The longhouse veranda felt ten degrees hotter than the morning air warranted. The signed trade papers lay neatly stacked on the wooden table—silk bolts, spice sacks, iron tools, and a small velvet pouch of enchanted vibrators now officially part of the village inventory. Zara leaned back in her chair, legs crossed elegantly under her flowing crimson silks, gold bangles glinting as she tapped one finger on the armrest. Her dark eyes never left Shabi.
"You promised a demonstration," she said, voice low and smooth like aged wine. "A proper sealing of the deal. On this table. Now."
The village chief Mara sat frozen at the head of the table, cheeks flushed crimson, still recovering from her silent orgasm under Shabi's fingers minutes earlier. The caravan guards—six armored women—stood in a loose semicircle at the veranda steps, eyes wide but disciplined. Villagers gathered beyond them in a growing semicircle, whispering, touching themselves openly now that the "official" part was over.
Shabi stood, cock already fully erect again, still glistening from Kira's throat. He glanced at his harem—Mila and Rena kneeling behind him, tits leaking in anticipation; Kira wiping her chin with a satisfied smirk; Lira standing serene, robe open; Elara hovering above the table, tiny wings fluttering, vibrator humming softly.
He looked back at Zara. "Pick your spot, merchant queen. And pick who gets fucked on it."
Zara's lips curved. She uncrossed her legs, stood slowly—silks whispering against her dark skin—and walked around the table. She stopped beside Mara, placed one hand on the chief's shoulder, and pushed her chair back gently.
"Not her," Zara said. "She's already had her fun." Her gaze settled on Mila—the busty cowkin still on her knees, breasts heavy and dripping. "Her. The milk cow. I want to see you drain her while you fuck her senseless on my new trade table."
Mila whimpered softly, ears twitching, tail swishing. "Yes… please… use me to seal it…"
Shabi grinned. "You heard the lady."
He scooped Mila up effortlessly—her thick thighs wrapping around his waist, massive tits squishing against his chest—and carried her to the center of the long table. He laid her on her back, legs spread wide, skirt hiked to her waist. Her pussy was already swollen and dripping from the morning's teasing, soft brown curls matted with fresh arousal.
Zara stepped closer, leaning over the table edge to watch. "Make it messy. I want to see milk and cum mix on my paperwork."
Shabi didn't hesitate.
He gripped Mila's horns like handles, lined himself up, and thrust in one smooth, deep stroke.
Schlick.
Mila mooed loudly—back arching off the table, breasts bouncing heavily. Milk sprayed in twin arcs from her nipples—pssshhh-pssshhh—splattering the signed papers, the spice sacks, Zara's silks.
Zara laughed—low, throaty. "Perfect. Keep going."
Shabi fucked her hard—long, punishing strokes that rocked the entire table. Each thrust forced a wet squelch from Mila's cunt, her juices mixing with milk on the wood. He leaned down, latched onto one leaking nipple, and sucked greedily while pounding deeper.
Mila cried out. "Ahh—master—too deep—gonna leak everywhere—!"
Shabi popped off the nipple, milk dribbling down his chin. "That's the point, cow slut. Leak for the whole caravan. Show them what happens when you trade with me."
He reached under her ass, lifted her hips higher—angling to hit her front wall with every slam. Mila's moans turned to desperate moos, tail thrashing, pussy clenching rhythmically.
Zara dipped two fingers into a puddle of milk on the table, brought them to her lips, and tasted. "Sweet. Rich. I might take a barrel of this back with me."
Shabi laughed between thrusts. "You want milk? I'll give you a whole dairy farm. But first…"
He sped up—brutal, relentless—cock pistoning, balls slapping Mila's ass. The table creaked dangerously.
Mila came hard—pussy clamping like a fist, squirting in messy arcs that soaked Shabi's groin and the papers beneath her. Milk sprayed wildly from both tits—covering Zara's hands, the guards' armor, even splashing a few villagers who leaned too close.
Shabi didn't stop.
He pulled out mid-orgasm—cock slick and throbbing—flipped Mila onto her stomach, ass up, and slammed back into her pussy from behind.
Slap-slap-slap.
Mila screamed into the table, horns scraping wood. "Yes—fuck—breed me again—fill me in front of them—!"
Shabi grabbed her tail, yanked it like a leash, and unloaded—thick ropes pumping deep, overflowing, dripping down her thighs in creamy white rivers that mixed with milk on the table.
When he finally pulled out, cum bubbled from her gaping cunt, pooling with milk in a lewd swirl on the papers.
Zara leaned down, scooped a mix of cum and milk onto two fingers, and licked them clean—eyes locked on Shabi's.
"Deal sealed," she said softly. "And I'll be back next month… with a bigger caravan. And perhaps… a personal order."
Shabi grinned, cock still dripping. "Bring friends. I've got plenty of room on the table."
The guards shifted—some flushed, some openly rubbing thighs together.
Zara turned to her people. "Load up. We leave at dusk."
She looked back at Shabi one last time. "Until next trade, idiot farmer."
Shabi winked. "Bring your best vibrators. And your wettest panties."
Zara laughed—full and rich—and walked away, silks swaying, leaving a trail of milk drops behind her.
Mila stayed bent over the table, panting, leaking.
Shabi patted her ass. "Good cow. Who's cleaning the table?"
Kira crawled forward eagerly. "Me. With my tongue."