Coop woke to the first light of dawn filtering through the thin curtains of his new bedroom, his body still humming from the unexpected intensity of the previous evening. Marta's visit had been more than a neighborly welcome—it had left him sated, sore in the best ways, and oddly motivated. He stretched, feeling the pull in his muscles, and glanced at the table where they'd coupled. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he dressed in simple work clothes: sturdy trousers, a linen shirt that clung to his broad frame from the morning humidity.
The farm called to him. His Breed Farmer senses tingled as he stepped outside, the soil under his boots alive with potential. The seeds he'd planted last night—stamina apples in the front field, blushberries tucked away in a shaded corner—were already stirring, tiny roots questing downward. He could feel their needs: water, nutrients, care. Coop spent the morning tilling a new plot, his hands sinking into the earth, dirt caking under his nails. It was meditative, grounding. No palace intrigues, no judgmental stares from academy professors who couldn't understand why a prince would choose mud over magic. Just him and the land.
By midday, sweat beaded on his sun-kissed skin, his shirt sticking to the defined lines of his chest and back. He was hauling water from the well when he heard voices—youthful, curious—drifting over the fence from Marta's side.
"Hey, mister! You the new farmer?"
Coop looked up to see two kids peering over the wooden slats: a boy about sixteen, lanky with a mop of dark hair like his mother's, and a girl maybe fourteen, with braids and a smattering of freckles. Bram and Leni, he recalled from Marta's warnings. They were grinning, eyes wide with the unfiltered nosiness of village youth.
"That's me," Coop called back, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "Coop. Your mom's already filled me in on you two."
Bram vaulted the fence easily, landing with a thud, while Leni scrambled over more carefully. "I'm Bram," the boy said, extending a hand. "This is Leni. Ma said you're some kind of special farmer. Can we see?"
Leni nodded enthusiastically, her eyes darting to the freshly tilled earth. "She said you have weird seeds. Like, magic ones?"
Coop chuckled, shaking Bram's hand—firm grip, like his mother's—and ruffling Leni's hair lightly. They were good kids, he could tell: energetic, helpful, with that innocent attachment that came from growing up in a small place where everyone was family, blood or not. "Not magic, exactly. But yeah, come on. Just don't trample the seedlings."
He showed them around, explaining the basics—how the stamina apples would boost energy for travelers, how the clarity herbs cleared the mind after a long day. The kids were immediately hooked, asking a barrage of questions. Bram helped haul a bucket of compost, muscles straining under the weight, while Leni pointed out spots where weeds were sneaking in. By the time the sun was high, they'd adopted him as a sort of honorary uncle, chattering about village gossip and promising to bring him goat milk later.
"Ma likes you," Leni said casually as they headed back to the fence. "She was humming this morning. She doesn't hum much."
Coop felt a flush creep up his neck, but he played it cool. "Your ma's a good neighbor. Tell her thanks again for the cheese."
Bram smirked, a knowing glint in his eye that made Coop wonder just how thin the walls were between farms. "Will do. See ya, Coop!"
As they disappeared, Coop shook his head, amused. Kids. He finished his morning work, then realized his supplies were running low—tools needed sharpening, and he could use some basics from the village. Millhaven was just a short walk down the King's Road, so he cleaned up minimally, still dirt-streaked but presentable, and set off.
The village was as sleepy as advertised: a cluster of thatched roofs, a central square with a well, the blacksmith's forge clanging away. Travelers dotted the scene—a merchant caravan resting horses, a couple of adventurers nursing ales outside the inn. Coop's destination was the general store for seeds and twine, but his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten properly since Marta's cheese.
The Dusty Boot loomed at the edge of the square, a sturdy two-story building with a sign swinging in the breeze: a boot caked in mud, fitting for a crossroads stop. The door creaked open to warmth and noise—laughter, the clink of mugs, the savory scent of stew bubbling. Behind the bar stood Helda Brauer, the innkeeper herself. She was a force: early forties, with a boisterous energy that filled the room. Her curves were generous, full hips swaying as she moved, breasts straining against a low-cut bodice that left little to the imagination. Golden hair piled high, a few strands escaping to frame a face with sharp cheekbones and a perpetual smirk. She was the heart of the place, barking orders to her staff while pouring drinks with practiced ease.
Coop approached the bar, intending to order quickly, but Helda spotted him immediately. "You! The new farmer down the road. Marta's been singing your praises already." Her voice boomed, warm and teasing, drawing a few chuckles from regulars.
He blinked, caught off guard. "Word travels fast. Just Coop. I need some supplies, but... yeah, food first."
Helda didn't ask; she ladled a steaming bowl of soup—thick with vegetables and chunks of meat—and slid it over with a hunk of bread. "On the house—well, half price for newcomers. Eat. You look like you've been wrestling the earth all morning."
Coop sat, grateful, and dug in. The soup was divine: hearty, spiced just right, warming him from the inside. Helda leaned on the bar, her ample cleavage pressing against the wood as she watched him with appraising eyes. "So, what's a strapping lad like you doing in Millhaven? Not many come here to farm. Most pass through."
He swallowed, meeting her gaze—bold, unflinching. "Needed a change. Got a unique class—Breed Farmer. Lets me grow things special."
Her eyebrows shot up, interest piqued. "Breed Farmer? Sounds... intriguing." She said it with a lilt, her eyes flicking over him, taking in the dirt-smudged shirt clinging to his muscles, the way his trousers hugged his thighs. The inn was bustling, but she lingered, chatting about village rhythms: market days on Wednesdays, the best times to avoid the Brewer boys' antics, how travelers brought news and coin.
As he finished the soup, the conversation flowed easily. Helda was a natural—boisterous, with a heart of gold under the bluster. She refilled his water without asking, her hand brushing his, sending a spark. Coop felt it again, that pull, his class sensing unspoken needs: companionship, perhaps, or something more primal. The inn quieted as the lunch rush thinned, and Helda wiped her hands on her apron. "You know, I've got a storeroom upstairs that could use a strong back. Supplies to shift. Care to help? I'll throw in a free ale."
Coop grinned, sensing the invitation. "Lead the way."
She locked the bar door for a "short break," her staff handling the rest, and guided him up creaky stairs to a cluttered room: barrels, crates, sacks of flour. The door clicked shut behind them, and Helda turned, her smirk turning predatory. "Truth be told, the supplies can wait. But you... you've got me curious, farmer boy."
Coop stepped closer, his hands finding her waist, pulling her in. She was soft, voluptuous, her body pressing against his with eager heat. "Curious about what?"
"This." Her hand slid down, cupping the bulge in his trousers, squeezing gently. Coop groaned, already hardening under her touch. She kissed him then—fierce, demanding, her tongue invading his mouth as she backed him against a stack of crates.
He responded in kind, hands roaming: up her skirts, finding smooth thighs and the damp heat between them. No undergarments—practical, or intentional? His fingers teased her folds, slick and ready, circling her clit until she gasped against his lips. "Gods, you're forward," he murmured.
Helda laughed, throaty and low, shoving his shirt up to expose his chest. She licked a trail down his neck, nipping at his collarbone while her hands worked his belt free. His cock sprang out, thick and veined, and she dropped to her knees, eyes gleaming. "And you're hung like a horse. Let's see how you taste."
Her mouth enveloped him—warm, wet, skilled. She sucked him deep, tongue swirling around the head, hollowing her cheeks as she bobbed. Coop's hands tangled in her hair, guiding but not forcing, hips thrusting shallowly. "Fuck, Helda..."
She hummed around him, the vibration sending jolts through his body. One hand stroked what her mouth couldn't reach, the other fondling his balls, rolling them gently. He was close already, the build-up from the morning's labor and now this— but she pulled back, lips glistening. "Not yet. I want you inside."
She stood, turning to brace against the crates, hiking her skirts up over her wide hips, presenting her ass—full, inviting. Coop didn't hesitate, positioning himself behind her, rubbing his cock against her wetness before sliding in slow, inch by inch. She was tight, hot, clenching around him as he bottomed out.
"Yes—harder," she demanded, pushing back.
He obliged, gripping her hips, thrusting deep and steady. The room filled with the slap of skin, her moans echoing off the walls. Coop reached around, fingers finding her clit again, rubbing in time with his strokes. Helda shuddered, her breasts heaving as she braced harder, one hand reaching back to pull him deeper.
It built fast—her walls fluttering, then clamping down as she came with a cry, soaking him. Coop followed, burying himself and spilling inside her, pulse after pulse.
They slumped together, breathing ragged. Helda straightened, adjusting her clothes with a satisfied grin. "Welcome to Millhaven, Coop. Come back anytime."
He laughed, tucking himself away. "I think I will."
As he left the inn, supplies forgotten but sated once more, Coop felt the rhythms of the village settling into his bones. This place was more than he'd bargained for—and he was just getting started.