Sunlight filtered through the tent's woven flaps, warming the furs where Taniel and Maria lay entwined. Maria stirred first, her body pressed back against his solid chest, his cock still nestled snug between her ass cheeks—semi-hard from morning arousal, the heat of it making her pulse quicken. She blushed fiercely, cheeks flaming as memories of the night flooded her: his musk overwhelming her senses, the flood of his cum down her throat, her repeated orgasms from scent and taste alone. Taniel's arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, his breath hot on her neck.
He grinned against her skin, nuzzling her ear before planting soft kisses along her cheek, then her forehead. His lips found hers in a tender press, tongue slipping in to tease hers briefly. Maria hummed into the kiss, pleasure vibrating through her as she kissed back, her hand reaching to cup his jaw. 'Good morning, my mare,' he murmured, pulling away just enough to meet her emerald eyes.
'Tonight, more pleasure awaits us,' he added, voice low and promising, his hand sliding down to squeeze her hip.
Her blush deepened, toes curling against the furs and rubbing together in eager anticipation, a fresh ache building between her thighs. She nodded, biting her lip, already imagining his thick cock stretching her mouth again—or more.
Taniel rose slowly, facing her as he dressed, making no effort to hide his body. His 9-inch shaft hung heavy between his legs, thick and veined, balls swaying low and full beneath. The musky scent wafted stronger in the morning air—earthy, potent, like fertile soil after rain—making Maria squirm on the furs. Her pussy clenched, wetness gathering as she stared, wanting to crawl forward and bury her face in it, inhaling until she came again. But she reined in the urge, forcing her gaze up to his amused eyes. Duties called; the workshop needed her focus to craft tools and furniture that would ease the tribe's daily labors.
He tied his loincloth last, the fabric bulging obviously over his endowment. Before stepping out, Taniel pulled her into a loving hug, his arms enveloping her nude form, then kissed her deeply, tongue claiming her mouth. His hand dipped to grope her ass, fingers kneading the firm cheeks, thumb brushing her cleft. Maria's toes curled tight in bliss, a sigh escaping as desire surged—she wanted nothing more than to drag him back to the furs, straddle his face, and grind until they both shattered. But she let him go, watching his broad back disappear toward the plains to check the traps for rabbits, squirrels, and other small game.
Stepping from the tent, the cool morning air kissed her skin. She slipped into a simple dress, barefoot as always, toes sinking into the dew-kissed earth. Clara and Mohova waited near the workshop, their grins wide and knowing as Maria approached, her fresh blush and the subtle glow of satisfaction radiating from her—like a woman thoroughly claimed.
'Did you sleep well, daughter?' Clara asked, emerald eyes twinkling like Maria's own, her red curls tied back for work.
Mohova, Taniel's mother, crossed her arms over her ample chest, her dark hair braided with feathers. 'Or did my son keep you up with his appetites?'
Maria's face turned crimson, but she nodded, trying for casual. 'We... began the rites last night. He massaged my feet, worshipped them until I could barely stand, then I returned the favor—walked his back, and... more.'
The women leaned in, eyes alight. 'All the details, girl,' Mohova urged bluntly. 'No skimping.'
With a heavily flushed face, Maria recounted it: the footjob and handwork, her mouth on his crown while her feet teased his balls and base; the way his musk hit her like a storm, making her cum from smell alone, eyes rolling back in that dazed expression. How she swallowed his massive load—nearly half a gallon—gulping it down as it overflowed, then licked it from her fingers and feet, the combination sending her into another orgasm before she collapsed.
Mohova laughed, a rich, throaty sound. 'Taniel takes after his father, Many Horses. Both hung like stallions—thick, enduring cocks that never tire. Both mad for pleasing their women, especially with feet in their mouths or under their hands. And both eager breeders, seeking wombs to fill with strong heirs.'
Maria gulped, blush spreading to her chest, her pussy twitching at the vivid image. Clara, ever practical, cleared her throat. 'And Taniel? Will he take only Maria, or... more women?'
Mohova hummed thoughtfully, wiping her hands on her skirt after setting a plank of wood straight. 'Ideal to have more children. The chief's line must endure unbroken—a strong bloodline needs multiple mares to bear sons and daughters. Taniel's spirit demands it; his stamina won't be sated by one alone.'
Clara nodded slowly, understanding flickering in her eyes. Maria, shy but honest, piped up. 'I... wouldn't oppose sister wives. Last night, he had me climaxing five times—scent, taste, everything—until I passed out. But he only came once and looked ready for rounds more. If he needs others to match that fire...'
Both women turned to her, surprised. Mohova's laugh returned, nodding approval. 'Wise words. Most men of the chief's blood are like that—endless seed, endless hunger. Your mother knows the strain of one man's drive.' Clara blushed faintly, glancing away, but nodded. 'If that's the path, we'll walk it together. A herd strengthens the tribe.'
The three women shared a moment of solidarity, then turned to the workshop. Hammers rang as they planed wood for shelves and benches, Maria's bare feet padding across the dirt floor, toes gripping tools for leverage. Clara measured beams for the house expansion, Mohova carving intricate patterns into doorframes—blending Hawthorne precision with Navajo motifs. The men—Elias teaching injured tribesmen to sand edges smoothly, Samuel and Thomas hauling timber—worked the fields and traps elsewhere. Laughter mingled with the scent of fresh-sawn pine, the day unfolding in productive rhythm.
None noticed the figure approaching from the eastern horizon, dust clinging to her worn rags. Sahari moved with weary determination, her dark ebony skin glistening with sweat under the rising sun. Tribal tattoos—swirling patterns of escaped kin from distant raids—marked her arms and thighs, a badge of survival. Around her neck hung a rusted shackle, chain dangling loose, remnants of the slavers who'd whipped her back raw and forced her into fields far south. She'd fled under moonless skies, driven by whispers of free lands where the Navajo guarded the plains like sacred herds.
Her bare feet, callused and scarred, carried her closer, heart pounding with hope and fear. The camp's smoke rose invitingly, voices carrying on the wind—laughter, not chains. Unknowingly, she headed toward salvation: a tribe that welcomed the broken, offering freedom, healing, and perhaps a place in their growing fold. As she crested a low rise, the tents and workshop came into view, her breath catching at the sight of women working side by side, children playing freely. She paused, hand to the shackle, steeling herself to step forward.