On the ninth morning he met Yukie.
She was forty-one, husband lost to liver cancer two winters ago, left with a teenage son and fields that refused to yield. Her body was obscene in the best way: breasts so large the buttons on her faded yukata had surrendered years ago, now held together by a single stubborn knot. Her ass was legendary in the village: two pale moons that wobbled when she walked the mountain path to the fields, the cloth between her legs always dark with wetness no matter the weather.
She came to deliver miso and mountain vegetables as a neighborly gesture.
"Namaste, no, konnichiwa," she laughed, correcting herself, voice husky from years of shouting over mountain wind. "You're the Indian man who bought old Sato-san's ruin."
Arjun's cock thickened the moment he smelled her: rice steam, feminine sweat, and that unmistakable honeyed scent of an aroused woman. She stood barefoot on his genkan, toes painted unexpected cherry-blossom pink, holding a basket against one wide hip. The movement made her yukata gape. One enormous breast threatened to spill entirely, the areola wide and dusky rose, nipple already stiff and leaking a single bead of milk that rolled slowly down the curve.
His mouth went dry.
"I thought city men liked skinny girls," she said, eyes dropping deliberately to the growing bulge under his yukata. "But you look hungry for something… heavier."
She stepped inside without invitation, set the basket down, and let the knot finally give up. The yukata opened like theater curtains. Both breasts tumbled free: pale, veined, impossibly full, nipples thick as his thumb and glistening. A thin stream of milk traced down her belly and disappeared into the dark curls between her thighs.
Arjun made a strangled sound.
Yukie smiled, slow and filthy. "We mountain women leak when the weather turns warm," she murmured. "It's embarrassing. Or so my late husband used to say before he drank himself useless."
She moved closer. The scent of her cunt hit him like a drug: sweet, salty, dripping. When she breathed, her belly pressed soft against his erection.
"I heard Indian men know how to milk properly," she whispered, taking his hand and guiding it to one leaking breast. Warm milk spilled over his fingers instantly. "Will you help me, Arjun-san? They ache so badly in this heat."
His fingers closed around the heavy globe on instinct. Milk squirted in thin arcs, splattering both their yukatas. Yukie moaned, low and filthy, thighs spreading wider. The yukata fell completely open now, revealing everything: soft belly with silver stretch marks, thick thighs trembling, and between them the fattest, pinkest pussy he'd ever seen: swollen lips glistening, clit peeking like a ripe berry, a steady drip of clear juice sliding down one leg.
Arjun dropped to his knees without thinking.
Yukie threaded fingers through his hair. "Not yet," she breathed, though her hips rolled forward, smearing slick across his cheek. "Tonight. After the village bath closes. The women will be gone. I'll come through the bamboo path. Bring nothing but your mouth."
She stepped back, tied her yukata with shaking hands, and left him kneeling on the tatami, face wet with her juices, cock leaking so hard it left a puddle beneath him.
That night the mountains were silent except for cicadas and the distant splash of the onsen.
Arjun waited on the engawa, yukata open, stroking himself slowly to keep from exploding.
At midnight the bamboo rustled.
Yukie stepped out naked, moonlight painting silver on her heavy breasts and the slow rivulets of milk running down her belly. Between her thighs she glistened like she'd been walking with her legs apart the whole way, pussy lips swollen twice their normal size, dripping in long, shameless strings.
She didn't speak. Just climbed the steps, pushed him onto his back, and straddled his face.
The first taste of her nearly ended him: hot, sweet, endless. She rode his tongue slow and filthy, breasts swaying above him, milk dripping onto his chest in warm rain. When she came the first time, she gushed so hard it soaked his hair.
They never made it inside.
By dawn the engawa was slick with milk and pussy juice, the mountain air thick with the smell of sex and crushed persimmons.
And somewhere down in the village, five other neglected wives had watched Yukie disappear into the bamboo.
They were already planning their own visits.
The morning after Yukie left him half-dead on the engawa, Arjun could barely walk.
His jaw ached, his tongue felt thick, and the taste of her (sweet milk and thick cunt honey) still coated the back of his throat like melted caramel. Every breath reminded him of how she had ground her dripping pussy against his face until the sky turned pale, how her heavy breasts had slapped wetly against his forehead when she finally came a fifth time, screaming into the cedar trees.
He thought one woman would be enough to sate him for weeks.
He was wrong.
At noon the mountain path filled with footsteps.
Five women came, single file, carrying baskets and hoes as if they were simply on their way to the upper terraces. They wore the loose cotton yukata of farm work, sleeves tied back, hair twisted up with wooden pins. Sweat already beaded between their breasts and trickled down the soft insides of their thighs.
They stopped at his gate and looked at him with calm, knowing eyes.
The first was Reiko, forty-three, widow of the village carpenter. Tallest of the group, with breasts so long and full they hung almost to her navel when she bowed. Her nipples were the color of dried rose petals and already stiff, poking obscenely through damp fabric.
Next came Noriko, thirty-nine, abandoned by a Tokyo salaryman who preferred hostesses. She was the plumpest: belly round and soft, ass like two overfilled rice sacks that clapped softly when she shifted her weight. A dark wet patch had already formed at the crotch of her pale-blue yukata.
Then Tomoe, forty-one, former schoolteacher, skin still smooth as mochi, breasts high and impossibly wide, nipples leaking tiny beads that left twin trails down the front of her white cotton.
Sayuri, thirty-seven, youngest and shyest, but with the fattest pussy Arjun had ever seen outlined through cloth: lips so swollen they pushed the seam of her yukata apart, glistening visibly.
Last was Kazumi, forty-five, the unofficial leader, broad-hipped and heavy-breasted, stretch marks silver across her belly like lightning. She carried no basket. Only a small bottle of warmed sake and a smile that said she had arranged everything.
Yukie was not with them. She had done her part: spread the word that the new Indian farmer had a tongue like a god and a cock thick enough to make a woman forget ten years of lonely nights.
Reiko spoke first, voice low.
"Yukie-san says you are… generous with your mouth."
She let her yukata slip from one shoulder. One enormous breast flopped free, swaying, nipple dripping a thin stream of milk that pattered onto the dirt. "We work your fields for free if you help us with our… overflow."
Arjun's cock surged so hard it slapped against his stomach.
Kazumi stepped forward and untied the sash of his yukata without asking. His erection sprang out, dark and glistening at the tip. Five pairs of eyes fixed on it. Someone whimpered.
"Not inside the house," Kazumi decided. "The engawa is too narrow for all of us."
She led them around back to the small clearing where he had begun clearing weeds for a vegetable patch. Sunlight filtered through bamboo leaves, dappling their skin gold and green. The women laid down their hoes and formed a loose circle around him.
One by one they undressed.
Yukatas fell like petals.
Six bodies (no, five today) stood naked in the mountain air, every one soft, heavy, overflowing. Breasts of every shape: long and pendulous, round and shelf-like, wide and flattened from years of nursing. Bellies soft with silver lines. Asses that trembled when they breathed. And between every pair of thighs, a pussy so wet it shone: pink inner lips peeking, clits swollen, some shaved smooth, some framed with soft black curls, all dripping slow strings of clear juice that stretched and broke when they moved.
Arjun dropped to his knees in the dirt like a supplicant.
They did not rush.
This was ritual.
Reiko came first. She simply walked forward, placed one foot on a stump, and opened herself with two fingers. Her cunt gaped, rosy and dripping. "Start slow," she murmured. "We have all afternoon."
He buried his face between her thighs and drank.
The taste exploded across his tongue: salt, faint iron, the sweetness of mountain water. Reiko sighed and rolled her hips, feeding him in slow circles. Her milk dripped steadily onto his hair. When she came, it was quiet: a long, trembling exhale, thighs clamping around his ears, a sudden flood that he swallowed greedily.
Noriko was next. She lay back on the warm earth, legs spread impossibly wide, belly quivering. Her pussy was the fattest: lips like ripe fig halves, clit thick as the tip of his thumb. He lapped at her for what felt like hours, sucking that fat clit until she sobbed and squirted in hard pulses that soaked his chest.
Tomoe wanted to ride his face while standing. She gripped a low bamboo branch, bent her knees, and lowered her leaking cunt onto his mouth again and again, breasts swinging like pendulums, milk raining down his body in warm streams.
Sayuri was shy. She knelt in front of him, trembling, until Kazumi pushed her forward. "Open your legs, little one. Let him see how wet you get just watching." Sayuri's pussy was almost obscene: swollen to twice its normal size, inner lips protruding long and pink, dripping constantly. When Arjun's tongue finally touched her clit she came instantly, screaming into her own forearm, juices gushing so hard they splashed his chin.
Kazumi saved herself for last.
She made the others sit in a half-circle, legs spread, lazily stroking their own slick folds while they watched.
Then she pushed Arjun onto his back in the dirt and straddled his face reverse, enormous ass descending like twin moons. Her pussy was the ripest yet: dark outer lips framing a shocking pink center, dripping in a steady stream. She ground down slowly, smothering him, riding his tongue with the confidence of a woman who had waited years for this.
Above him her asshole winked, clean and pink. He stayed away (he had promised himself no anal, not yet), but the sight alone almost made him come untouched.
When Kazumi finally came, she did it with her whole body: back arching, breasts spraying milk in thin arcs, cunt contracting so hard it pulled his tongue deeper. A low, guttural moan rolled out of her and echoed off the mountains.
Silence followed, broken only by heavy breathing and the soft squelch of fingers still circling wet clits.
Eventually Kazumi lifted herself. A thick string of mixed juices connected her pussy to his mouth for a long second before it broke.
She looked down at his untouched cock, angry and leaking, then at the other women.
"Tomorrow," she said simply, "we bring oil. And we take turns on this."
Five heads nodded eagerly.
They dressed slowly, yukatas clinging to wet skin, nipples still hard, cunts still dripping. Each one paused to kiss Arjun's mouth (tasting themselves and each other on his lips) before walking back down the mountain path.
He stayed on his back in the dirt long after they were gone, cock throbbing against his belly, face glazed with milk and pussy juice, the sun warm on his skin.
Somewhere far below, temple bells rang for evening prayer.
Up here, the only gods were soft flesh and endless, dripping heat.
Tomorrow, they had promised, would be different.
Tomorrow they would finally let him inside.