to split her, long enough to ruin her for all others.
She summoned Thorne under the guise of repairing the manor's ancient iron gate—a flimsy excuse, but the steward asked no questions. It was late afternoon when he arrived, sweat glistening on his bare chest, his leather apron slung low. Elara watched from her solar window, her nipples hardening beneath her velvet gown, her thighs pressing together as heat pooled between them.
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The garden behind the manor was Elara's sanctuary: high hedges, marble statues, a hidden grotto where ivy curtained a stone bench. She led Thorne there, her gown whispering over the grass, her ass swaying with every step. The air was thick with roses and her perfume—jasmine and something darker.
"The gate can wait," she said, her voice low, cultured, but trembling at the edges. "I have… other needs."
Thorne's eyes raked over her, lingering on the way her breasts strained against the low neckline, the faint dampness at the apex of her thighs. "Name them, my lady."
Elara's breath caught. She stepped closer, her fingers brushing the bulge already swelling beneath his apron. "I want to feel *alive* again."
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He took his time. Thorne unlaced her gown with the patience of a man savoring a feast, peeling the velvet down to reveal her naked glory. Her breasts spilled free, heavier than any he'd yet claimed, nipples pale pink and stiff. He cupped them, thumbs circling, then bent to suck one deep into his mouth. Elara moaned, her hands fisting in his hair, her cunt clenching as his tongue swirled.
He laid her on the stone bench, the ivy cool against her back. Her legs fell open, revealing a pussy shaved bare—smooth, glistening, the lips puffy and pink, her clit swollen and begging. Thorne groaned at the sight, his cock throbbing as he knelt between her thighs. He tasted her slowly, dragging his tongue through her folds, lapping at her sweetness like a man starved. Elara's hips bucked, her tits jiggling as she came hard, her juices flooding his mouth.
When he stood, his cock sprang free—monstrous, veined, the head slick and angry. Elara's eyes widened, her pussy spasming at the sight. "Gods, it's… obscene," she whispered, but her legs spread wider.
Thorne rubbed his cock through her slickness, coating himself, teasing her clit until she sobbed. Then he pushed in—slow, relentless, her cunt stretching around his girth like it was made for him. Elara's back arched, her tits bouncing as he sank deeper, inch by thick inch, until he bottomed out. Her walls fluttered, her arousal squirting around him as he began to move.
He fucked her for hours, the grotto echoing with the wet slap of flesh, her moans rising like a hymn. Her pussy gripped him like a vice, 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 onto the stone.
When he came, it was with a roar, his seed flooding her, spilling out as her final climax milked him dry. Elara collapsed, sweat-slick and trembling, her pussy still twitching around him.
"This garden," she panted, "will never be the same."
Thorne grinned, his cock already stirring. "Nor will you, my lady."