The drumbeat was a heartbeat.
Lowcrag Hollow's central square pulsed under the dying light of dusk, every villager crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, their breath fogging in the crisp autumn air. Torches ringed the space, flames licking upward like hungry tongues, casting long shadows across weathered faces. At the heart of it all stood the tithe-altar: a slab of ancient black stone, waist-high, its surface etched with faint runes and permanently stained from centuries of offerings. No one spoke of what those stains truly were, but everyone knew.
The village had paid the Tithe of Flesh for generations. One night each harvest, a volunteer gave their body to the chosen Tithe-Bearer, a stranger selected by the elders under the Forest Spirit's guidance. Refuse, and the crops withered overnight. Accept, and the valley bloomed. Simple. Brutal. Necessary.
Tonight, the drums slowed to a heavy, expectant thud.
Mira stepped forward.
At thirty-eight, the blacksmith's widow was built like the weapons she forged: broad-shouldered, thick-thighed, unyielding. Her arms were corded from years at the anvil, her skin perpetually dusted with soot that clung to the sweat along her collarbone. Her breasts—massive, heavy HH-cups—strained against the laces of her worn leather apron, threatening to spill free with every breath. Wide hips flared beneath a coarse wool skirt, the kind of body that had birthed three strong sons and still turned heads in the market. Her dark hair was tied back in a practical braid, strands escaping to frame a face that was all hard lines and quiet defiance.
Her husband had died two winters ago, crushed beneath a fallen beam in the forge. Since then, no man in the village had dared approach her. They feared her strength, her grief, the way she could stare a man down until he looked away. But tonight, her gray eyes burned with something else.
"I pay the tithe," she said, her voice rough as gravel, carrying over the silent crowd.
A murmur rippled through the villagers. Heads turned. The elders nodded gravely from their raised platform.
The crowd parted like water.
I walked through the gap they made, naked as the day I was born, my cock already rigid and swaying heavy between my thighs. Eleven inches of thick, veined meat, the shaft thicker than most men's wrists, crowned by a fat purple head that glistened with a constant bead of precum. It hadn't softened since I'd stumbled into this valley three days ago, drawn by whispers of the tithe and the Spirit's call. The villagers stared—women with wide eyes and parted lips, men with unease or envy. A young girl near the front swayed and fainted into her mother's arms.
I stopped in front of the altar, letting the torchlight play over every inch of me. My body was lean and scarred from years on the road, but it was the cock that held them captive. Veins pulsed along its length; the heavy balls beneath hung low, full and churning.
Mira's gaze dropped to it immediately. Her throat worked as she swallowed. Her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip—an unconscious, hungry gesture.
"Strip," I said. My voice was low, calm, carrying the weight of command.
She didn't hesitate.
First went the leather apron, unbuckled and tossed aside with a heavy thud. Then the linen blouse beneath, pulled over her head in one motion. Her breasts spilled free—enormous, pale globes veined faintly blue, capped with wide brown areolas and thick nipples already stiffening in the cool air. They bounced heavily as they settled, drawing gasps from the crowd. Next, the skirt—unfastened and kicked away, revealing thick, powerful thighs and a thatch of dark curls between them, already glistening.
She stood naked now, gooseflesh rising across her skin, but her chin stayed high. Defiant. Proud.
I circled her slowly, letting the villagers see every angle. The curve of her back, the dimples above her ass, the way her tits hung full and heavy. When I stopped behind her, I reached around and cupped one breast, testing its weight. It overflowed my palm easily. My thumb brushed the nipple; she inhaled sharply.
Then I slid my hand lower, between her thighs. Two fingers parted her folds without ceremony.
She was soaked. Dripping. Her cunt lips were plump and swollen, slick heat coating my fingers instantly.
"Already eager," I murmured, loud enough for the front row to hear. A few women flushed; men shifted uncomfortably.
Mira's only response was a low growl in her throat.
"On the altar," I ordered. "Ass up."
She moved without protest, climbing onto the stone slab and bending forward. Her hands gripped the far edge, knuckles white. Her heavy breasts flattened against the cold surface, nipples scraping runes. She spread her legs wider, presenting herself—thick ass cheeks parted, revealing a tight pink slit framed by dark curls, already weeping juices down her inner thighs.
The village held its collective breath.
I stepped up behind her, fisting my cock once to spread the precum over the head. It throbbed in my grip, angry and impatient. I notched the fat crown against her entrance, feeling her heat pulse against me.
One slow push.
The head met resistance—her cunt was tight, unused for years—but then it popped past her lips with a lewd, wet *schluck*. Mira's back arched violently; a guttural moan tore from her throat, echoing across the square.
"Seven hells—it's splitting me—"
I didn't stop. I fed her inch after thick inch, watching her pussy stretch obscenely around my girth. The lips clung to every vein, dragged outward with each shallow thrust, then swallowed again. Her inner walls fluttered and spasmed, trying to accommodate the invasion. When half my length was buried, she was already panting like a forge bellows, sweat cutting clean trails through the soot on her skin.
More. Deeper.
I gripped her wide hips—fingers sinking into soft flesh—and pulled her back as I drove forward. Eight inches. Nine. Ten. Finally, my balls slapped heavily against her clit, the full eleven inches seated to the hilt inside her. Her cunt bulged visibly around the base, a lewd outline of my cock pressing against her lower belly from the inside.
Mira's head dropped between her shoulders. A broken whimper escaped her.
Then I started fucking her.
Long, savage strokes at first—pulling almost all the way out until only the head remained, then slamming home with a wet *plap* that echoed like a hammer on anvil. Each thrust lifted her knees off the altar for a split second. Her massive tits swung like pendulums beneath her, nipples scraping stone. The crowd chanted the old words now, a low rhythmic drone that matched my rhythm:
"Flesh for the harvest… seed for the soil…"
But all I heard was the obscene symphony of our joining: the wet squelch of her cunt gripping me, the heavy slap of my balls against her clit, Mira's escalating cries.
"Too—fuck—too thick—gonna break me—"
I reached forward, fisting her braid like reins, yanking her head back. Her spine arched deeper, changing the angle. Now every thrust ground against something inside her that made her eyes roll white.
Her first orgasm hit like a thunderclap.
Mira's entire body seized. Her cunt clamped down so hard I had to force my way through the spasms. A hoarse scream ripped from her throat as she squirted—a hot gush that sprayed my balls and dripped onto the altar. Her thighs shook violently; her arms gave out, upper body collapsing forward while her ass stayed high, impaled.
I didn't slow.
I fucked her through it, harder, faster. The altar rocked beneath us. Her second climax followed almost immediately, then a third—each one wringing more broken pleas from her lips.
"Please—more—ruin me—"
The villagers watched in stunned silence now, the chant faltering. Some women pressed thighs together; men adjusted bulging crotches. No one looked away.
I felt my own release building, balls drawing tight. With a final series of brutal thrusts, I buried myself to the root and came.
The first rope was a firehose—thick, hot seed blasting directly against her cervix. Pulse after pulse followed, flooding her womb until I could feel the pressure building inside her. When I finally pulled back an inch, cum surged out around my shaft in a creamy torrent, splattering her thighs and the altar in pearly ropes.
I drew out slowly, inch by inch, watching her ruined cunt gape—red, swollen, unable to close. A river of my spend poured from her, thick and white, pooling beneath her on the sacred stone.
Mira stayed bent over the altar, trembling, chest heaving. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused. Slowly, she slid off the edge and dropped to her knees in the puddle of our mixed fluids.
She looked up at me, face flushed and streaked with sweat.
"The tithe…" she rasped, voice hoarse from screaming, "…is paid."
Then, without prompting, she leaned forward. Her tongue darted out, lapping a thick strand of cum from the underside of my still-hard cock. She followed it upward, cleaning the shaft with long, worshipful strokes, gathering every drop that coated me. When she reached the head, she opened wide and sucked it clean, throat working to swallow the last remnants.
The crowd finally exhaled—a collective release of tension.
Mira pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny.
"But I'll pay it again tomorrow," she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear. "Every night. Just say the word."
I looked past her, scanning the faces in the torchlight. Other women—curvy healers, prim mayor's wives, tavern wenches with knowing smiles—met my gaze and quickly looked away, cheeks burning.