Ragnar and Val finally reached the outskirts of the tribe's settlement as the afternoon sun dipped lower, painting the thatched roofs and dirt paths in warm amber hues.
Dust clung to their boots from the long hunt, and the weight of the slain boar still pulled at Val's broad shoulders.
Ragnar clapped a hand on his companion's back. "Take the boar to the butcher's stall and sell what you can. Meet me back at the house later, I have something to handle first."
Val gave a short nod, hefting the massive carcass higher onto his shoulder without complaint.
He turned in the opposite direction, his heavy footsteps fading down the wider market path.
Ragnar's lips curved into a slow, private smirk.
He adjusted the strap of his leather satchel and started across the village at an easy stride, eyes scanning the familiar faces and huddled doorways.
The tribe had its unspoken rules, and one of them was clear: milfs were unwanted, shunned, left to scrape by on the edges of everything.
He passed one now, a full-figured woman curled asleep against the roadside wall, her generous hips and thick thighs barely covered by a threadbare shawl.
Homeless. Forgotten. He shook his head once and kept walking. She wasn't his concern today.
His goal had a name, and he knew exactly where to find her.
The shared well sat near the center of the tribe, its stone rim worn smooth by generations of hands.
And there she was, Leila, struggling alone with a pair of heavy wooden buckets. Her simple dress, already threadbare from years of use, clung to her sweat-slicked skin like a second layer.
Each pull on the rope made her body sway: full, heavy breasts straining against the damp fabric, nipples faintly visible through the wet cloth, wide hips rolling with every heave.
Water sloshed over the rim and ran in rivulets down her cleavage, tracing glistening paths over the generous curves of her ass as she shifted her weight.
Ragnar's pulse kicked harder just watching her.
He closed the distance with deliberate steps. "Hello, Leila."
She startled slightly, turning her head.
Strands of dark hair stuck to her flushed cheek. Recognition flickered in her eyes, followed by a small, surprised smile. "Ragnar. Hello."
He returned the greeting with a nod, but inside his mind turned.
How easily she spoke to him, warm, unguarded, when the rest of the tribe either ignored her or spat insults to her face.
The reason she didn't remember him having sex with her was simple: it was mainly because of alcohol.
She didn't remember how she moaned loudly in his ears as he entered her.
She didn't remember the way her thighs had clamped around his waist, or how her massive breasts had bounced with every thrust.
To her, he was simply the one young man who didn't treat her like dirt.
That made this almost too easy.
Ragnar let his gaze linger on her a moment longer, then smirked and began to walk past her, slow and casual.
"Wait, " Her voice caught. She bit her full lower lip, hesitating.
"Is it… too much trouble to ask for help with these buckets? Just to the house?"
He stopped, turning back to face her. Inside, triumph curled warm in his chest.
"Of course I can help," he said smoothly. "But everything has a price, Leila. You'll have to accept my condition."
Her brows drew together. "What condition?"
Ragnar stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the clean sweat on her skin mixed with the faint mineral scent of well water.
He kept his voice low. "Let me squeeze those beautiful breasts of yours. Five minutes. That's all."
Leila's eyes widened. Color flooded her cheeks. "That's unbelievable! What?"
"Too bad." He shrugged and started walking again, unhurried. "Your choice."
She made a frustrated little grunt, boots scuffing the dirt as she hurried after him.
"Wait, Ragnar, please." Her voice dropped, reluctant. She glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to overhear.
Internally she was screaming at herself: 'If I don't bring water back, there'll be no food for me tonight. Again.'
The thought twisted in her gut. She looked up at him, really looked.
At the sharp line of his jaw, the easy confidence in his shoulders, the way his eyes seemed to drink her in without apology.
She swallowed. "…Fine. I'll do it. But not here. Somewhere private. In the far corner of the forest."
Ragnar's smile was slow and satisfied. "I know the perfect place. Follow me after we deliver the water."
She nodded once. Her heavy breasts swayed gently with the motion, the soaked dress pulling even tighter across them.
Without another word, Ragnar bent and gripped both buckets by their rope handles.
They were brutally heavy, even for him, but manageable.
He lifted them smoothly and started toward her house, Leila falling into step at his side.
He stole glances at her as they walked. From this angle her profile was devastating:
the elegant line of her throat, the way her full lips parted slightly with each breath, the obscene swell of her breasts and hips outlined perfectly by the clinging fabric.
Every step made her curves shift and bounce in a rhythm that sent heat straight to his groin. Blood pounded in his ears.
Leila felt his stare like a physical touch.
Shame burned in her chest, she had no other clothes, nothing dry to change into, but beneath the shame was something darker, something dangerous.
Being wanted so openly by a man this young… it stirred feelings she hadn't allowed herself.
"You really are beautiful, you know," Ragnar said quietly, almost conversationally.
Her face flamed. She quickly turned it to the side, crossing her arms beneath her breasts in a futile attempt to hide.
The motion only lifted and pressed them higher, deepening the shadowed valley of her cleavage until it looked almost obscene.
Ragnar's inner smile widened. *So that's her weakness. Getting praised*
They reached the small, weathered house at last. He set the buckets carefully on the doorstep.
"Wait here a moment," she murmured, slipping inside.
A minute later she emerged, still in the same clinging, damp dress.
No change. No escape. She met his eyes for a brief second, then dropped her gaze.
Ragnar turned and started toward the forest outskirts without a word.
Leila followed him from behind, heart hammering, the sway of her hips and the gentle bounce of her breasts marking every step behind him.
The trees soon swallowed them both, and the village sounds faded until there was only the rustle of leaves, their breathing, and the thick, electric tension building between them.