The road to Miller's Ford stank of damp earth and old blood. Liam trudged through the mud, cloak pulled tight against the chill wind that carried the faint grind of a distant mill wheel—slow, relentless, like a heartbeat soaked in rye flour and hatred.
He had heard the stories in every tavern from Eldenbrook southward: the Blackwaters and Greysons, locked in a feud older than most men's grandsires, slaughtering each other over a single black-stone watermill. Seventeen Blackwaters dead against fourteen Greysons. Poisoned wells. Burned barns. Castrations. A baby's empty swaddling cloth nailed to the mill door. And beneath the violence, the women—widows, stolen brides, matrons hardened by loss yet ripened by it. Bodies thickened by years of labor, breasts heavy with milk long dried, hips wide from birthing, asses plush and swaying even in mourning black. Pussies, Liam imagined, kept perpetually slick from the constant edge of danger and grief.
His cock stirred at the thought. This valley would be his feast.
He disguised himself as a wandering hedge knight: taller, broader, scarred face, voice roughened. No one would question a sellsword drifting toward a bloodfeud.
Miller's Ford appeared at dusk—a cluster of thirty-seven crooked houses straddling the sluggish brown River Murk. Smoke rose thin and wary. Dogs barked from shadowed yards. The mill loomed on the far bank, its overshot wheel turning with patient menace, water sluicing off the black stones in rhythmic sheets.
The air smelled of wet flour, singed thatch, and something sharper—nightshade, perhaps, lingering from the latest poisoning.
Liam chose the only inn still open: the Drowned Miller, run by a neutral widow who served both sides at her peril. Inside, the common room was half-empty, patrons sitting in hostile clumps—flour-dusted Blackwaters on one side, scarred Greysons on the other, glaring across the hearth.
And there she was, pouring ale: Widow Sera Greyson.
Forty-eight winters, Red Willem's aunt by marriage, left childless and husbandless after a Blackwater raid ten years past. Her black dress clung to a body built for sin: enormous breasts, heavy and pendulous, straining the laces until the deep valley of her cleavage glistened with hearth-sweat. Hips flared dramatically, leading to an ass so thick it shifted with every step, fabric outlining the cleft. Her dark hair was pinned loosely, strands clinging to her flushed neck.
Liam's obsession flared. He could already smell her—warm skin, faint ale, and beneath it the musky hint of a woman long untouched, pussy likely aching and wet from neglected need.
He took a corner table, ordering stew. Sera served him, leaning close enough that her breasts nearly brushed his shoulder. The heat radiating from her body was intoxicating.
"Stranger," she murmured, voice husky from years of shouting across fields. "You've the look of trouble. Best choose a side quick, or the river'll choose for you."
Their eyes met. Liam let the hypnosis seep in, soft and slow.
"You feel safe with me," he said low. "Warm. Curious."
Her pupils dilated for a heartbeat. She straightened, but her nipples—thick and dark, he imagined—poked visibly against the fabric now. A faint flush crept up her chest.
"Safe," she repeated softly, then shook her head. "Sit quiet, knight. I'll bring bread."
Seed planted.
Over the next days, Liam lingered, listening. The feud's latest wound was fresh: three nights ago, Greysons had poisoned another Blackwater well. Old Marta's last son and two grandchildren were retching black bile in the chapel. Marta herself—seventy-three, missing fingers, still deadly with a billhook—was said to be plotting something terrible.
And across the river, Red Willem paced with his dire boar Princess, waiting for the Baron's men or the devil-warlock Marta had supposedly hired.
Liam moved carefully, disguising himself to visit both sides. But his true hunt was the women.
Sera's cottage sat on the Greyson side, near the poisoned fields. Liam came at midnight, disguised as himself now—just a charming stranger she couldn't stop thinking about.
She opened the door in a thin shift, candlelight painting gold across her sweat-damp skin. The feud had everyone on edge; sleep came poorly.
"I shouldn't let you in," she whispered, but stepped aside anyway. Hypnosis had worked its slow magic: every night she'd lain awake, fingers circling her swollen clit, imagining strong hands on her neglected body.
Liam pulled her close the moment the door shut. His mouth claimed hers—slow, deep, tasting ale and salt and desperate need. She moaned into him, massive breasts crushing against his chest, nipples hard as pebbles.
He broke the kiss, trailing lips down her neck, inhaling the rich scent of her skin—earth, smoke, and the growing musk between her thighs.
"Gods, Sera," he growled. "I've wanted these tits since I saw you."
His hands cupped them through the shift—heavy, overflowing his palms, soft yet firm with mature weight. He kneaded slowly, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks until she whimpered. Then he yanked the shift down.
They spilled free: enormous pale globes veined faintly blue, capped with wide brown areolas and thick nipples begging to be sucked. He buried his face between them, motorboating the warm, slightly sweaty flesh, tongue lapping the salty valley.
Sera's fingers tangled in his hair. "It's been so long… touch me everywhere."
He obliged. One hand slid down her belly—soft, rounded from years—to the apex of her thick thighs. She was already drenched. His fingers parted plump outer lips, finding slick heat. Her pussy was exactly as he craved: swollen pink folds glistening with thick arousal, juices coating his fingers the moment he traced her slit. The scent hit him—rich, womanly, intoxicating.
"So wet for me," he murmured, circling her engorged clit slowly. She bucked, thighs trembling.
Two fingers slid inside—velvety walls clutching greedily, hot and sopping. He curled them, stroking that spongy spot while his thumb worked her clit in lazy circles. Her juices squelched softly with every thrust of his hand, dripping down his wrist.
Sera's moans grew louder, hips grinding. "More… please…"
He dropped to his knees, spreading her wide. Her ass cheeks parted naturally as she leaned back against the table—plush, dimpled flesh framing that dripping pink cunt. He dove in: tongue lapping broad stripes from her entrance to clit, savoring the tangy-sweet flood. He sucked her folds into his mouth, then speared inside, fucking her with his tongue while nose ground against her clit.
She came hard—thighs clamping his head, pussy gushing fresh nectar onto his chin, body shaking as she cried out his name.
But he wasn't finished.
Liam stood, freeing his throbbing cock—thick, veined, head already leaking. Sera's eyes widened with hunger.
He bent her over the table, shift bunched at her waist. That magnificent ass presented: two heavy globes jiggling as she spread her legs. He slapped them lightly—watching the flesh ripple—then gripped her hips.
The head nudged her soaked entrance. She was burning hot, slick lips parting eagerly.
Slow push. Inch by inch into paradise—tight despite years, walls rippling around him, sucking him deeper. Her juices coated his shaft instantly, dripping down his balls.
"Fuck… so full," she gasped.
He began to thrust—long, deep strokes, pulling almost out to feel her lips cling, then slamming home. The table creaked. Her ass slapped against his hips with wet smacks. Each plunge stirred her creamy arousal, frothing at the base of his cock.
He reached around, pinching her swinging tits, rolling fat nipples while pounding harder. Her pussy fluttered, another orgasm building.
"Cum on my cock, Sera. Milk me."
She shattered again—walls spasming, squirting lightly around his shaft, soaking his thighs.
Liam roared, burying deep and flooding her. Pulse after pulse of thick seed painting her womb, overflowing to trickle down her trembling legs.
They collapsed together, panting. But round two followed on the floor—her riding him slowly, massive breasts bouncing hypnotically, pink pussy swallowing his length with obscene wet sounds, until they both came again in a sweaty, sticky mess.
Sera was his now—hypnotized into craving him, body and soul.
One Greyson MILF claimed.
Across the river, the Blackwater side smelled constantly of fresh-ground flour and old blood.
Liam disguised himself as a flour-dusted mill hand to approach her: Widow Lyna Blackwater, thirty-nine, once the stolen Greyson bride.
Taken on her wedding day in 1272, she'd returned a year later heavy with a Blackwater child, whetstone smile sharp as her knives. Now she lived in the mill itself, sharpening blades for Old Marta while raising her half-blood son.
Her body was a war trophy made divine: breasts swollen even larger from motherhood, straining her flour-stained smock until laces threatened to snap. Hips bred for bearing, ass thick and heart-shaped from years bent over grindstones. And between her thighs—Liam learned soon enough—a perpetually dripping pink pussy that wept at the slightest provocation, as if her body remembered captivity and craved it still.
He met her in the mill's shadowed loft, hypnosis already seeded from stolen glances across the river.
The wheel turned below them, rhythmic splash masking her gasps as he pressed her against a flour sack.
Fabric ripped. Her huge tits tumbled free—pale, dusted white, nipples dark and leaking faint beads from old milk memory when aroused. He sucked them greedily, flour coating his tongue as he nursed, tasting sweet grain and warm skin.
Lyna's hands fumbled his breeches. "Need you inside me… now."
He spun her, bending her over the sacks. Skirts hiked, that legendary ass bared—plush cheeks parted to reveal her secret: glistening pink folds already swollen, thick strands of arousal stretching as she spread.
He plunged in—no teasing this time. One brutal thrust into soaking heat. Her walls gripped like a vice, milking him instantly.
The mill's grind matched their rhythm: slap of flesh, squelch of her sopping cunt, her moans rising over the wheel's groan. Flour puffed around them with every impact, coating their joined bodies white.
He fucked her savagely yet tenderly—hands mauling her swinging breasts, pinching nipples until she squirted down her thighs. Her ass rippled endlessly, cheeks reddening from his grip.
She came twice—pussy clenching, gushing hot floods that soaked the flour beneath them—before he filled her again, seed mixing with her cream to leak in thick rivulets.
As they lay spent amid the dust, Lyna whispered, "The feud ends when I say… or when you take us all."
Liam smiled. Both sides would fall to him—sexually, utterly.
The mill kept turning. Grinding rye, grinding hatred, now grinding desire into something new.
Old Marta watched from the shadows, billhook in hand… but even she felt a strange warmth when the stranger's eyes met hers.
Soon.