A/N: You people are perverts! I never had many collection in a single chapter within a single day!
At least comment bruh.
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The morning after that second night in the Wheat Sheaf Inn dawned gray and heavy, the kind of Asuran autumn day where the wheat fields seemed to hold their breath under low clouds.
Zenith Greyrat slipped back into her own bed just before dawn, body still humming with the memory of Mike's thick cock, her inner thighs sticky despite the hurried wipe she had given herself in the tavern room.
Paul slept soundly beside her, one arm flung across the pillow, snoring softly. She lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling beams, feeling every subtle shift in her own flesh.
Something had changed.
Her body no longer felt like her own. The soft, familiar ache she had known for years—the gentle throb after a night with Paul, the easy satisfaction of her own fingers on quiet afternoons—had been overwritten.
Now there was a deep, hollow need low in her belly, a greedy emptiness that pulsed between her legs like a second heartbeat. Her pussy felt… different. Swollen still, yes, but also *alive* in a way it never had been.
The walls inside her seemed to flutter at nothing, clenching around emptiness, remembering the brutal stretch of Mike's girth, the way the thick head had kissed her cervix with every slow, deliberate thrust.
Even the faint bruises on her ass from his gripping fingers sent little sparks of heat straight to her core when she shifted under the sheets.
She tried to ignore it. She really did.
Three days later, in the quiet of the bathhouse behind the Greyrat home, Zenith gave in to the experiment.
Steam curled from the wooden tub as she sank into the hot water, one hand drifting down between her thighs.
Her fingers—slender, practiced—circled her clit the way they always had. Slow, then faster.
Two fingers slid inside her slick folds, pumping gently, curling to find that spot Paul sometimes brushed. It felt… bland. Mechanical.
The pleasure was there, a shallow ripple, but it never built into the crashing waves Mike had dragged from her.
Her hips rocked against her hand, water sloshing, but after ten long minutes she gave up with a frustrated whimper.
Her clit was swollen and sensitive, her juices coating her fingers, yet the deep, full satisfaction she craved refused to come. She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, angry at her own body for betraying her so completely.
That same evening, after Rudeus had gone to bed and Lilia had retired with a quiet "Goodnight, Mistress,"
Zenith made a decision. *Paul is my husband. This is what I chose.* She would let him have her tonight. It would fix everything. She would remember why she had married him.
Paul's eyes lit up when she climbed into bed wearing only her thin nightgown, the fabric clinging to her full breasts and the curve of her hips.
"Zenith… are you sure?" he whispered, voice hopeful, hands already sliding up her thighs. She nodded, pulling him on top of her, legs parting out of habit.
He entered her slowly, the way he always did—gentle, loving, familiar.
His cock—average in length and girth, the one that had once felt perfect—slid into her wet heat with almost no resistance.
Zenith closed her eyes, trying to lose herself in the rhythm. Paul groaned softly, hips rolling in that steady, comfortable pace he favored.
His mouth found her breasts, sucking one nipple while his hand kneaded the other. She felt the pressure, the warmth, the familiar slide… but nothing more. No building fire.
No desperate need to claw at his back. The deep, cervix-kissing fullness was simply *gone*. She rocked with him, moaning softly for his sake, but inside she was screaming.
Her body wanted *more*—thicker, harder, deeper, rougher. Paul's thrusts felt like teasing brushes against the edges of what she now needed.
She came close once, a faint flutter, but it slipped away like smoke. When Paul finally shuddered and spilled inside her with a low groan, Zenith lay beneath him, staring at the ceiling, tears pricking her eyes in the dark. No orgasm. Not even close.
She patted his back, whispered "I love you," and waited until his breathing evened into sleep before slipping out of bed to wash herself again, Mike's memory burning hotter than ever.
Four days. That was all it took.
By the fifth night after the tavern room, the "just once" promise she had whispered to herself felt like a cruel joke, a curse carved into her own flesh.
She lay beside Paul again, body on fire. Her nipples were stiff against the nightgown, rubbing with every breath. Her pussy throbbed constantly, slick and empty, clenching around nothing.
She pressed her thighs together, rolled her hips subtly, but it was useless.
Masturbation had become a hollow ritual; Paul's lovemaking a disappointing echo. Her body *needed* to be fucked full—stretched wide, pounded deep, claimed by something thick and unrelenting. By *him*.
Sleep refused to come. She tossed for hours, sheets tangled around her legs, one hand sneaking between her thighs again and again only to pull away in frustration.
At one point she almost woke Paul, almost begged him to try harder, but the thought of another unsatisfying round made her stomach twist with shame.
Instead she slipped out of bed near midnight, pacing the dark kitchen, fingers digging into the wooden table as a fresh gush of arousal trickled down her inner thigh.
"Milis, forgive me," she whispered, but the prayer felt empty. All she could think about was Mike's scarred chest, his heavy balls slapping against her, the way his cock had made her see stars.
The next afternoon, while Paul was out training village guards and Rudeus was playing with Sylphiette near the river, Zenith's feet carried her back to the Wheat Sheaf Inn before she could talk herself out of it.
Her heart hammered as she stepped inside. The tavern was nearly empty—only old Gerd wiping mugs behind the bar, and Mike sitting at his usual stool, broad back to the door, muscular arms resting on the scarred wood.
He turned the moment she entered. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his rugged face, dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
It was as if he had been waiting for her. The look made her cheeks burn with humiliated heat—she hated how right he was, how obvious her need must be.
Zenith approached on unsteady legs, sitting on the stool right beside him instead of leaving space.
Her khaki skirt rode up slightly against the wood. She fidgeted with the edge of her white corset, blonde ponytail swaying as she glanced around.
Before she could even open her mouth to speak, Mike's large, callused hand slid boldly under the bar and cupped the perfect, rounded swell of her ass through the skirt. His fingers squeezed once, firm and possessive, thumb brushing the cleft.
Zenith startled, a soft gasp escaping her lips. Her first instinct wasn't to slap his hand away or slap his face. It was to whip her head around, blue eyes wide, scanning the room for witnesses.
The tavern was empty except for Gerd, who had disappeared into the back storeroom, humming an old drinking song. No one else. She let out a shaky sigh of relief, then turned back to Mike and glared—though the glare held no real anger, only flustered heat and desperate want.
Mike didn't flinch. His smirk deepened, scars pulling across his bronze skin. He leaned in close, breath warm against the shell of her ear, voice a low rumble that sent shivers straight to her core. "I know what you want, Zenith. Let's go upstairs and… discuss it, okay?"
She nodded before she could stop herself, cheeks flaming crimson. No words. Just the frantic, needy little bob of her head.
Mike stood, taking her hand openly now that the room was empty, and led her up the creaky stairs to the exact same room. The door clicked shut behind them. Lantern light flickered to life.
Mike wasted no time. He unbuckled his wide leather belt with a metallic clink, shoved his trousers down his thick thighs, and let his heavy cock spring free.
It was already half-hard, thickening rapidly under her gaze—eight thick inches of veined, bronze meat, the broad head flushed dark and glistening at the tip.
"You sucked me so good last time," he said, voice rough with hunger, "but I want to *feel* it properly this time. On your knees, beautiful. Worship it like you do your husband's… only better."
The words sent a shameful thrill through her. Without hesitation Zenith dropped to her knees on the rough floorboards, skirt pooling around her boots.
Her perfectly manicured hands—still bearing the faint calluses of garden work—reached up and wrapped around his thick shaft.
Her fingers barely met around the girth. She leaned in, inhaling his musky, masculine scent, then pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss to the leaking tip.
Then she began.
Her tongue swirled around the swollen head in slow, wet circles, lapping up the salty precum like it was nectar.
She treated it exactly like Paul's—devoted, loving, eager—but the size made it filthier, more thrilling. Her lips stretched wide as she took the head into her mouth, sucking gently at first, cheeks hollowing. Wet, obscene sounds already filled the small room: soft *schlurp* and *slurp* as her saliva coated him.
She bobbed deeper, taking inch after inch, tongue pressing flat along the underside, tracing every bulging vein. When the head bumped the back of her throat she didn't pull back. She relaxed, swallowed, and pushed forward until her nose brushed the dark hair at his base and her throat convulsed around him.
"Fuuuck, Zenith…" Mike groaned, one big hand gently cradling the back of her blonde head, not forcing, just guiding.
"That's it… take every inch like a good girl."
Saliva poured from the corners of her stretched lips, dripping in thick strings down her chin, onto the swell of her corset-covered breasts.
She pulled back with a wet *pop*, gasping for air, strings of spit connecting her swollen lips to his glistening cock.
Then she dove back in, faster, sloppier. Her head bobbed with lewd, rhythmic noises—*gluck-gluck-gluck*—as she deepthroated him repeatedly, gagging softly each time her throat bulged around the invasion.
One hand stroked the thick base in twisting motions while the other gently rolled his heavy balls, feeling them tighten in her palm.
She looked up at him the entire time, blue eyes watery and lust-drunk, mascara-like tears clinging to her lashes. The sight of this elegant, married Milis woman on her knees, ponytail bouncing, face messy with spit, worshipping a hunter's cock like it was her new religion—it made Mike's thighs tremble.
She sucked harder, humming around him, the vibrations traveling straight down his shaft.
Her tongue never stopped moving—flicking the sensitive frenulum, swirling the head on every upstroke.
More spit cascaded down, soaking his balls, dripping onto the floor in a growing puddle. She took him so deep her nose pressed into his pubic bone again and again, holding there, swallowing around him until her throat milked his cock in rhythmic contractions.
Mike's hand tightened in her hair. "I'm close—fuck, your mouth is too good—"
Zenith didn't pull away. She sucked even more eagerly, eyes locked on his, silently begging for it. With a guttural groan Mike erupted. Thick, hot ropes of cum blasted straight down her throat—salty, bitter, copious.
She swallowed every pulse greedily, throat working visibly, not spilling a single drop. When the last spurt faded she kept sucking gently, milking him dry, tongue cleaning every inch of the shaft, the head, even lapping at his balls until he was spotless and twitching.
Only then did she sit back on her heels, lips shiny and swollen, chin and neck glistening with spit and traces of him. She looked utterly debauched—and utterly satisfied with herself.
Mike didn't give her time to recover. He hauled her to her feet, spun her around, and pushed her face-down onto the bed.
Zenith's hands caught the sheets as her knees hit the mattress, ass raised high. He flipped her skirt up over her back, yanked her soaked panties down to her knees in one rough motion, and kicked her legs wider.
"Such a perfect fucking ass," he growled, palming the smooth, pale globes. Then his hand cracked down—*SMACK*—a sharp, stinging slap that made her flesh jiggle and bloom pink.
Zenith cried out, but the sound was pure pleasure, her pussy clenching hard and dripping a fresh string of arousal onto the sheets.
He slapped the other cheek—*SMACK*—harder. She moaned louder, pushing back against his hand, silently begging for more.
Mike grinned, gripping his still-hard cock and rubbing the thick head up and down her soaked slit, coating himself in her juices.
Then he thrust in.
One long, powerful stroke buried him to the hilt. Zenith's mouth fell open in a silent scream of ecstasy as her walls stretched wide around his girth again, the blunt head slamming against her cervix.
He didn't start slow this time. He *railed* her—hard, deep, relentless strokes that made the bed slam against the wall. The wet *plap-plap-plap* of his hips meeting her ass filled the room, louder than her moans.
His hand kept slapping—*SMACK SMACK SMACK*—alternating cheeks, turning her pale skin a bright, glowing red.
Each impact sent jolts of stinging pleasure straight to her clit. She loved it. She *pushed back* into every thrust, ass rippling, crying out
"Yes—harder—Mike—please!" Her heavy breasts swung beneath her, nipples dragging against the rough sheets. Sweat beaded on her back. Her ponytail had come loose again, golden hair sticking to her flushed face.
Mike gripped her hips bruisingly, pounding her with primal force. The angle let him hit that perfect spot inside her over and over.
Zenith came within minutes—hard, gushing around his cock, walls spasming so violently she nearly collapsed. He didn't stop.
He fucked her through it, through a second orgasm that left her sobbing into the mattress, then a third that made her squirt messily down her thighs.
Only when her legs were shaking uncontrollably did Mike finally growl his release.
He pulled out at the last second, stroking his slick cock furiously until thick ropes of cum painted her reddened ass cheeks and lower back in hot, sticky stripes.
Zenith collapsed forward, panting, body limp and utterly satisfied for the first time in days.
Mike stroked her hair gently, the contrast between the rough fucking and tender touch making her heart twist with confusing warmth.
She knew, even as the afterglow settled over her, that "just once" had become a distant, broken dream. Her body had been changed forever. And the craving… the craving was only growing stronger.