The next morning dawned gray and damp, the rain reduced to a persistent mist that clung to everything like a shroud. I woke with my cock aching hard, tenting the wool blanket. Dreams of Mira had haunted me—her heavy breasts spilling into my hands, nipples dark and thick between my teeth, her thick ass grinding back as I sank deep into that dripping pink pussy I'd yet to see. The Lust hummed in my chest, satisfied with the slow tease but hungry for more.
I dressed in the rough clothes—trousers that did little to hide my bulge when hard, shirt open at the collar. Downstairs, the common room was empty save for Mira, sweeping flour from the floor near the hearth. She bent over, skirt pulling tight across her plush ass, the fabric outlining the cleft between cheeks. I paused on the stairs, watching the subtle jiggle as she worked.
She straightened when she heard me, braid swinging over one shoulder. Her blouse was fresh but already clinging in the humid air, nipples faintly visible—still pebbled, as if the cold—or something else—kept them hard.
"Mornin', Kael," she said, voice warm but edged with fatigue. Dark circles under her eyes. "Slept well?"
"Like the dead," I replied, stepping close. Her scent hit me again—warm bread, faint sweat, and that buried musk growing stronger. "You?"
She shrugged, setting the broom aside. "Mill kept me up. And worries." Her gaze flicked down my body, lingering on the broad chest exposed by my open shirt, then lower. She caught herself, flushing.
"Breakfast?" she asked quickly. "Porridge and bacon. On the house, for the company."
I nodded, sitting at the bar. As she turned to the kitchen, I let another thread of Lust unfurl—gentler than last night, just enough to stoke the embers.
She paused in the doorway, hand gripping the frame. A soft exhale escaped her lips. When she returned with the bowl, her cheeks were pinker, thighs brushing together with each step.
We ate in companionable silence at first, but I drew her out. Questions about the village, the feud. She spoke cautiously, eyes on her hands.
"Blackwaters run the mill now—Old Marta's iron grip. Greysons farm most the land around. Been killing each other over it since before I was born." She traced a scar on her wrist—thin, old. "My husband... he tried staying neutral. Got caught in a raid."
Her voice cracked slightly. I reached across, covering her hand with mine. Skin warm, soft despite calluses from work.
"I'm sorry," I said, thumb stroking her knuckles. The Lust pulsed through the touch—subtle, like warmth spreading from a fire.
She didn't pull away. Her breath hitched, fingers curling slightly under mine. Nipples strained harder against her blouse now, dark shadows clear. "It's this place," she whispered. "Eats at you. No joy left. Just... surviving."
I held her gaze. "Everyone needs joy, Mira. Warmth. Touch."
Her lips parted. Eyes dropped to my mouth. The air thickened between us—scent of her arousal faint but unmistakable now, tangy and sweet under the flour.
A crash outside shattered the moment. Shouts. Dogs barking.
Mira jerked her hand back, standing swiftly. "Trouble."
We stepped out into the mist.
A cluster of men near the mill—Blackwaters on one side, Greysons on the other. Red Willem himself towered in the center, ox-built, half his face scarred red and shiny. He held a hamstrung sheep by the scruff, blood dripping from its legs.
"This one's yours, Marta!" he bellowed toward the mill. "Payment for the poison in my well!"
Old Marta emerged from the mill door, billhook in hand despite her age. Flour-dusted, missing fingers, eyes like chipped flint. "Prove it, you burned bastard! Or come closer and lose more than a sheep!"
Tension crackled. Knives drawn. I felt the village holding its breath.
Mira gripped my arm—fingers digging in, body pressed close. Her breast brushed my side, soft and heavy. "It'll turn bloody again," she murmured, voice trembling.
I could end it. Surge the Lust wide, drown them all in desire until knives dropped and clothes came off. But no—that'd be drawing too deep, too soon. Risk the corruption. And wrong target. These weren't the ripe bodies I worshipped.
Instead, I stepped forward slightly. "Worth dying over a sheep?" I called, voice calm but carrying.
Heads turned. Red Willem snarled. "Stranger. Mind your tongue or lose it."
Marta cackled. "Or join the river, like the last meddler."
I raised hands. "Just saying—mill's still turning. Grain needs grinding. Dead men don't farm or mill."
Muttered agreement from a few bystanders. The standoff eased fractionally. Willem tossed the sheep down, spitting. "This ain't over."
They dispersed slowly, glares lingering.
Mira exhaled against my arm, body still close. "Foolish," she said, but her tone held admiration. "Brave. No one's spoken up in years."
Back inside, she poured ale with shaking hands. "Stay another night? Free. For... diffusing that."
I smiled. "I'd like that."
The day passed in chores—I offered help, hauling kegs from the cellar, chopping wood out back. Every task brought us closer.
In the cellar: dim light, cool air. She bent to roll a keg, skirt riding up to reveal thick calves, pale thighs dimpled at the top. I stepped behind to help, body brushing hers. My chest to her back, groin grazing her ass—cock half-hard, pressing just enough for her to feel the thickness.
She froze, breath catching. Didn't move away.
"Sorry," I murmured against her ear, hands on the keg beside hers. But I let the Lust flow through the contact—warm pulse straight to her core.
A soft whimper escaped her. Hips shifted back instinctively, ass nestling against my bulge. Wet heat radiated from between her legs—I could smell it now, sharp and needy.
"Kael..." she whispered, voice thick.
I lingered a moment, breathing her in—sweat, flour, arousal thick as honey. Then pulled back slowly. "Heavy keg."
She turned, face flushed deep, eyes dark with want. Lips swollen as if bitten. "Aye," she managed.
Later, chopping wood: rain stopped, mist lingering. She brought water, standing close as I swung the axe. Shirt clung to my muscled torso, sweat tracing down chest. Her gaze devoured—nipples like pebbles, thighs clenched.
"You work like a man half your age," she said, handing the cup. Fingers brushed mine. Lingered.
"Feel like one," I replied, drinking slow. Water spilled deliberately, trickling down my neck into collar.
Her tongue wet her lips unconsciously.
Evening brought patrons again—tense after the standoff. I sat at the bar, Mira serving. Every pass: hip brush, breast graze against my shoulder. Once, leaning over to refill my mug, her cleavage spilled forward—inches from my face. Warm skin glistening, scent of her sweat and deeper musk intoxicating.
I let a stronger thread of Lust loose—targeted, into her as she leaned.
She gasped softly, spilling ale. Hand trembled. Pussy clenched audibly—I heard the wet shift under her skirt. Thighs slick now, I knew.
"Sorry," she muttered, wiping the spill. But her eyes begged.
Night deepened. Patrons thinned. Last ones left wary glances at each other.
Mira banked the fire, movements slow, deliberate. Body humming with need.
I stood. "Think I'll turn in."
She nodded, voice husky. "Wait."
She locked the door, then approached. Close. Breasts rising fast with breath.
"Room's cold," she said. "I... could warm it. If you want."
Invitation clear. Eyes hooded, lips parted.
I stepped in, hand cupping her cheek. Thumb tracing that scar. "Mira..."
She leaned into the touch, whimper escaping. Body trembled.
But I held back. Slow burn.
"Not tonight," I whispered. "But soon. When you're ready to beg for it."
Her eyes flashed—shock, then deeper heat. Pussy throbbed visibly under skirt.
She nodded, swallowing hard. "Tease."
"Anticipation makes it sweeter."
I brushed past, groin grazing her hip—cock fully hard now, thick ridge pressing against her.
Upstairs, I stripped and stroked myself slow, imagining tomorrow: peeling that blouse open, sucking those heavy tits until she moaned, fingers buried in her dripping pink folds.
The Lust purred, stronger now. Feeding.
But controlled.
Mira would break soon. Ache until she couldn't stand it.
Then I'd worship her properly—five times, six—until she squirted and screamed and milked every drop.
The mill wheel creaked outside, patient.
So was the hunger building.