The night exploded in fire and screams.
Torches arced over the River Murk like falling stars, splashing into the thatch of Blackwater barns. Greyson war cries split the air—hoarse, hate-filled roars mingled with the snarling of throat-trained dogs and the thunderous bellow of Red Willem's dire boar Princess crashing through fences. Steel clashed on steel; a Blackwater cousin fell gurgling, throat opened by a sellsword blade. Flour sacks burst in white clouds as arrows thudded home. The mill wheel kept its patient groan, unmoved by the chaos, water sluicing black stone in rhythmic sheets that masked the wetter sounds of spilling blood.
Liam moved through the fray like a shadow, disguised as the mysterious "Flour Man"—face hidden, body dusted ghostly white. He felled two Greyson attackers with precise strikes, hypnosis unnecessary on men already lost to rage. Marta, billhook flashing, cleaved a dog's skull beside him, her freshly claimed body still humming from his seed, eyes fierce with protective fire. Lyna sharpened knives in the loft above, ready to rain death.
But the raid broke against Blackwater desperation. Greysons retreated across the river at dawn, leaving three corpses and a trail of wounded howling. The mill stood, scorched but unbroken. Yet victory tasted bitter—two more Blackwaters dead, wells likely poisoned again by morning.
In the smoky aftermath, amid the acrid stench of burned thatch and fresh gore, the call went out for the hedge witch.
Elara.
She lived deep in the tangled woods bordering the valley, a woman of fifty-two winters who played both families like fiddles, selling nightshade to Greysons one day and antidotes to Blackwaters the next. Neutral no longer—she'd grown rich on their hatred, her hut bursting with silver looted from fools who thought coin bought loyalty.
Liam volunteered to fetch her, slipping away as Marta pressed a flour-streaked kiss to his mouth, her heavy breasts brushing his chest with lingering promise. "Bring her quick," she rasped, voice thick. "And return to me… I'm still dripping for you."
The woods closed around him, damp leaves muffling his steps, air thick with moss and rot. Night birds cried overhead. The path twisted until her hut appeared—a crooked timber shack wreathed in herb smoke, windows glowing amber. The scent hit him first: pungent rosemary, sharp mint, earthy valerian, undercut by something darker—widow's tears boiling, perhaps.
He knocked. The door creaked open on its own.
Elara stood framed in steam and firelight, wild gray-streaked hair cascading over shoulders broad from years of mortar-pounding. Her body was a fertile promise: enormous breasts straining a loose herbal-stained robe, nipples dark shadows poking through damp fabric from the hut's heat. Hips flared wide beneath a cinched belt, leading to thick thighs and an ass so plush it shifted with every breath, robe clinging to the deep cleft. Sweat glistened on her weathered skin, tracing rivulets down her deep cleavage. The air around her throbbed with herbal steam and the faint, unmistakable musk of a woman who spent lonely nights with her own fingers.
"Stranger," she purred, voice smoky as her brews. Eyes sharp, green as nightshade berries. "Come for healing… or something else?"
Liam stepped inside, door shutting behind him. The hut was a sensory assault: bubbling cauldrons hissing steam that carried sharp, bitter scents; drying bundles of herbs brushing his shoulders, releasing bursts of lavender and thyme; the crackle of hearth fire painting her curves in dancing gold. Heat pressed close, sweat already beading on his skin.
He met her gaze, hypnosis weaving slow threads. Days of distant glimpses across the village had seeded it; now it bloomed.
"You feel the heat, Elara," he murmured, voice low over the bubbles. "Not just from your pots. Deeper. Aching."
Her breath caught. Nipples stiffened visibly, thick peaks tenting the robe. A flush crept up her neck, sweat trickling faster between her breasts. She shifted, thighs rubbing together with a faint wet sound.
"Bold words," she whispered, but didn't back away. Instead, she turned to stir a cauldron, robe riding up to reveal the lower curve of her magnificent ass—plush cheeks dimpled, skin glistening.
Tension coiled like the steam. Liam closed the distance slowly, hands settling on her wide hips. She stilled, spoon dripping thick green brew.
"I've watched you," he growled against her ear, inhaling her scent—herbs, smoke, and now the blooming tang of arousal. "Selling death and life. But what do you crave for yourself?"
His palms slid up, cupping her massive breasts through damp fabric. Heavy, overflowing, soft flesh yielding warm and slick with sweat. Thumbs brushed stiff nipples; she gasped, back arching to press harder into his grip.
"Gods… it's been years," she moaned, voice trembling as robe ties loosened under his fingers.
Fabric parted. Her tits spilled free—enormous pale globes veined with blue, sagging ripely with age and weight, capped by wide dark areolas puckered tight around fat nipples beaded with sweat drops. He kneaded slowly, feeling them throb, flesh bulging between his fingers like warm dough infused with herbal steam.
Elara turned, robe falling open completely. Her body bared: soft belly rounded from rich meals, hips flared dramatically, thighs thick and trembling. And between them—his obsession made real. Plump outer lips framing glistening pink folds already swollen thick, inner petals blooming open with need. Thick strands of creamy arousal stretched as she parted her stance, juices trailing in shiny rivulets down her inner thighs, pooling at her knees. The scent flooded the hut—rich, tangy musk overpowering the herbs, intoxicating.
"So wet already," he groaned, dropping to his knees on the packed-earth floor. Hands spread her thighs wider, thumbs parting slick lips to expose her fully: clit engorged and throbbing, pink entrance clenching hungrily, dripping fresh nectar in slow drops.
He dove in. Nose buried in her musky heat, tongue lapping broad stripes through sopping folds, savoring the flood—tangy-sweet, thick as honey, coating his tongue and chin. She bucked, herbal bundles rustling overhead as she gripped a beam. Wet slurps echoed over cauldron bubbles; his lips sucked her folds, pulling them into his mouth, then speared deep—tongue-fucking her velvety walls while nose ground her clit.
Elara's moans rose, husky and desperate. "More… drink me dry…"
Fingers joined—two thick digits curling inside scorching heat, stroking spongy ridges as juices squirted lightly with each thrust, soaking his hand and splattering the floor. Thumb circled her clit in slippery rhythm until she shattered—thighs clamping his head, pussy convulsing in hot spasms, gushing floods onto his face in tangy waves.
He rose, cock freed—throbbing shaft slick with precum, veins pulsing. Elara gripped it greedily, stroking with herbal-oil fingers, eyes glazed.
He bent her over the brewing table, cauldron steam wafting around them. That legendary ass presented: plush cheeks parting to reveal her quivering pink cunt, lips puffy and dripping endlessly.
Slow, teasing entry—thick head parting slick folds, stretching her tight entrance with obscene wet sounds. Inch by inch into paradise: walls rippling, sucking him deeper, cream frothing white at his base.
The rhythm built amid sensory chaos: flesh slapping wetly over bubbling potions; her ass rippling in endless waves, cheeks reddening from impacts; herbal steam coating their sweat-slick skin; her massive tits swinging, slapping the table with each thrust.
He mauled them from behind—pinching fat nipples until she whimpered—while pounding deeper. Her pussy clenched rhythmically, another climax crashing: walls spasming, squirting hard around his shaft, soaking his balls in hot nectar that mingled with spilled brew on the floor.
Liam roared, burying to the hilt—thick ropes erupting, flooding her womb until seed overflowed in creamy rivulets down her trembling thighs.
They collapsed against the table, panting amid steam and scents. Round two followed on a pile of herb-strewn furs—her riding him slowly, breasts bouncing hypnotically in firelight, pink pussy swallowing his length with wet gulps and squelches, until mutual release left them drenched in sweat, seed, and juices.
Elara, now his utterly, whispered against his chest, "I'll brew what you need… poisons turned to peace, or desire. The feud bends to you now."
But as distant shouts echoed from the valley—Red Willem rallying for a final push—Liam smiled.
The matrons were his. Soon, the entire blood-soaked valley would kneel in wet, willing surrender.