In the kingdom of Vaeloria, where the sun bled gold across rolling hills and stone castles pierced the heavens, the laws of flesh were as open as the sky. Free use was not a sin but a sacrament, a thread woven into the tapestry of life. Men and women, nobles and commoners, shared their bodies as freely as they shared wine or song, bound only by consent and the rhythm of desire. Yet, in this world of unbound pleasures, one man carried a burden no other could claim.
Aric of Thornvale, a blacksmith's apprentice with shoulders broad as an ox and hands calloused from hammer and anvil, stood apart. His secret was not his strength, nor the quiet fire in his storm-gray eyes, but the gift—or curse—bestowed upon him by the gods. A cock so thick it strained the seams of his leather breeches, and a stamina that knew no end. Where others faltered after a single clash of bodies, Aric could rut through the night and into the dawn, his seed as endless as the stars. He hid it well, for in a land of open lust, such a gift drew eyes, hands, and hearts like moths to a flame.
The village of Thornvale bustled under the morning sun. Merchants hawked spiced meats, and in the square, a baker's wife bent over a crate, her skirts hiked as a guardsman took her from behind, her moans blending with the clatter of carts. No one blinked. A noblewoman strolled past, her gown unlaced to bare heavy breasts, a stableboy's lips teasing her nipple as she laughed and fed him a grape. This was Vaeloria's way.
Aric wiped sweat from his brow, his forge a furnace of heat and iron. His master, Old Garen, had gone to market, leaving him to tend the fire. Sparks danced as he hammered a plowshare, each strike a rhythm that matched the pulse in his loins. He was no stranger to the village's customs. Last week, he'd fucked the tanner's daughter against a haystack, her cries sharp as she came twice before he'd even begun to feel the edge of release. He'd left her limp and smiling, but the ache in his cock lingered, unspent.
"Aric!" a voice called, sultry as summer wine.
He turned to see Lirien, the innkeeper's eldest daughter, leaning against the forge's doorway. Her auburn hair spilled over a bodice that barely contained her curves, her lips parted in a teasing smile. She was a vision of Vaeloria's openness, known for taking lovers in the inn's stables or the meadow by the river. Yet her eyes held a challenge as they raked over Aric's sweat-slick chest.
"Working hard, or hardly working?" she purred, stepping closer. Her fingers brushed the bulge in his breeches, bold as any man. "Gods, you're a beast. Care to share that hammer of yours?"
Aric's blood roared, but he kept his voice steady. "Forge's hot, Lirien. Might burn you."
She laughed, low and throaty, pressing herself against him. Her breasts grazed his arm, nipples hard through thin linen. "I like the heat."
His cock twitched, thickening against her palm. She gasped, eyes widening as she felt its girth. "Seven hells, Aric. That's no hammer—that's a bloody battering ram."
He caught her wrist, gentle but firm. "Not here. Not now."
Her pout was playful, but her eyes gleamed with hunger. "You're no fun, blacksmith. But I'll have you yet." She sauntered off, hips swaying, leaving Aric's pulse thundering.
He turned back to the forge, but the fire in his blood wouldn't cool. Lirien was only the beginning. In Thornvale, word of his endowment would spread like wildfire, and in a free-use world, restraint was a fragile shield.
The sun dipped low, painting Thornvale in hues of amber and blood. Aric quenched a blade in the trough, steam hissing like a lover's sigh. His muscles ached, but the deeper throb in his loins had not eased since Lirien's visit. He'd hammered iron all afternoon to drown the urge, yet each strike echoed the pulse of his cock, heavy and insistent beneath his apron.
The forge door creaked. He expected Lirien again, or perhaps the cooper's wife, who'd winked at him twice this week. Instead, a shadow fell across the floor—tall, cloaked, and perfumed with myrrh and midnight roses.
"Blacksmith," came a voice, velvet over steel. "I seek the one they call Aric of Thornvale."
He straightened, wiping soot from his hands. The woman lowered her hood, revealing hair black as a raven's wing, braided with silver thread. Her face was sharp and regal, cheekbones carved by divine hands, lips full and stained crimson. A circlet of obsidian rested on her brow, marking her nobility. Yet her gown—deep indigo, slit high on both thighs—clung to curves that could start wars. The neckline plunged, barely containing breasts that rose with each breath, nipples faintly visible through silk.
"Lady Seraphine of House Veyl," she said, stepping into the forge's glow. Her eyes, violet as stormlit amethysts, fixed on him. "You are… unexpected."
Aric's mouth went dry. Nobles rarely visited Thornvale, and never alone. "My lady. The forge is no place for silk."
She smiled, slow and dangerous. "Silk burns. I do not." Her gaze dropped, lingering on the bulge straining his breeches. "Nor, it seems, do you."
Heat flooded his cheeks, but he held her stare. "What brings you to my fire?"
"A blade," she said, producing a parchment sketch. A longsword, its hilt entwined with serpents. "Enchanted steel, they say you work. But I seek more than metal." She stepped closer, her scent dizzying. "I seek the man who forges it."
Her fingers brushed his forearm, tracing a vein. Sparks danced where she touched, though no iron was near. Aric's cock surged, thick and aching, the head nudging his waistband. He shifted, hiding it, but her eyes missed nothing.
"Shy?" she murmured. "In Vaeloria, we do not hide what the gods gave us." She pressed against him, her breasts soft against his chest. "Show me, blacksmith. Let me feel the heat of your craft."
His hands found her waist, instinctive. Silk slid beneath his calluses as he lifted her onto the anvil. She gasped, thighs parting, the slits of her gown baring smooth skin to her hips. No smallclothes. Her cunt glistened, pink and slick, inches from his throbbing length.
"Lady," he growled, voice rough. "This is madness."
"Madness is restraint," she whispered, fingers unlacing his breeches. His cock sprang free, thick as her wrist, veins pulsing, the head flushed dark. She moaned, wrapping both hands around it—still not enough to encircle. "Gods, it's monstrous."
He could take her now. Pin her to the anvil, bury himself to the hilt, fuck her until the forge collapsed. His hips jerked at the thought, pre-cum beading at his slit. But something in her eyes—hunger, yes, but calculation—held him back.
"Not yet," he said, stepping away. His cock bobbed, angry and unsatisfied. "The blade first. Then… we'll see."
Seraphine's laugh was low, approving. "A man who denies himself. Rare." She slid from the anvil, gown falling back into place, though her nipples strained the silk. "Forge my sword, Aric. And when it's done, I'll forge you."
She left a purse of gold and a single black rose on the workbench. As her carriage rattled away, Aric gripped his cock, stroking once, twice—then stopped. The ache was exquisite, a promise of what was to come.
Outside, Lirien watched from the shadows, her hand beneath her skirts, eyes narrowed with jealousy and lust.
The night of the Harvest Feast draped Thornvale in torchlight and revelry. Bonfires roared in the square, their flames licking the sky as villagers danced to the thud of drums and the wail of pipes. Tables groaned under roast boar, honeyed figs, and flagons of spiced mead. Skirts were hiked, breeches unlaced—Vaeloria's free-use creed turned the feast into a tapestry of flesh. A cooper fucked a milkmaid against a hay bale, her legs wrapped around his waist as she laughed into his neck. Nearby, two men knelt before a blacksmith's wife, their tongues vying for her cunt while she sipped wine, unbothered by the crowd's cheers.
Aric stood at the forge's edge, his new blade—Seraphine's longsword—sheathed at his hip. The steel hummed faintly, as if alive, its serpent hilt cool against his palm. He'd worked three days and nights, pouring skill and something deeper into the metal. The forge had felt like a lover's body, and the blade was his climax, sharp and perfect. Yet his true ache remained unspent, his cock a constant throb since Seraphine's visit. He'd not touched himself, honoring the slow burn of his restraint.
Lirien found him first. She wore a gown of emerald, cut low to bare the swell of her breasts, her auburn hair loose and wild. A garland of wheat crowned her head, marking her as the feast's Harvest Maiden—a role that demanded she be shared by any who asked. Her eyes glinted as she pressed a cup of mead into his hand.
Drink, blacksmith," she purred, her fingers brushing his. "You look ready to burst."
He drank, the mead sweet and fiery. "You're bold tonight, Maiden."
"Bold?" She laughed, stepping so close her nipples grazed his chest through linen. "I'm starving." Her hand slid to his breeches, cupping the rigid length of him. "Gods, Aric, it's harder than your steel."
His breath hitched as she squeezed, her thumb circling the head through leather. Around them, bodies writhed—a nobleman's daughter rode a farmer reverse, her moans rising over the music—but Aric's world narrowed to Lirien's touch. She sank to her knees, unlacing him with practiced ease. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, pre-cum glistening. The crowd nearby whistled, but Lirien ignored them, her lips hovering a breath from his tip.
"Let me taste you," she whispered, tongue flicking out to lap the bead of fluid. Aric groaned, hips jerking, but he caught her hair, holding her back.
Not yet," he rasped, echoing his words to Seraphine. "Dance with me first."
Her eyes flashed—anger, lust, challenge. She rose, pressing her body to his, and pulled him into the square's dance. Their movements were a duel, her hips grinding against his cock, his hands gripping her ass as they spun. Sweat slicked their skin, her gown slipping to bare one breast. He sucked the nipple hard, teeth grazing, and she moaned, loud enough to draw eyes. But he pulled back, leaving her gasping.
Before she could drag him to the hay, a shadow fell. Seraphine stood at the fire's edge, her indigo gown replaced by crimson silk, sheer enough to reveal the dark triangles of her nipples and the shadow between her thighs. A mask of black lace hid half her face, but her violet eyes burned into Aric.
"Blacksmith," she called, voice cutting through the noise. "Your blade sings. Will you?"
Lirien stiffened, her hand tightening on Aric's arm. Seraphine ignored her, crooking a finger. The crowd parted as Aric approached, Lirien trailing like a storm cloud. Seraphine led them to a dais where nobles lounged on furs, some fucking openly, others watching. She sat, thighs parted, the silk riding high to bare her cunt—swollen, slick, glistening in the firelight.
"Kneel," she commanded Aric. "Show me your craft."
His cock throbbed, aching to bury itself in her. Instead, he drew the longsword, its edge catching the flames. He spun it, a dancer's grace, then knelt and laid it across her thighs. The steel kissed her skin, cold against her heat. She shivered, fingers brushing the hilt, then his cheek.
"Good boy," she murmured. "Now, taste the fire you forged."
She guided his head between her legs. Aric's tongue found her clit, slow and deliberate, tracing circles as she gasped. Her taste was sharp, like lightning and honey. Lirien watched, fists clenched, then knelt beside him, her hand wrapping around his cock. She stroked, slow and cruel, matching the rhythm of his tongue. Seraphine's hips bucked, her moans rising, but Aric held back, licking her to the edge without letting her fall.
"Enough," Seraphine gasped, pushing him away. Her eyes were wild, pupils blown. "Both of you. To the furs."
Lirien smirked, thinking she'd won. But as they moved, Seraphine whispered to Aric, "The blade chooses its master. Tonight, you choose me."
The furs were soft, the air thick with sex and smoke. Lirien stripped, her body lush and freckled, cunt dripping as she straddled Aric's thigh, grinding.
Seraphine shed her gown, her skin pale and flawless, nipples dark. She knelt over Aric's face, cunt hovering, while Lirien's hand pumped his cock, slick with his pre-cum. He groaned, tongue darting to taste Seraphine again, but she pulled back, teasing.
"Not yet," she echoed his words, smirking. "Earn it."
Lirien, impatient, tried to mount him, but Seraphine caught her wrist. "Share, Maiden. Or leave."
The tension crackled—two women, one cock, and Aric's stamina a prize neither would yield. His balls ached, heavy with seed, but he lay still, letting them fight for him, the slow burn now a wildfire barely contained.