The road east wound through skeletal birch trees, their bare branches clawing at a sky the color of old bruises. Fog rolled thick and cold, carrying the damp rot of fallen leaves, distant woodsmoke, and something fouler—charred thatch, old bones, the faint acrid tang of corpse-fat torches long extinguished. Liam's cloak clung heavy with mist-dew, breath pluming white as his horse picked careful steps along the muddy track. Nine days until the new moon, the rumors said. Nine days until Weeping Hollow burned again.
He had left the valley matrons sated and aching for his return, bodies still sticky with shared seed, but his obsession pulled him onward—tales of desperate widows, ripe leaders holding fractured villages together, curves thickened by hardship and loss. Perfect prey.
Weeping Hollow emerged at dusk: twenty-three thatched cottages huddled around a crooked crossroads, roofs sagging under perpetual damp. Fog swirled low, muffling the toll of a distant warning bell. The air tasted of fear-sweat and wet earth; faint weeping carried on the wind—not human voices, but the hollow moan through ribcages long emptied. Above the hamlet loomed the old cemetery hill, moss-eaten stones jutting like broken teeth, green glows flickering faint between graves as the dead shifted restless in unhallowed soil.
Villagers moved shadowed and wary—barricades of thorn bushes and wagon wheels, silvered weapons glinting in lantern light. The scent of holy water hung sharp, rationed splashes on doorframes.
Liam disguised himself as a grim wandering sellsword: taller, scarred, voice gravel-rough. He stabled his horse at the lone inn—a creaking timber hall reeking of tallow candles and sour ale—and asked quiet questions. Eyes turned to the unofficial leader: Goodwife Mira Wren.
She stood in the common room, directing weary watchers with a ledger in one hand, silvered scythe in the other. Forty-one winters had sculpted her into ripe perfection: tall frame curved generous from birthing four (two lost to plague years), massive breasts straining her smoke-stained bodice until laces groaned, deep cleavage glistening with fog-sweat and hearth heat. Hips flared wide beneath skirts, leading to thick thighs and an ass so plush it shifted hypnotically as she paced. Auburn-gray hair escaped her loose braid, framing a strong face flushed with exhaustion yet sharp with command. Her scent cut through the inn's staleness—warm skin, faint maternal sweetness lingering in pores, earth from barricade work, and beneath it the subtle tangy bloom of a woman stretched thin, untouched for years amid endless grief.
Liam's cock stirred slow, persistent ache building as he watched her bend to mark the ledger—cleavage spilling deeper, nipples peaking thick against damp wool from chill fog seeping through cracks.
Their eyes met across the room. Hypnosis seeded gentle from stolen glances as he'd lingered at the door: *Warmth. Safety. Deep, aching curiosity.*
Mira paused, breath catching. Nipples stiffened visibly; thighs pressed together with faint slick sound lost in the inn's murmur. She shook it off, but color rose high on her chest.
"Stranger," she called, voice husky from shouting orders. "You've the look of blades for hire. We pay little—200 gold to end this curse, or 50 for Father Aldric's tongue. But stay the night. Fog's thick; dead don't like new blood after dark."
He took a corner table, tension coiling slow. Over hours, villagers shared the chronicle in hushed tones: Father Aldric's betrayal, Varn's sapphires, skeletons marching single-file with weeping wind through bones, torches of corpse-fat setting deliberate fires. Widow Harrow's home three nights past—children still missing. Gravedigger Tomkin's mute vigil on the hill.
Mira served him stew personally, leaning close enough for her breast to brush his shoulder—heat radiating, scent flooding: rich womanly musk growing as hypnosis rooted deeper. "Eat," she murmured. "You'll need strength. New moon in nine days."
Her hand lingered on his arm, trembling faint.
By midnight, the inn emptied to watches. Mira lingered last, ledger closed. Fog pressed windows; distant rib-wind moaned low, heightening risk—any cry could draw skeletal march early.
Liam met her gaze fully. "You carry too much alone, Mira. Let me ease it."
Suggestion bloomed slow: *Desire. Need. He's safe.*
She stepped closer, breath quickening. "I… shouldn't. Village needs me sharp."
But her body betrayed—nipples throbbing peaks, thighs shifting restless with growing wetness.
He rose gradual, hands settling on her wide hips—warm through skirts. She shuddered, pressing subtle into his grip.
Tension built eternal: lips inches apart, breaths mingling—her tangy arousal now sharp in the air, mixing with tallow and smoke. His palms slid up slow, cupping enormous breasts—heavy overflowing warmth, thumbs brushing stiff nipples through wool until she whimpered soft.
"Gods, these tits," he growled low praise. "So full… neglected too long. Good girl for holding strong—now let me worship."
Bodice unlaced torturously slow—fabric peeling away, breasts spilling free in lantern glow: massive pale globes veined faint blue, sagging ripe with weight nearly to waist, wide pink-brown areolas puckered tight around thick nipples beaded sweat and faint milky memory from old nursing.
He worshipped languid—mouth descending first to valley, inhaling deep salty-sweet skin dusted fog-dew, tongue lapping trickled sweat slow. Then latched one nipple: sucking deep pulls, teeth grazing gentle, drawing husky moans as it swelled fatter, clear beads forming on the other from overstimulation's promise.
Mira's fingers tangled hair possessive. "Lower… it's dripping shameful…"
Skirts hiked gradual—thighs parting thick pillars trembling, inner skin slick already. Her pussy bared inch by inch: plump outer lips swollen thick, framing glistening pink folds blooming open creamy, thick strands arousal stretching long, juices trailing shiny down thighs pooling on floorboards. Scent overwhelmed—rich tangy fertile musk cutting through inn's staleness, flooding senses.
"So soaked for me," he praised rough. "Good girl… dripping like you've waited years."
On knees in creaking wood, nose brushed clit first—inhaling dizzying essence. Tongue dragged broad agonizing slow from dripping entrance to engorged clit, savoring thick nectar heavy tangy-sweet coating tongue. Slow circles, then spearing deep—velvety walls fluttering welcome, squirting lightly with each curl soaking chin and boards.
Mira bucked muffled against arm, moans layering with distant dead-wind—risk heightening every lick. Fingers joined gradual—two thick curling inside scorching heat, stroking spongy ridges as juices gushed hot, thumb circling clit slippery until she shattered slow: thighs clamping head, pussy convulsing waves, squirting floods onto face in pulsing tangy nectar.
He rose unhurried, cock freed throbbing thick, head leaking precum shiny. Mira gripped reverent, stroking slow possessive.
Pinned gentle against cool stone wall—risky creak loud in quiet inn—he entered torturously slow: thick head parting slick lips obscene wet schlick, stretching tight paradise inch by inch. Walls rippled greedy, cream frothing creamy base as sank fully, balls nestling clit.
Rhythm built gradual then rougher: long deep thrusts pulling out dragging creamy strands, plunging home squelching loud over her breathy cries and wall's groan. Hands worshipped—pinning wrists light above head one moment, mauling swinging tits next, pinching nipples until fresh beads.
Praise possessive: "Mine now… good girl taking me so deep… going to fill this womb, breed you full."
Overstimulation coiled—her squirting twice more hard around shaft, soaking thighs and floor in hot rivulets as body shook multiple orgasms.
He roared low final—burying hilt, thick ropes erupting pulse after pulse flooding womb hot, seed overflowing creamy down trembling legs.
They slid down wall together panting sticky, bodies drenched sweat and juices, scents rich musky passion overpowering fog. Round two slower on hearth rug—her riding deliberate, breasts bouncing hypnotic firelight, pink pussy swallowing length wet rhythmic gulps until mutual climax left them spent marked.
Mira whispered against chest possessive: "Curse… we'll end it together. But you… stay inside me always."
Outside, green glows flickered stronger on the hill. New moon approached.
Liam smiled. With Mira claimed, the village widows would follow—bodies offered amid danger, harem growing as dead marched.
The weeping wind rose louder… but desire burned hotter.