The third day broke clearer, weak sunlight filtering through thinning clouds. Steam rose from the river as the world thawed slightly. I woke again with iron-hard morning wood, the Lust coiling hotter in my veins—feeding on two days of denial, of Mira's growing desperation. Her scent lingered in my dreams: flour, sweat, and the sharp tang of slick folds rubbing together in frustrated need.
Downstairs, she was kneading dough at the bar, fists punching into the soft mass with rhythmic force. Her blouse sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted white, breasts swaying heavily with each thrust. Sweat beaded in her cleavage, trickling down between those full globes. Skirt clung to her thick thighs and ass, damp at the small of her back.
She glanced up as I descended, eyes bloodshot—another sleepless night, no doubt aching between her legs.
"Kael," she greeted, voice rough. "Bread's fresh. Bacon too."
I sat close, watching her work. Muscles flexed in her arms, breasts jiggling softly. Nipples strained perpetually now, thick points tenting the fabric.
"You look tired," I said, letting concern lace my tone. "Not sleeping?"
She paused, wiping flour from her brow. "Dreams," she muttered. "Hot ones. Been years since..." Trailed off, flushing deep.
I reached out, brushing a stray lock from her face. Fingers lingered on her cheek, then trailed down her neck—slow, deliberate. The Lust surged through the touch, stronger this time. Not overwhelming, but enough to flood her core with heat.
She gasped, body jerking. Dough forgotten. Thighs clenched hard—I heard the wet squish of her pussy lips sliding together under the skirt, soaked through.
"Kael..." Breathless warning.
I pulled back, smiling. "Just helping with the flour."
Her eyes darkened with frustration and hunger. "You're cruel."
"Only making it better."
The morning brought more village tension. Word spread: Old Marta's last son was worsening from the poison—black bile, fever dreams. Blackwaters whispered of retaliation. Greysons sharpened blades openly.
I helped Mira again—stacking firewood, scrubbing tables. Every task: proximity.
In the storeroom: shelves tight, bodies brushing constantly. I reached past her for sacks, chest pressing to her back, cock—hard and thick—nestling against her ass cleft through clothes. She pushed back instinctively, grinding once before catching herself.
"Please," she whispered, voice breaking.
"Not yet."
She whimpered, turning. Face inches away, lips trembling. I could smell her arousal thick now—musky, fertile, dripping down her thighs.
Afternoon: a fight broke out near the mill. Fists, then knives. I waded in—not fighting, just pulling men apart with my new strength. Earned grudging respect. Bruised knuckles, but no blood on me.
Mira watched from the inn door, worry etching her face. When I returned, she fussed over me—cleaning a cut on my brow with a damp cloth, body pressed close. Breasts crushed to my chest, hips aligning with mine.
"You're mad," she murmured, but her free hand gripped my shirt, pulling me nearer.
"Protecting what's worth it," I replied, hands settling on her wide hips. Squeezed gently.
She moaned softly, grinding forward. My cock throbbed against her belly, pre-cum soaking through trousers.
Evening patrons came wary—fewer tonight, feud simmering. Mira served distracted, spilling drinks, thighs slick and shining under her skirt when she thought no one saw.
Last customer left early, muttering about gathering storms.
She locked the door, hands shaking. Turned to me—eyes wild, chest heaving.
"Enough," she said, voice raw. "I can't... ache like this. Years without a man, and you... gods, Kael, I need you."
I stood slowly, approaching. "Beg."
She dropped to her knees right there, flour-dusted hands clutching my thighs. "Please. Fuck me. Fill me. I've been dripping since you arrived—pussy throbbing, clit swollen. Need your cock inside."
Perfect.
I hauled her up, crushing her mouth to mine. Lips soft, full—tongue desperate, tasting of ale and need. Hands roamed: gripping her heavy breasts through blouse, thumbs circling thick nipples. She moaned into my kiss, body melting.
Tore the laces open. Blouse fell away—breasts spilling free. Massive, pale, veined faintly blue. Dark areolas wide as coins, nipples fat and erect, begging.
"Fuck," I growled, burying my face between them. Sucked one deep, tongue lashing the peak. Hand kneading the other, milk-heavy feel even without lactation.
She cried out, fingers tangling in my hair. "Yes—suck them hard. Been so long..."
I obliged—biting gently, pulling with teeth until she shuddered. Switched sides, lavishing worship.
Pushed her against the bar, hiking skirt up. No undergarments—practical widow. Thighs thick and trembling, slick trails down inner legs.
Her pussy: gods. Mature, swollen lips framed by auburn curls, pink inner folds glistening, dripping copiously. Clit hooded and fat, pulsing.
"Beautiful," I murmured, dropping to knees. Spread her thighs wider.
First taste: tongue flat, lapping from entrance to clit. Tangy nectar flooded my mouth—years of pent-up flavor, rich and heady.
She screamed softly, hips bucking. "Oh gods—there!"
I devoured her. Tongue fucking deep, curling to hit that spot. Nose buried in curls, inhaling musk. Fingers spread her lips wider, exposing pink depths clenching hungrily.
Sucked her clit hard—flicking, circling. Two fingers plunged in—tight, velvety heat gripping instantly. Soaked walls fluttered.
"Cumming—" she wailed, thighs clamping my head.
First orgasm crashed: pussy squirting in arcs, soaking my face, chin dripping. Body shook violently, breasts heaving.
I didn't stop. Added third finger, stretching her. Tongue relentless on clit.
Second orgasm faster—deeper cries, nails scraping my shoulders.
Stood then, stripping fast. Cock sprang free: thick shaft veined, head flared and purple, pre-cum beading.
Her eyes widened. "So big... gonna ruin me."
"That's the plan."
Bent her over the bar. Ass presented—thick globes parting to show slick pussy and tight pink asshole.
Gripped hips, sank in slow.
Inch by inch: tight heat enveloping, walls rippling in welcome. She stretched around me, milking greedily.
"Fuck—full," she moaned. "Deeper!"
Buried balls-deep. Held, grinding.
Then pounded.
Rough thrusts—hair pulling, ass slapping red. Breasts swinging, nipples scraping wood.
"Harder—yes, like that!"
Third orgasm: pussy clenching vise-like, squirting around my cock.
Pulled out, spun her. Lifted onto bar—legs spread wide.
Re-entered missionary style, breasts in hands. Sucked as I thrust deep, slow now—building again.
Praise and degradation: "Good girl—so wet for stranger's cock. Slutty widow pussy milking me. Gonna fill you."
She begged: "Breed me—cum inside!"
Fourth: slower build, overstimulation making her sob with pleasure.
Carried her upstairs then—still impaled, bouncing on my cock as I climbed. She came fifth on the stairs, walls spasming.
In bed: round after round.
Reverse cowgirl—ass clapping, watching her ride, cheeks jiggling.
Doggy—pounding until sixth orgasm, squirting mess on sheets.
Missionary deep—kissing as I flooded her. Thick ropes painting pink walls white, overflowing down ass.
Collapsed spent—body glowing, pussy gaping slightly, cum leaking.
But not done. Over next hours: slow oral worship—her sucking me clean, deepthroating with tears of effort. Me eating creampie from her folds.
Seventh? No—counted five full penetrations, but sessions blended.
The Lust purred, stronger—fed well, but controlled. No corruption edge yet.
She curled against me after, tracing my chest. "Never... like that. Thought I'd die happy."
I kissed her forehead. "More tomorrow."
But dawn brought news: feud escalating. Red Willem's men at the mill gates. Threat of burn.
I'd stay longer—worship her more, perhaps draw another MILF into the heat if opportunity arose.
But Mira... she was hooked now. Dripping pink pussy mine for a few more days.
The mill wheel turned outside.
So did the hunger.