Louis returned to his assigned room later than expected, the quiet of the manor settling around him in a way the imperial palace never quite allowed. The bath prepared for him was already steaming—larger, deeper, and far more comfortable than he had anticipated.
He sank into it with a slow breath, idly noting the irony.
So this was how a marquis treated his guests. Better than the palace… or perhaps the palace had never intended comfort in the first place.
By the time he stepped back into the bedroom, water still clinging to his skin, he wore only loose shorts and a towel draped over his shoulders. He ran it through his hair, pushing damp strands back as his thoughts wandered—training, travel, Natasha, the strange calm that had followed him since leaving the capital.
A knock came.
He hesitated only a moment before answering.
"Come in."
The door opened just enough for a maid to step inside, her posture professional—at least at first. Her gaze lifted instinctively, then stalled. Not on his face.
A maid entered carrying folded garments: a clean tunic, trousers, a simple sash. She stopped short at the sight of him—bare-chested, bronzed by a sun unknown to most of this world's nobility. Her gaze drifted: over shoulders, chest, the dark line disappearing into fabric. No disdain. Only quiet, unguarded interest. Color rose in her cheeks, but she did not look away.
Louis followed her line of sight and paused.
"…Ah."
He glanced down at himself, at the definition that months of brutal training had carved into his body. He gave a short, almost self-conscious breath.
Yeah. That'd be the result of hellish instruction and worse sparring partners, he thought.
The maid didn't immediately look away.
That, more than anything, surprised him.
He remembered something he'd read once—an offhand cultural note about tanned skin like his being associated with barbarians. Not exactly desirable, at least in noble circles, he thought.
And yet.
He watched the realization settle in her eyes, the shift from surprise to something quieter, warmer. Recognition.
The door closed behind her.
He crossed the room in measured steps—slow enough that she could have stepped back. She didn't.
Louis took the garment from her, then spoke before she could step away.
"What's your name?"
She paused—not out of nerves, but habit. Then answered plainly.
"Martha."
No surname.
He inclined his head.
Just a given name, he thought. A commoner, then.
He set the clothes aside with careful precision.
Louis lifted a hand slowly, fingertips brushing her jaw. She trembled once, then tilted into the touch.
He kissed her then—deliberate, unhurried, learning the shape of her mouth. She answered hesitantly at first, then with growing certainty, small palms pressing flat against his chest, exploring the warmth, the steady thump beneath.
"He is solid and warm," Martha thought, head swimming.
He guided her backward until the wall met her spine—pressing close rather than shoving, giving her the cool stone to lean into while his body became the heat in front. His mouth moved to her throat; she arched with a soft, involuntary sound.
One hand slipped beneath her skirt, tracing the soft inner skin of her thigh, then higher. Slick heat greeted his fingers. He paused, thumb circling her clit with patient, even pressure, coaxing tiny shivers and sharper breaths from her.
"She's already so wet," he thought, a quiet wonder cutting through the heated moment. "From this? From nothing more than touch?"
He eased his drawers down. His cock sprang free—thick, seven inches, heavy with weeks of suppressed want. Martha's gaze dropped; her lips parted on a silent inhale.
"Longer and thicker than any footman or stable boy I've glimpsed," she thought, heart hammering. "Most men I have seen were smaller, paler."
Louis lifted her with steady arms—careful, controlled—until her legs wrapped around his waist. The broad head pressed to her entrance. He held still, watching her eyes.
She gave the smallest nod.
He entered her slowly. One careful inch at a time. Virgin resistance yielded with a sharp gasp from her; nails pressed into his shoulders as pain flared, then softened into aching fullness. He sank deeper—measured, deliberate—until seven inches seated him fully inside her.
"So tight it's almost painful," Louis thought, jaw clenched against the urge to thrust harder.
He began to move—shallow rocks at first, each glide dragging against sensitive inner walls, drawing soft whimpers from her throat. The wall gave her leverage; he used it to angle deeper, grinding against that hidden spot until her thighs began to shake.
Then he felt her clench—fluttering, adjusting—and his body stirred in response. As raw need surged, length swelled inside her—stretching, thickening—reaching nine solid inches. Girth expanded in proportion, pressing her walls outward in a slow, burning stretch that made her eyes fly wide and a choked cry escape her lips.
"He's growing—inside me," Martha thought, mind fracturing between shock and blinding pleasure. "Longer. Thicker. Splitting me open inch by inch. It hurts so perfectly I can't breathe."
Her maid dress remained on—apron twisted, skirt shoved high around her waist, bodice unlaced just enough for breasts to spill free. The torn, disheveled fabric framed her flushed skin, emphasizing how thoroughly the now-massive length filled her, stretching her to the absolute limit.
Louis groaned low, feeling the new, exquisite tightness clamp around him.
"He underestimated his Resilience by an order of magnitude," he thought, a faint, wry acknowledgment amid the fire.
He carried her to the bed without withdrawing—each step jostling him deeper, forcing fresh gasps from her.
He laid her on her back first. Legs draped over his arms, he sank in to the root—nine thick inches claiming her completely. Slow, full withdrawals followed by deep, controlled plunges. Each stroke pressed the breath from her lungs; each grind against her front wall sent white sparks behind her eyes.
"He never hurries," Martha thought, dazed and trembling. "Just keeps going. Endless. My body can't catch its breath. Every thrust feels like the first time."
He withdrew slowly—careful, deliberate—each inch dragging a soft, broken whimper from her lips as her walls fluttered in protest at the sudden emptiness. The absence left her aching, slick and swollen, body trembling with the aftershocks of his size still imprinted inside her.
Louis paused for a breath, watching her. The sight of her flushed skin, the way her thighs quivered, the faint sheen of sweat and their combined release held his attention.
He turned her onto her stomach—hips lifted, chest pressed to the mattress. From behind he re-entered, hands braced on either side of her smaller frame, covering her as he drove long, measured strokes. The angle let him grind relentlessly against that sensitive ridge inside; she sobbed quietly into the sheets, overwhelmed, thighs quivering uncontrollably.
She came apart first—walls spasming hard around his girth, milking him in violent pulses as pleasure crashed through her. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes; her limbs shook.
He did not pause.
He eased her onto her side—spooned behind, arm banding her waist, fingers returning to circle her swollen clit with the same patient rhythm. Slow, devastating rolls of his hips—each full glide stretching her anew, the sheer stamina keeping her teetering on the edge of too-much even as aftershocks still rippled through her.
"Still moving. Still so hard," she thought faintly, body limp and quivering. "I'm finished and he's nowhere near done."
Finally he shifted her once more—onto her back, knees folded toward her shoulders. He thrust with the same unhurried force—deep, thorough—chasing his own release while she lay utterly spent beneath him: breath shallow, thighs trembling, mind fogged with exhaustion and lingering heat.
One last, buried plunge—and he came. Thick pulses flooded her; she whimpered faintly at the overwhelming warmth, too depleted to do more than tremble.
He withdrew carefully, then sat beside her—both slick with sweat, chests heaving.
The room fell quiet except for their slowing breaths.
Louis sat at the edge of the bed, breathing steady but thoughtful, one hand resting against the mattress as the silence returned. His body felt… fine. More than fine, really. Too fine.
He frowned faintly.
Not the act itself—but the ease of it. The endurance. The absence of strain. He'd gone further than he meant to, not out of desire alone, but because his body simply hadn't known when to stop.
A quiet exhale left him.
Louis looked at her once more.
She lay still, eyes closed, her expression loose and tired, a satisfied smile lingering on her face.
He dressed, then stood, adjusting his clothes.
I'll need to hold back next time, he thought to himself calmly.
The thought carried no weight beyond being noted.
"Need to clear my head," he muttered, already turning toward the door.