A few minutes later, the baskets sat full beside them—heaping with moonwort, starblossom, and bloodroot—their fingers stained green and purple from the harvest. The forest air had warmed slightly, thick with the scent of crushed herbs, damp earth, and the unmistakable musk of mutual arousal that neither had acknowledged aloud.
She rose first, brushing dirt from her palms, then turned to him. Her hazel eyes locked onto his—dark, steady, burning with something far beyond neighborly courtesy.
"Elarion," she said, voice low and velvet-soft, "sit."
The single word carried quiet command. He obeyed without thought, lowering himself beneath the wide, ancient oak where the ground was carpeted in thick, cool grass—soft as velvet under his ass, springy beneath his palms. Sunlight dappled through the branches overhead, painting shifting golden patterns across her body as she stepped closer.
Without hesitation, she reached for the drawstring of his trousers. Her fingers—warm, slightly callused from years of work—tugged the knot loose. The fabric slid down his thighs in a slow, deliberate drag, cool air kissing his overheated skin. His cock sprang free at last—thick, veined, flushed dark crimson, the swollen head glossy with a steady sheen of pre-cum that dripped in long, viscous strings to the grass below. It bobbed heavily with his pulse, veins pulsing visibly along the rigid shaft.
She gathered her skirts in both hands, hiking the heavy wool up past her hips in one fluid motion. No undergarments. Just bare, flushed skin. Her pussy was a vision of obscene readiness: outer lips puffy and parted, inner folds glistening with a thick mixture of her earlier piss and fresh, slippery arousal. Her clit stood proud, engorged and dark pink, glistening like wet silk. A slow trickle of clear nectar slid from her entrance, trailing down the inside of one thigh before she straddled him.
She settled onto his lap in a single, controlled descent—hot, wet heat enveloping the head of his cock the instant it kissed her entrance. She didn't tease, didn't ease down gradually. She sank straight onto him, taking every thick inch in one long, relentless glide.
The sensation was blinding.
Her inner walls were molten velvet—scorching hot, slick, and impossibly tight—clenching around him like a fist as she swallowed him to the root. The blunt crown of his cock pressed hard against the firm mouth of her cervix, nudging her womb with insistent pressure. A low, guttural moan tore from her throat—raw, animal, vibrating through both their bodies. Her heavy breasts pressed against his chest through the thin shift, stiff nipples scraping against his shirt with every shallow breath.
She didn't move.
Not a roll of her hips. Not a single thrust.
She simply stayed there—fully impaled, pussy stretched wide around the base of his shaft, inner muscles fluttering and rippling along his length in tiny, involuntary spasms. Her wetness coated him completely, dripping down his balls in warm rivulets that soaked into the grass beneath them. The combined scent of her arousal and his leaking pre-cum filled the air—thick, heady, primal.
She pinned him in place with surprising strength—hands braced on his shoulders, thighs locked around his hips—refusing to let him thrust, refusing to let either of them chase release. Her breath came in soft, ragged pants against his ear, warm and sweet with the faint trace of honey from breakfast.
Then she lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes again—pupils blown wide, gaze fierce and vulnerable all at once.
"Tell me," she whispered, voice trembling on the edge of a moan, "do you want this… or do you want me to stop?"
Her pussy gave another hard, deliberate clench around him—squeezing the entire length of his cock from base to tip—like she was daring him to answer honestly while her body begged for the opposite.
She stayed perfectly still, pussy clamped around his throbbing cock like a velvet vice, inner walls fluttering in tiny, teasing spasms that milked him without mercy. Her heavy breasts rose and fell against his chest with each slow breath, stiff nipples scraping through fabric like little taunts. The scent of her—warm cunt, crushed herbs, faint winter pine—filled his lungs until he was dizzy with it.
Then she tilted her head, hazel eyes boring straight into his soul, lips curved in a dangerous, expectant smile.
"Do you know why I'm letting you fuck me like this?" she murmured, voice husky and low, each word vibrating down the length of his shaft. "Answer correctly, Elarion… and I might just decide to become your woman. Your warm, wet, willing woman. Every night. Every morning. Every filthy way you can imagine."
She gave one deliberate squeeze—her cervix kissing the tip of his cock like a promise.
"But answer wrong…" Her tone dropped to a velvet threat. "…and you can forget about ever touching this pussy again. I'll walk away and you'll spend the rest of your life jerking off to the memory of how good I felt wrapped around you. So. Think carefully."
Elarion's brain short-circuited. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His balls ached so badly he could feel them pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Every rational thought had drowned in a sea of hormones and pre-cum. He opened his mouth, throat dry, voice cracking like a teenager caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"B-because… I have a big cock?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Her eyes went flat. The sultry heat in them vanished like someone had flipped a switch. Her inner walls stopped fluttering—instead they gave one long, disappointed clench, the kind that said *really? That's your best shot?*
She stared at him for a long, agonizing second.
Then—without another word—she lifted herself off him in one smooth, brutal motion.
His cock slid free with an obscene, wet *schlick*, glistening with her juices, still rock-hard and bobbing pathetically in the cold air. A thick rope of their combined slick stretched between her dripping pussy and his tip, then snapped, splattering onto his thigh with a humiliating *plap*.
She stood up, face completely expressionless, like she'd just discovered her favorite tavern had run out of ale. Not angry. Not sad. Just… profoundly unimpressed.
She smoothed her skirt down over her glistening thighs—leaving a dark, wet patch right at the crotch—grabbed her herb basket with the dignity of a queen, turned on her heel, and walked away.
Hips swaying. Ass cheeks flexing under wool. Not a backward glance.
Elarion sat there under the oak tree, pants around his ankles, cock still standing at full, tragic attention like a sad flagpole in a windless storm, dripping forlornly onto the grass.
The forest birds chirped cheerfully overhead.
A single leaf fluttered down and landed directly on the head of his dick like the universe's cruelest party hat.
He stared at it.
Then he stared at the empty path where she'd disappeared.
Then back at his erection.
"…Well," he muttered to absolutely no one, voice small and defeated, "at least the answer was technically accurate."
Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel laughed at him.
Elarion sighed, pulled his trousers up over his still-throbbing, now-cold-and-lonely cock, and wondered if it was too late to go back to counting sheep.