In the kingdom of Veydris, gold was a myth whispered by old men in taverns. The true currency was flesh. Women traded their bodies for bread, for a roof, for a single night without hunger gnawing at their ribs. Men sold their freedom, chaining themselves to lords or merchants for the promise of survival. It was a world where desire was taxed, and survival was a transaction.
Elaric Voss was born into the rare cradle of comfort. His father, Lord Cassian, ruled a modest keep in the verdant hills of Southreach, where the soil was rich and the women plentiful. Elaric's mother, Lady Seraphine, had been a beauty whose body had bought alliances before her marriage. She taught her son early: *Power is not in land or steel, but in what others crave.*
Elaric was twenty now, broad-shouldered, with raven hair and eyes like storm clouds. But his true inheritance was not the keep or the fields. It was the thick, heavy cock that strained against his breeches, a gift that had made serving girls blush and widows linger too long at the well. He could last hours, a rarity in a world where most men spent themselves in minutes, leaving their partners wanting.
Tonight, the keep's great hall was alive with the clink of tankards and the low hum of negotiation. A caravan had arrived from the drought-stricken north, bringing desperate women and men with hollow eyes. Lord Cassian sat at the high table, his ledger open. Beside him, Elaric watched as the transactions began.
A girl no older than eighteen was pushed forward by her father. Her name was Lira, her hair the color of wheat, her body slight but curved in all the ways that made men's mouths water. Her father, a broken farmer, spoke hoarsely. "She's untouched. Worth three months' grain and a mule."
Lord Cassian's quill scratched. "One month. And she serves the household."
Lira's eyes met Elaric's across the hall. There was fear there, but also something else—calculation. She knew the rules. Her body was her only coin.
Elaric's cock twitched. He leaned toward his father. "Let me inspect her. For quality."
Cassian's lips curled. "Go on, boy. Learn the trade."
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The inspection chamber was small, lit by a single tallow candle. Lira stood in the center, her simple dress clinging to her hips. Elaric circled her slowly, his boots echoing on the stone.
"Strip," he said, voice low.
Her fingers trembled as she obeyed, letting the dress pool at her feet. Her skin was pale, dusted with freckles across her small, high breasts. Her waist dipped inward before flaring to hips that begged to be gripped. Between her thighs, a thatch of golden curls glistened faintly—she was already wet, whether from fear or instinct, he couldn't tell.
Elaric stepped closer, his hand cupping her chin. "You know what's expected?"
She nodded, eyes fixed on the bulge in his breeches. "I've heard… stories. About you."
He smirked, unfastening his belt. His cock sprang free, thick as her wrist, veins pulsing along its length. Lira's breath hitched. He was longer than any man she'd glimpsed in the fields, the head already slick with anticipation.
"On your knees," he commanded.
She sank down, her small hands barely encircling his girth. Her tongue darted out, tentative at first, then bolder, tracing the ridge beneath his crown. Elaric groaned, threading fingers through her hair. She took him deeper, gagging softly as the head bumped the back of her throat, but she didn't pull away. Saliva dripped down her chin, mixing with the precum beading at his tip.
Minutes stretched. Most men would've spilled by now, but Elaric's stamina was legendary. He let her work him until her jaw ached, then pulled her up by the hair. "Bend over the table."
Lira obeyed, bracing her hands on the rough wood. Elaric kicked her legs apart, his fingers sliding through her folds. She was soaked, her body betraying her desperation. He notched his cock at her entrance, pausing.
"Beg."
"Please," she whispered, pushing back. "I need the grain. My brothers—"
He thrust in, one brutal stroke burying him to the hilt. Lira cried out, her walls clenching around his impossible thickness. He didn't give her time to adjust, pulling back and slamming in again, the table creaking beneath them. Her small breasts bounced with each impact, nipples scraping the wood.
Elaric's hands gripped her hips, fingers bruising. He fucked her with a rhythm that was almost cruel, each thrust driving her onto her toes. Her moans turned to sobs, then to pleas—not for mercy, but for more. When she came, it was with a shattered wail, her cunt spasming around him, juices dripping down her thighs.
He didn't stop. Hours passed, the candle burning low. He took her against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, then on the floor, her face pressed to the stone as he rutted into her from behind. By the time he finally spent himself, painting her insides with thick ropes of seed, Lira was a trembling mess, her body marked with his fingerprints and her own release.
Elaric pulled out, watching his cum leak from her swollen pussy. "You'll do," he said, fastening his breeches. "Three months' grain. And you'll warm my bed when I call."
Lira nodded weakly, already calculating her next transaction.
Word of Elaric's prowess spread. Soon, the keep was flooded with offers—noble daughters seeking favor, merchants' wives bartering secrets, even a widowed duchess who promised land for a single night. But Elaric's ambitions grew beyond the keep's walls. In Veydris, power was measured in bodies owned and broken.
His next conquest: the infamous Black Widow of Highmarket, a woman who bought men's freedom with her cunt and sold their souls for profit. They said she'd ruined a dozen lords. Elaric intended to make her beg.