Snow hammered the thatched roof like impatient fists as night swallowed Miller's Ford. The mill wheel's creak had slowed to a weary groan, muffled by the storm. Inside the bakery, the ovens had cooled to glowing embers, casting flickering orange light across the flour-dusted floor. The shouts from earlier had died away—either the feudists had retreated to their hearths or were plotting in the dark.
He latched the front door, sliding the heavy iron bar into place. Mira watched from the stairs, a single tallow candle in her hand. The flame painted gold across her flushed cheeks and the generous swell of her breasts rising with each quick breath. She'd changed into a simple nightshift—thin wool, undyed, clinging to her curves from the day's lingering damp. Her nipples stood proud against the fabric, dark shadows begging for his mouth.
"Upstairs," she whispered, voice trembling with equal parts nerves and need. "Before I change my mind."
He followed, eyes locked on the sway of her wide hips, the way her thick ass shifted with each step. The narrow staircase creaked under their weight. Her scent trailed behind her—warm bread, woodsmoke, and the rich, heady musk of a woman long denied. His cock throbbed, already leaking pre-cum into his trousers.
Her room was small, cozy, dominated by a straw mattress piled with quilts and a single window rattling in the wind. She set the candle on a crate, then turned to him, arms wrapped around herself as if holding back.
"I haven't… not since him," she admitted softly. "Five years. Thought I'd forgotten how."
He stepped close, cupping her face in both hands. Her skin was fever-hot. "You haven't forgotten," he murmured. "Your body remembers. I can feel it."
Her eyes widened—half surprise, half relief. The pulse of her arousal crashed over him like a wave: slick heat flooding her cunt, clit swollen and aching, nipples tightening further.
He kissed her slowly, reverently, tasting the faint salt of her lips. She melted against him with a whimper, hands clutching his shirt. He deepened it, tongue stroking hers, while his palms slid down to grip her ass—full, plush handfuls that overflowed his grasp. He squeezed, pulling her tight against his hardness. She gasped into his mouth, grinding instinctively, soaking her shift with fresh wetness.
"Gods, you're perfect," he growled against her neck, nipping the soft skin there. "These curves… this ass… made for worship."
She moaned, arching as he kneaded her flesh. He tugged the shift higher, baring her thighs—thick, soft, marked faintly with silver lines that only made him harder. His fingers traced them like sacred script.
"Beautiful," he said. "Every mark. Every inch."
The shift came off over her head in one slow pull. Candlelight bathed her naked body: heavy breasts swaying free, dark nipples thick and erect; soft belly curving to wide hips; a thatch of auburn curls above plump, glistening lips. Her pink cunt was already dripping—shiny threads of arousal coating her inner thighs.
He dropped to his knees.
Mira's breath hitched. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," he said, voice rough with devotion. "I need to taste you."
He spread her thighs gently, inhaling deeply—musky, sweet, intoxicating. Her folds were swollen, pink petals parting to reveal slick heat. He pressed a kiss to one thigh, then the other, working inward until his tongue finally stroked up her slit.
She cried out, hands fisting in his hair. He lapped slowly, savoring every drop—tangy, rich, the flavor of a mature woman in full bloom. His tongue circled her clit, flicking lightly, then delved inside her clenching entrance. She was velvet and fire, walls fluttering around the intrusion.
"Good girl," he praised, voice muffled against her. "So wet for me. Dripping down my chin."
Mira bucked, thighs trembling. He pinned her hips to the wall, sucking her clit firmly while two fingers slid into her soaked cunt—curling, stroking that sensitive spot that made her sob. She came hard, sudden and shattering, squirting against his tongue as her body convulsed.
He didn't stop. Lapped her through it, drawing out every aftershock until she sagged, oversensitive.
"Please," she gasped. "Inside me… need you inside."
He rose, stripping quickly. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, head glistening. Her eyes darkened with hunger.
"On the bed," he ordered softly. "Ass up. Let me see that pretty pink pussy."
She obeyed, kneeling on the quilts, presenting herself. Her ass was glorious—round, plush, cheeks spreading to reveal her dripping hole clenching eagerly.
He gripped her hips, sliding the head through her folds, coating himself. Then he pushed in—slow, relentless. She was tight, hot, gripping him like a vice despite her arousal.
"Fuck," he groaned. "So perfect. Milking me already."
He bottomed out, balls against her clit. She moaned his name—whatever name he'd given, it didn't matter. He pulled back, slammed home. Again. Harder.
The rhythm built: skin slapping, wet sounds filling the room, her breasts swinging with each thrust. He reached around, pinching her nipples, rolling them roughly.
"Take it, Mira. Take every inch. This cunt was made for me."
She pushed back, meeting him, babbling praise and pleas. He felt her building again—walls fluttering.
He nudged the Sin—just a thread of power, amplifying her pleasure. Her arousal spiked, cunt gushing around him.
She came again, screaming into the quilt, squirting down his balls.
Round one spilled deep inside her—hot ropes painting her womb as he growled about breeding her, filling her up.
But he stayed hard. The Sin thrummed, stamina endless.
Round two: He flipped her onto her back, legs over his shoulders, pounding deep while sucking her nipples raw. She clawed his back, coming twice more—overstimulated, tears of ecstasy on her cheeks.
"Too much," she whimpered.
"Not enough," he countered, thumb on her clit. "Good slut. Give me another."
She did—squirting so hard it soaked the quilts.
Round three: Her riding him, heavy breasts bouncing in his face. He worshipped them—sucking, biting, burying his face in soft flesh while she ground her clit against him.
Round four: Against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, hair pulled back as he rutted like an animal.
Round five: Slow, face-to-face on the bed. Kissing deeply, whispering praise—how beautiful she was, how perfectly she took him, how he'd never forget her taste.
She came softly this time, clinging, whispering thanks.
Round six: From behind again, lazy but deep, his hand between her legs until she shuddered through one final, exhausted orgasm. He followed, pumping the last of his seed into her overflowing cunt.
They collapsed, sweat-slick and breathless. He held her close, stroking her hair as aftershocks rippled through her. Cum leaked from her well-fucked pussy, mixing with her own juices on the sheets.
"You're a miracle," she murmured sleepily, nestled against his chest.
He smiled into her hair, the Sin quiet but satisfied—for now. A faint warmth lingered in his veins, the first hint of deeper rooting. He'd used it sparingly. Good.
Outside, the storm raged on. But somewhere in the village, boots crunched through snow—many boots. Voices low and purposeful.
The feud wasn't sleeping.
And tomorrow, decisions would come.
For tonight, though, he had worshipped his first MILF of this world. Thoroughly.