Dawn broke bloody over Miller's Ford, the River Murk running thick with silt and the faint pink of washed-away gore from the night's skirmishes. The air reeked of charred wood, wet ash, and the sharp, acrid bite of fresh manure from Greyson livestock penned in defiance. Dogs barked ceaselessly, throats raw, while the distant bellow of Princess the dire boar echoed like thunder—Red Willem's pet, tusks stained from last night's mauling.
Liam crossed the river under cover of Elara's mist potion, a swirling herbal vapor that clung to his skin like cool sweat, masking scent and sound. Disguised as a scarred Greyson sellsword—one of the Border War veterans—he slipped into their fortified farmstead: a cluster of stone-and-thatch buildings ringed by sharpened stakes, smoke rising thin and wary from cookfires.
The Greysons prepared for war. Men sharpened blades with rhythmic scrapes that set Liam's teeth on edge. Women boiled pitch and mended armor, faces grim beneath soot. And at the center, barking orders with a voice like gravel: Mira Greyson, Red Willem's wife.
Forty-five winters had ripened her into perfection. Tall and broad-hipped from bearing five children, her body moved with purposeful sway beneath a simple wool dress stained with field dirt. Massive breasts strained the bodice, heavy and full even after nursing, cleavage deep and glistening with sweat from the morning's labors. Her ass was a wide, plush masterpiece—cheeks shifting hypnotically as she hauled water buckets, fabric clinging to the damp cleft. Auburn hair tied back revealed a strong neck flushed pink, and her scent carried on the breeze: warm skin, faint milk-sweetness lingering in her pores, earth from the fields, and beneath it all the subtle, growing musk of a woman stretched thin by feud and neglect—Willem too consumed by hate for tender nights.
Liam's cock throbbed slowly, a persistent ache as he watched her. Hypnosis seeds planted weeks ago in passing glances across the river now waited to bloom. He lingered near the well, "helping" haul buckets, brushing close enough for her to feel his heat.
Mira's eyes—storm-gray, sharp as her husband's burned scars—met his briefly. A flicker: warmth unexplained, nipples tightening against damp wool. She shook it off, but her thighs pressed together subtly, a faint wet sound lost in the farm's clamor.
The day dragged in tense slow burn. Liam worked among them, hypnosis weaving deeper with each shared glance, each murmured word. "You feel drawn to me," he'd whispered earlier across the river; now it rooted. Mira sought him out unnecessarily—handing tools, brushing arms that lingered a heartbeat too long. Sweat beaded between her breasts, trickling slow paths down the valley visible at her bent posture. Her breath quickened when near, scent blooming richer—arousal's tangy undercurrent mixing with earth and smoke.
By dusk, as Willem roared orders for the night watch—his half-burned face twisted in rage, oblivious—Mira slipped away to the hayloft above the barns. Ostensibly to check stores, but her steps faltered, body humming with implanted need.
Liam followed, the loft's air thick with dry hay's sweet scratch, dust motes dancing in slanted sunset light, muffled sounds of the farm below—clanging metal, snorting boar—heightening the illicit thrill.
She turned as he climbed the ladder, eyes wide but glazed. "You… shouldn't be here."
But her voice trembled, nipples peaking hard against fabric, thighs shifting with audible slickness.
He closed the distance slowly, tension coiling like the hay's faint itch on skin. Hands settled on her hips—wide, warm through wool. She shuddered but didn't pull away.
"I've watched you, Mira," he murmured, breath hot on her neck, inhaling her deepened scent: sweat-salted skin, faint hay, and the flooding musk from between her legs. "So strong… so ripe. Aching inside."
A soft whimper escaped. His palms slid up, cupping her enormous breasts—heavy orbs yielding soft and full, thumbs brushing stiff peaks until fabric rasped audibly. Heat radiated through wool, nipples throbbing under his slow circles.
"Too long neglected," he growled, lips grazing her ear. "Let me worship what he ignores."
The dress unlaced slowly, teasing—fabric peeling away inch by inch. Her tits spilled free at last: massive pale globes veined blue, sagging ripely with mature weight nearly to her waist, capped by wide pink-brown areolas puckered tight around thick nipples beaded with sweat and faint milky residue from old motherhood.
He buried his face slowly, inhaling deeply—warm flesh dusted with hay flecks, salty-sweet skin. Tongue traced the deep valley first, lapping trickled sweat, then latched onto one nipple. Sucking gentle at first, drawing out muffled moans as he nursed deeper, teeth grazing lightly, feeling it swell fatter in his mouth. The other breast kneaded slow—flesh bulging warm between fingers, nipple rolled until she arched, pressing harder.
Mira's hands tangled in his hair, hips grinding air. "Lower… gods, it's soaking through…"
Skirts hiked gradually, building agony. Thighs parted—thick pillars trembling, inner skin slick already. No barriers; just her secret bared in golden light.
Her pussy: plump outer lips swollen thick with blood, framing glistening pink folds blooming open like wet petals. Inner lips puffy and parted naturally, revealing throbbing clit and dripping entrance—thick strands of creamy arousal stretching long as she shifted, juices trailing shiny paths down thighs, pooling in hay below. Scent overwhelmed: rich, tangy womanly musk, fertile and desperate, cutting through hay's sweetness.
"So drenched," he groaned, thumbs parting her wider—obscene wet sounds as folds clung stickily. Clit pulsed visibly; entrance clenched hungrily, fresh nectar weeping slow drops.
On his knees in prickly hay, he leaned in gradual—nose brushing her clit first, inhaling until dizzy. First lick: agonizingly slow, broad tongue dragging from dripping hole to clit, savoring thick flood—tangy-sweet cream coating his tongue heavy. She bucked softly, moan stifled against her arm.
He devoured languidly: tongue circling clit in lazy spirals, then spearing deep—velvety walls fluttering, sucking him in as juices squirted lightly, soaking chin and hay. Lips sucked folds gently, pulling them into mouth with wet pops, thumb tracing entrance without entering yet.
Tension peaked eternal until she shattered slow—thighs quivering, pussy convulsing in waves, gushing hot nectar onto his face in tangy pulses, body shaking as muffled cries echoed softly.
He rose unhurried, cock freed—throbbing thick, head slick with precum. Mira gripped it reverently, stroking slow with hay-rough hands, eyes hypnotic-lost.
Bent over hay bales, skirts bunched—ass presented plush and wide, cheeks parting to reveal quivering pink slit dripping endlessly, strands snapping as she spread.
Entry torturously slow: thick head parting slick lips with wet schlick, stretching tight heat inch by inch. Walls rippled welcome, cream frothing creamy at base as he sank fully—balls nestling against her clit.
Rhythm built gradual: long, deep strokes pulling almost out—lips clinging visibly—then gliding home with squelching gulps. Hay scratched skin; flesh slapped softly at first, her ass rippling in slow waves. Scents mingled—hay, sweat, flooding musk; sounds layered—wet plunges, her breathy moans, distant farm clamor heightening risk.
He reached under, mauling swinging tits—pinching nipples until fresh beads formed—pace quickening to match rising need. Her pussy clenched tighter, another orgasm coiling visible in fluttering walls.
"Cum slow for me, Mira… soak my cock."
She unraveled drawn-out—walls spasming long, squirting steadily around shaft in hot rivulets soaking hay and thighs.
Liam followed with restrained roar—burying deep, pulsing thick ropes into her womb, overflowing creamy mix leaking slow down her legs.
They lingered joined, panting in hay's embrace. Round two unfolded languid—her straddling atop bales, breasts bouncing heavy in sunset glow, pink pussy swallowing him with wet, rhythmic gulps and squelches, until shared climax left them drenched sticky in sweat, seed, and juices amid prickly straw.
Mira, utterly his, whispered against his neck, "Willem plans dawn assault… with the Baron's writ coming. But I… I'll open the gate for you."
Liam smiled in the gathering dark. The Greyson heart cracked. Soon, the boar would fall, and the valley's last resistant MILF would flood in surrender.