The mill's wheel groaned through the night, a relentless rhythm that echoed the pulse in Liam's veins. Flour hung thick in the air, coating everything in ghostly white—sacks, beams, even the bloodstains from last week's ambush. The scent was everywhere: warm grain, damp stone, and beneath it the metallic tang of old hatred, sharpened by fresh nightshade from the latest Greyson poisoning.
Old Marta Blackwater did not sleep. At seventy-three winters, sleep was a luxury stolen by ghosts—seventeen dead kin whispering in the dark. She sat in the mill's upper chamber, billhook across her lap, missing three fingers on her left hand from a Greyson blade decades ago. Yet her body defied the years: broad hips from birthing eight, breasts still heavy and full beneath her flour-streaked smock, sagging with ripe weight but capped with thick nipples that stiffened at the slightest chill. Her ass was a wide, plush cushion from years grinding at the stones, thighs thick and strong. And hidden beneath coarse skirts—a secret even she barely acknowledged anymore—a plump pink pussy that still wept slick arousal in fevered dreams, untouched for twenty years since her husband's throat was cut.
Liam had watched her for days, hypnosis seeded in stolen glances across the river or through mill slats. Each time their eyes met, he whispered suggestions into her mind: *Warmth. Curiosity. A deep, aching need long buried.*
Tonight, the feud's tension peaked. Word had come at dusk—Red Willem's dire boar had mauled a Blackwater teenager near the maypole, leaving the boy gutted and gasping. Marta's remaining kin raged below, sharpening blades, but she sent them to patrol. Alone now, she felt it: a burning heat low in her belly, nipples chafing against rough fabric, a shameful wetness seeping between her thighs.
The door creaked. Liam stepped in, disguised no longer—just himself, flour-dusted from helping Lyna earlier, cock already half-hard from the scent of her lingering cream on his skin.
Marta's sharp eyes narrowed, billhook rising. "You. The stranger who beds my kin like a fox in the henhouse. State your business before I gut you."
But her voice wavered. The hypnosis coiled deeper as he met her gaze.
"You feel it, Marta," he said softly, stepping closer. The air thickened with her scent—aged skin, flour, and now the musky bloom of arousal, tangy and rich. "That fire inside. It's been too long. Let me ease it."
Her breath hitched. The billhook lowered an inch. "Witchcraft… or poison."
"No poison," he murmured, close enough now to smell the sweat beading in her deep cleavage, visible where her smock gaped. "Just truth. You're still a woman. Ripe. Needing."
He reached out slowly, fingers brushing her weathered cheek. She didn't flinch. Instead, a shudder ran through her, nipples peaking visibly—thick, dark nubs straining the fabric like ripe berries.
The tension snapped slowly, deliciously. Marta dropped the billhook with a clatter. Her gnarled hands—strong despite missing fingers—grabbed his shirt, pulling him into a fierce kiss. Lips surprisingly soft, tasting of rye and salt, tongue hungry as a girl's.
Liam groaned, hands roaming. He cupped her massive breasts through the smock—heavy, overflowing even his large palms, soft flesh yielding like warm dough. Thumbs circled the stiff peaks, feeling them throb under the rough weave.
"Gods, these tits," he growled against her mouth. "So full… been dreaming of sucking them dry."
Marta whimpered—a sound shocking from the iron matriarch—hips grinding forward instinctively. He yanked the smock open. Buttons popped, fabric tearing. Her breasts spilled free: enormous pale globes sagging with mature gravity, veined faintly, stretching nearly to her navel. Wide brown areolas puckered around fat nipples, thick as his thumb, already leaking tiny beads of clear fluid from long-dormant arousal.
He buried his face between them, inhaling deeply—warm skin dusted with flour, faint milky sweetness beneath the grain. His tongue lapped the salty valley, then latched onto one nipple. Sucking hard, teeth grazing gently, drawing out muffled moans as he nursed like a starving man. The other breast he kneaded roughly, flesh bulging between his fingers, nipple pinched and rolled until it darkened further.
Marta's hands clawed his back. "Lower… touch me lower, boy. It's dripping… aching."
He obliged, dropping to his knees on the flour-strewn floor. Skirts hiked slowly, teasing. Her thighs parted—thick, dimpled pillars trembling with need. No undergarments; just coarse hair framing her secret.
There it was: her pussy, plump and pink despite decades, outer lips swollen thick with blood, inner folds glistening like fresh petals slick with dew. Thick strands of arousal stretched as she shifted, the scent hitting him full force—rich, womanly musk, tangy and fertile, mixed with flour's sweetness. Juices already trailed down her inner thighs, soaking the creases.
"Fuck, Marta… look at this cunt. Soaked through. Dripping like a ripe fruit."
He spread her wide with thumbs, exposing the glistening pink fully. Clit engorged, peeking hoodless, throbbing visibly. He leaned in, nose brushing her clit, inhaling her essence until his head spun.
First lick: broad and slow, from dripping entrance to clit, savoring the flood of tangy nectar coating his tongue. She bucked, a guttural cry echoing over the mill wheel's groan.
He devoured her—tongue spearing deep into velvety heat, walls fluttering weakly at first then clenching greedily. Juices squirted lightly with each thrust of his tongue, soaking his chin, dripping to the floor in obscene plops. His lips sucked her folds, pulling them into his mouth, then focused on the clit—flicking, circling, sucking until her thighs clamped his head.
Marta came explosively—body seizing, pussy gushing hot floods onto his face, walls spasming as decades of pent-up need shattered. She roared his name, fingers digging into his scalp.
But he rose, freeing his cock—thick shaft veined and throbbing, head purple and leaking precum. Marta's eyes glazed with hypnotic lust as she gripped it, stroking roughly. "Inside me… fill this old cunt."
He bent her over a flour sack, that legendary ass presented: wide, plush cheeks dusted white, parting to reveal her still-quivering pink slit, juices puddling beneath.
Slow entry—head parting slick lips, stretching her tight entrance. Despite age, she gripped like velvet fire, walls rippling in welcome. Inch by thick inch he sank, her cream frothing around his base, squelching wetly.
The rhythm built: long, deep thrusts matching the mill wheel's splash. Flesh slapped—her ass rippling endlessly, cheeks reddening from impacts. Flour puffed with every plunge, coating their sweat-slick skin.
He reached under, mauling her swinging tits—pinching nipples until fresh beads leaked—while pounding harder. Her pussy clenched rhythmically, another orgasm building.
"Cum for me again, Marta. Milk my cock with that dripping hole."
She shattered once more—walls convulsing, squirting hard around his shaft, soaking his balls and thighs in hot nectar.
Liam followed with a bellow, burying to the hilt and erupting—thick ropes of seed flooding her womb, overflowing to mix with her cream in sticky rivulets down her legs.
They collapsed amid the flour, panting, bodies glued with sweat and fluids. Round two came slower—her straddling him on the floor, massive breasts bouncing hypnotically as she rode, pink pussy swallowing his length with wet, obscene gulps, until mutual climax left them drenched and spent.
Marta, matriarch no longer just of blood, whispered against his chest, "The feud… perhaps it ends differently now."
But outside, shouts rose—Greyson torches approaching the mill. The violence escalated.
Liam smiled. With Marta claimed, both sides' women were his. Soon, the entire valley would kneel—not in death, but desire.