Peace settled over Miller's Ford like warm summer rain, washing away the stink of old blood. The mill wheel turned steady and unhurried now, grinding golden rye under clear skies. Fields greened with new planting, barns rebuilt side-by-side—Blackwater and Greyson hands working together under hypnotic calm. Laughter echoed where screams once ruled.
But Liam's true harvest waited in the rebuilt great barn that night: a private feast for his conquered matrons.
The barn glowed soft with lantern light filtering through fresh thatch, air thick and heavy with sweet hay, woodsmoke from the hearth, and the mingled scents of five ripe women already gathering—warm skin, faint floral salves from Elara's herbs, earthy sweat from day's labor, and beneath it all the blooming tangy musk of arousal that had simmered since dawn whispers of what was coming.
They arrived one by one, drawn by his murmured commands seeded earlier: Marta first, billhook left behind, her seventy-three winters not dimming the heavy sway of breasts and ass; Lyna next, flour still dusting her curves; Elara with herb bundles tucked in hair; Sera and Mira last, hands brushing possessive as they entered together, jealousy long melted into shared craving.
The doors barred from within—risky privacy, voices from the village celebration outside faint but close enough to heighten every gasp. Exhibitionism's thrill hummed low: one raised cry could draw eyes.
Liam stood central on piled hay bales turned makeshift bed, shirtless, cock already straining thick against breeches. The women circled slow, eyes glazed with hypnotic devotion yet burning true desire, bodies shifting restless—nipples peaking through thin dresses, thighs pressing together with soft wet sounds.
"My perfect girls," he praised low, voice rough silk that drew shivers across every spine. "So obedient. So ready to please me together. You've earned this—every dripping ache rewarded tonight."
Tension coiled eternal, slow burn feeding on stolen glances, heavy breaths. He beckoned Marta first—age-gap ripeness drawing him deepest. She stepped close, weathered hands trembling as they unlaced her smock gradual. Fabric peeled away inch by inch: enormous breasts spilling free, pale globes sagging heavy with mature weight, veined blue, wide brown areolas puckered around fat nipples already beaded thick.
He worshipped deliberate—palms cupping overflowing flesh, kneading slow until she moaned husky, thumbs circling nipples in lazy spirals feeling them swell darker. Mouth descended languid: tongue tracing salty valley first, inhaling flour-sweet skin, then latching one nipple—sucking deep pulls that drew muffled cries, teeth grazing gentle as faint clear beads formed.
The others watched, hands drifting unconscious—fingers tracing own curves, building shared heat. "Good girls," he murmured against Marta's skin, eyes locking with each. "Watch how I worship her… soon your turn."
Dresses fell gradual around the circle—bodies bared in golden light: Lyna's motherhood-swollen tits leaking faint milky memory when pinched; Elara's herbal-scented curves glistening sweat; Sera's heaviest globes swaying pendulous; Mira's fertile hips flared wide, thighs thick and trembling.
They sank to hay together slow—five mature forms surrounding him, mouths hungry yet patient. Marta and Lyna took his cock first: lips stretching wide around thick head in turns, tongues swirling slow as saliva mixed creamy with his leaking precum—wet slurps layering soft over hay's rustle. Elara joined below, tongue lapping heavy balls with herbal warmth; Sera and Mira kissed sloppy along shaft, tasting sisters on him in possessive licks.
Praise flowed constant: "Such good girls… taking me so deep… my perfect sluts for this cock alone."
He guided positions languid—overstimulation's promise building. Mira straddled his face first, thick thighs framing his view of her dripping pink pussy: plump lips swollen thick, inner folds blooming open with creamy strands stretching long. Scent overwhelmed—tangy fertile musk flooding his senses. Tongue dragged broad slow through slick heat, savoring thick nectar coating heavy, circling engorged clit until she ground down desperate, face-sitting deep as muffled moans vibrated into hay.
Simultaneous: Sera and Lyna took turns riding his cock—slow descents stretching tight velvet walls inch by inch, cream frothing white at base with obscene squelches. Marta and Elara knelt close, fingers circling clits and pinching nipples in shared rhythm, bodies pressing warm and sticky.
Rhythm shifted gradual—rougher edges emerging: hair pulled gentle to angle mouths deeper, bodies pinned soft beneath his weight in turns, wall of the barn cool against heated backs for risky thrusts that creaked wood loud enough to thrill.
Multiple rounds built eternal: first climaxes drawn slow—Mira squirting hot floods onto his tongue in pulsing waves, pussy clenching hungry; Sera following on his cock, walls spasming long as she gushed creamy down his balls.
He switched seamless—pinning Lyna beneath, pounding deep vaginal strokes that slapped flesh wet, hand fisting hair light as she shattered twice in overstimulation, squirting hard around shaft soaking hay dark.
Breeding talk wove possessive: "Going to fill every womb tonight… breed my good girls full… carry what's mine."
Elara next—bent forward, plush ass presented as he plunged slow then rough, hands worshipping thick thighs and swinging breasts, pinching nipples until she squirted in gushing arcs, body shaking multiple orgasms.
Marta last for the peak—straddled atop, massive tits bouncing hypnotic in lantern glow as she rode deliberate, pink pussy swallowing thick length with wet rhythmic gulps. Others clustered close: mouths on her nipples, fingers on clit, shared overstimulation pushing her to edge after edge—squirting floods coating his cock heavy until he roared.
Final release: buried deep in Marta, thick ropes erupting pulse after pulse flooding her womb hot, seed overflowing creamy rivulets down thighs as she collapsed trembling. Pulled out to paint others—pushing remainder into waiting pussies with fingers, marking each possessive.
They lay tangled long after—bodies sticky drenched in sweat, seed, squirt juices; scents rich overwhelming—musky passion, hay, smoke. Breaths synced slow, hands stroking lazy, praise whispered: "Mine forever… my perfect harem."
But by dawn, Liam rode northward—valley matrons bound hypnotic yet willing, bodies craving return for true breeding. Ahead: the baroness's lands, whispered full of voluptuous widows and noble matrons ripe for conquest.
His obsession grew only hungrier.