Highmarket was a festering hive of trade and vice, its cobblestone streets slick with rain and the runoff of chamber pots. The air reeked of smoke, horse dung, and the salty tang of sweat-soaked bodies bartering in the shadows. Here, more than anywhere in Veydris, flesh was coin—traded openly in the market squares, where women displayed their wares like merchants hawking spices.
Elaric arrived under the cover of a merchant's caravan, his identity veiled by a hooded cloak. Word had reached Southreach: Lady Isolde Varn, the Black Widow, sought a new "investment." She was infamous—a stunning woman in her late twenties, with raven-black hair that cascaded like midnight silk, porcelain skin, and curves that could bankrupt a duke. Her body was her weapon; she lured men with promises of ecstasy, enslaved them with debt, then sold their labor to the highest bidder. A dozen lords had fallen, their freedoms signed away in the haze of post-climax bliss.
But Elaric craved her. Not to own her body—he wanted to shatter her control. Rumors said no man had ever outlasted her; she rode them until they begged for release, then denied it until they broke.
He found her manor on the hill overlooking the market—a sprawling stone edifice draped in black velvet banners. The guards waved him through after a discreet bribe; Isolde was always open to new "applicants."
The receiving chamber was oppressively warm, heated by a roaring brazier that filled the air with the scent of burning oak and exotic incense—musky, heady, like aroused skin. Isolde lounged on a chaise of crimson silk, clad in a gown of sheer black lace that clung to her voluptuous form. Her breasts were full and heavy, nipples dark shadows pressing against the fabric, erect from the chill or anticipation. Her hips flared wide, thighs thick and inviting, parted just enough to reveal the shadowed cleft between them. Emerald eyes gleamed as she appraised him.
"You're the one from Southreach," she purred, voice like velvet dragged over steel. "The Voss heir with the... legendary endowment." She licked her full lips, red as fresh blood. "Strip. Let me see if the tales hold truth."
Elaric's pulse thrummed, cock already thickening in his breeches at the command in her tone. He obeyed slowly, savoring the tension, letting his cloak fall, then his tunic, revealing the hard planes of his chest dusted with dark hair. Breeches next—his cock sprang free, heavy and veined, thicker than a man's wrist, the bulbous head already glistening with a bead of precum that stretched in a silvery thread as it bobbed.
Isolde's breath caught, a soft inhale that made her breasts rise. Her thighs shifted, fabric whispering against skin. The scent of her arousal bloomed in the air—sharp, feminine, intoxicating, mingling with the incense.
"Impressive," she murmured, rising with predatory grace. She circled him, nails trailing fire across his shoulders, down his back, then gripping his ass hard enough to leave crescents. Her hand wrapped around his shaft—fingers barely meeting—stroking slowly, thumb smearing the slick precum over the sensitive crown. Elaric groaned, hips twitching, but he held still, letting the tension coil like a spring.
"On your knees," she commanded, pushing him down. Her gown parted as she straddled his face, no undergarments beneath. Her pussy was bare, lips plump and flushed deep pink, already swollen and slick. The musky heat of her enveloped him as she lowered herself, grinding against his mouth.
Elaric inhaled deeply—her scent earthy and sweet, like ripe fruit mixed with salt. His tongue delved in, parting her folds, lapping at the hot, velvety wetness. She tasted tangy, addictive; her juices coated his lips, chin, dripping down his throat as he sucked her clit—hard, swollen pearl—flicking it relentlessly. Isolde moaned, a low, throaty sound that vibrated through her core, fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer. Her hips rolled, smearing her essence across his face, thighs quivering as she chased friction.
Minutes blurred into an eternity of wet, obscene sounds—slurps of his tongue plunging deep, her gasps sharpening, the squelch of her grinding faster. Most men would have faltered, desperate for their own release, but Elaric's cock throbbed untouched, leaking steadily onto the rug, his stamina unyielding.
She came first—suddenly, violently—body arching as a gush of hot fluid flooded his mouth, her walls pulsing against his tongue. "Fuck," she hissed, voice breaking, but she didn't stop, riding his face through the aftershocks until her legs shook.
Only then did she dismount, eyes glazed but triumphant. "Now, you'll beg to serve me."
She pushed him onto his back, the rug rough against his skin. Straddling his hips, she gripped his cock—hot, iron-hard, veins bulging under her palm—and positioned him at her entrance. Her pussy lips stretched obscenely around the head, slick sounds echoing as she sank down inch by torturous inch. The heat was scorching, her inner walls like molten silk gripping him, rippling in greedy spasms. She was impossibly tight, despite her experience, clenching deliberately to milk him.
Elaric's hands clamped on her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh, but he let her set the pace. She rode him hard, breasts bouncing with each slam, nipples hard peaks begging for teeth. Sweat beaded on her skin, trickling between her cleavage; the room filled with the wet slap of flesh on flesh, her ass cheeks rippling against his thighs, his balls heavy and aching as they smacked her.
She leaned forward, nails raking his chest, drawing thin lines of blood that stung deliciously. "Come for me," she demanded, grinding her clit against his pubic bone, inner muscles squeezing in rhythmic pulses designed to break him.
But Elaric endured. Hours passed—the brazier crackled lower, shadows lengthening. He flipped her suddenly, pinning her beneath him, her legs splayed wide. Now he thrust—brutal, deep strokes that bottomed out against her cervix, the head dragging along every ridge inside her. Isolde's moans turned to screams, raw and desperate, her nails clawing his back as another orgasm ripped through her, cunt gushing around his cock, soaking his balls.
Still, he didn't falter. He took her from behind next, face pressed to the chaise, ass high as he pounded relentlessly. The scent of sex was overwhelming—sweat, cum, her endless slickness. Her body trembled, oversensitive, each thrust eliciting whimpers. "Please," she finally gasped, voice hoarse, pussy fluttering wildly. "I can't—gods, you're too much—"
Elaric pulled her hair, arching her back. "Beg properly."
"Please... master... fill me. I yield."
Only then did he unleash, cock swelling thicker as he flooded her depths with thick, hot ropes of seed—pulse after pulse, overflowing, leaking down her thighs in creamy rivulets. Isolde shattered again, sobbing in release, body limp.
He withdrew slowly, watching his cum drip from her ruined, gaping pussy—red and swollen, twitching.
"You'll sign over your northern estates," he said calmly, dressing. "In exchange for... continued service."
Isolde, spent and trembling, could only nod.
With Isolde's wealth and connections now his, Elaric's power swelled. Back at Southreach, he began assembling a personal collection—Lira as his bedwarmer, Isolde as his broker. But whispers reached him of a convent of "untouched" novices fleeing drought, offering purity for protection. Virgins, ripe for breaking...