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It always ends up like this.
Whenever Olivia crosses the threshold of the wizard’s tower, allowing herself to be enveloped in the warmth from his roaring fire, the sharp, spicy smell of the herbs hanging from the rafters, the bubbling concoctions in his giant caldron that always smell like the forest: crisp evergreen, sweet wildflowers, fresh, intoxicating mountain air—she always, always ends up like this.
His fingertips are burning pleasantly as they brush over her bare arms, but it is nothing compared to the fiery sensation of his lips as they pluck at the sensitive skin along her neck. She moans, and it's the sound of her own voice that jolts her back to reality, making her remember why she came here tonight, the speech she had practiced to herself as she made the long, dark trek across town and into the woods.
She had come to tell the wizard a very specific piece of information, and she had resolved to tell it to him face-to-face. Perhaps their strange, somewhat vacant, mutually beneficial relationship of sorts was rooted more in the physical delights than any other sort of pleasantries, but she was a woman of dignity, of honor (at least, she was until she met the wizard and succumbed to his literal charms), and she was determined to give him the explanation he deserves.
I am ending this. I have met someone else, and we have begun a romantic relationship, and I no longer feel comfortable continuing our meetings.
The wizard had run his hand over his beard, thoughtfully taking in this new information like the scientist he is—at least, that is what they would’ve called him in the city: a researcher, an experimenter. He had always seemed to regard her as a science project, keeping her at a certain distance while stimulating her in the most intimate ways known to man.
When she first encountered him in the woods, she had been frightened and quite rude when he appeared suddenly with a flash of light beside her, making her scream and drop her basket of mushrooms. But he had been apologetic for startling her, polite and restrained, and he had helped her gather up her harvest, seemingly undeterred by her suspicious questions.
Who the hell are you? What kind of person appears out of thin air—what kind of person wanders around the woods frightening people for no reason? You’re whom? The magician who lives in that horrible tower in the middle of the woods? What do you want with me?
Once she had regained her composure and her mushrooms, he had drawn her eyes to the forest, the hidden ways of the woods, the sunlight moving through the trees, moving in beams across the forest floor, the color palette of the field and sky and sea, and she had drunk this in, drunk in the world through his eyes, and when she mentioned her painting, he had shown interest, he had shown interest, when not a single soul in town had ever shown a true interest in her hobbies, and he had invited her to his tower for tea the next day, and she… had accepted. Against her better judgement, she had accepted his invitation, and his tea, and his touch.
His beard is tickling her skin as he presses a line of tender kisses across her back, from shoulder to shoulder, and Olivia bites her lip to keep from moaning again. There is soft music coming from the jukebox that sits hidden in the corner, tucked behind one of the many overgrown houseplants arranged throughout the cozy room, and the sweet strains of violin fill the silence between them. In all of their months together—nearly a year now, since that first meeting in the forest—the wizard has never been much of a talker. From time to time he will compliment her, telling her that her outfit is lovely today, or that her skin is remarkably soft, or that she is astonishingly beautiful—he never tells her anything she doesn’t already know—but he has always preferred to let his touch speak for himself, and tonight, his touch is loud and clear, and if she doesn’t stop him now, soon she will be returning the favor, loudly and enthusiastically.
“Wizard,” she warns through gritted teeth as deft fingers loosen the straps of her dress, letting them slip down over her shoulders. It is summer, and this is her favorite dress—light, elegant, red, and just the appropriate amount of sexy for everyday use. It shows off her toned arms and legs, the result of years of diet and exercise and yoga, and it reveals a tasteful amount of cleavage: enough to make her feel attractive and elegant at the same time.
The wizard simply hums pleasantly in reply to her warning, seemingly not deterred in the least. The dress had stayed in place despite his efforts, the material held up by the mere press of her impressive assets underneath, and also by its sheer tightness. She had chosen this dress because it fits her like a glove, showing off her curves, regardless of whether the expensive material is hiding or revealing them, and right now, it is seemly determined to do its job.
The wizard’s fingers are brushing over the tops of her breasts now, and his touch is intoxicating. Never mind that his lips have not let off plucking at her neck since the moment her pulled her into his arms, his presence and proximity doing unspeakable things to her, sending a dull heat to her lower belly—she knows he can feel her shifting in his lap, trying to relieve the pressure that is building between her legs, and yet he only gently presses her arms together so that the straps of her dress fall to her elbows—and perhaps also so that her breasts press together as well, the dress slipping down a few inches.
“Your perfume is lovely tonight. The summer air in enhances its floral notes.”
It is one of the wizard’s sparsely given compliments, but even Olivia knows it is a strategically placed distraction, because it is accompanied with a hot mouth sucking at her neck just how she likes it—and he knows she likes it—and she lets out a loud groan at the heat it sends through her, the sensations it sends through her, and at this precise moment, her dress fails at last, tugged down by a pair of hot wizard hands, and silky material pools around her waist, leaving miles of warm skin suddenly exposed to the spicy air of the wizard’s living room. At any given moment, some unsuspecting magical nobody might let himself through the front door and see the wizard sitting in his most comfortable reading chair, and her—Olivia Jenkins, one of the richest and most respected women in town—clasped in his lap like an exotic dancer, wearing only her bra, squirming in his arms like some kind of woman who travels to wizard’s homes and provides entertainment of a carnal nature.
“Gods, Magnus…”
The wizard hears her groan and seemingly takes this as an invitation to slip his hands underneath her bra, not even bothering to unclasp the thing, seemingly wanting his hands on her bare breasts as soon as possible. It’s a simple piece, silk and undecorated, the same shade of red as her dress, meant to lie invisible underneath. But it does a wonderful job of pressing her cleavage up, pressing her breasts together. When she is wearing the dress, only the smallest, most enticing hint of her breasts can be seen, but without the dress to cover her, her cleavage is now fully on display, the cups of her bra cut in a way to reveal the deep valley between her breasts, the edges of the material just barely covering her nipples, just the barest hint of her darker areolae visible at the edge of the material, and the cups are deep, heavy, straining to hold the weight underneath.
It was an expensive scrap of material, but it is beautiful, functional, comfortable—she treats herself to nothing but the best.
“Why, you sneaky little…” Olivia is gasping at his invasion, but his magical fingers are moving over her breasts now with some urgency, and she has to bite her lip, bite back whatever insult she was going to say lest she let out another needy moan, and maybe his hands are magical and his entire demeanor and aura makes her weak in the knees and muddled in the head, but he doesn’t need to know this.
“Are you… are you enjoying yourself?” she manages to ask. His hands are warm as they move inside the cups of her bra, warm and hungry and deliberate. The Wizard doesn’t answer, he is busy whispering against her shoulder in his low, seductive voice; his words are strange, and almost sound as if they are in a different language, and all at once she feels the strain of her bra straps against her shoulders, and realizes that he is whispering spells, and his hands are not just warm because of the red-hot blood pumping through his veins. The firm cups of her bra are expanding before her eyes, and not just because some wizard’s hungry hands are roaming around underneath, no, it’s because the material is actually expanding, getting bigger, and its because other things are also expanding and getting bigger, and Olivia lets out a gasp as her breasts begin to press out, the large swath of cleavage—it was already big enough before he started this nonsense—pressing forward, pressing up, pressing into his hands.
“How… how dare you—“ Olivia shrieks, squirming in his lap, struggling against his grasp, but her heart isn’t truly in it, any willpower she might have had against the wizard’s seductions were lost the moment he caught her wrist and guided her without invitation to this chair, the chair where too many of their illicit encounters began. “The gods will strike you down for tampering with perfection.”
“Perfection indeed,” the wizard rumbles, and she can just hear the smug smile on his face, emotion seeping into his voice for once. Her breasts are larger now than her head, and still his hands are caressing her, testing their weight, bouncing them slightly—she can see them jiggling in his hands, and it’s infuriating. She squirms all the more, trying desperately to ignore the fire racing through her veins, the wetness she can feel pooling between her legs.
“You can’t—what will the people, the other villagers—I’ll be the laughing stock—“
His hand have still not let off touching her, and her breasts have still not let off growing. She can feel their weight now, can actually feel them hanging off of her chest, feel her nipples straining, aching, needy and begging for attention.
“The other villagers should be honored to worship you as I do. They should be clamoring over themselves to kneel at your feet,” the wizard says pleasantly, giving her breasts a hard squeeze, making her gasp. But he doesn’t respond, only raises his head, and looks across the room expectantly. “Don’t you agree, Farmer?”
The words don’t register for a moment, they don’t register at all in Olivia’s buzzing mind until a shadow steps out from behind a large houseplant, and all at once, she finds herself staring back into the hungry face of her lover—was it only this very afternoon that she accepted their bouquet?—and a rush of confusion and shame floods her as she realizes that the farmer has been sitting there, hiding this entire time, and that they are now gazing down at her treacherous body as it lays hot and twisted in the arms of the wizard.
The farmer needs to stop hiding.
Time and time again, the farmer has found themself in horribly awkward positions, and instead of running away or revealing themself like a normal person, they promptly duck into the nearest available hiding spot, crouching down, hoping for the best, waiting for the moment to pass.
But this is not one of those moments.
Your lover approaches, the wizard had said in the middle of their meeting tonight. The farmer had been meeting with the wizard every Wednesday night to practice spells and charms and all matter of wizardry. And perhaps they could have timed this better, because all they wanted tonight was to be at Olivia’s doorstep, inside Olivia’s house, her wine cellar, her bedroom.
But the wizard is a busy man, and an appointment is an appointment.
This is not the day for her lessons. Some emergency must have happened, the wizard says, but he looks vastly amused, because they both know exactly what emergency that might be, the emergency of telling one’s illicit lover that another, more wholesome and upstanding lover has made themselves and their intentions known.
Stay here, veiled, the wizard commanded, gesturing for the farmer to sit on one of the low benches along the wall, hidden behind an overgrown houseplant, and then he straightened his robes and went to answer the door.
And it was Olivia, standing on the wizard’s doorstep in all her glory, looking harried and unhappy.
We must end this. I cannot see a way that we can continue meeting, even if we do not continue… that. I do not wish to dishonor the farmer.
The wizard had been polite and un-offended, taking her words in stride. And for a moment, Olivia seemed relieved, and she had relaxed, reaching out to grasp at the wizard’s backside through his robes.
Tell me you will miss me, she had said, her voice low and teasing. Tell me you will miss our encounters, that you will miss my body.
I will miss you and our encounters and your body, the wizard had said dutifully, but his hand had captured hers, and he didn’t let go. And all at once, he had drawn her to the infamous chair, the chair that is seated just on the other side of a very specific houseplant that tonight has been blessed with eyes.
And the farmer had watched as the wizard began to teach them a lesson of another sort, a lesson of how to seduce the most beautiful woman in Pelican Town, a lesson of how wholly she comes undone when her neck is kissed just so, a lesson of how sensitive her skin is, how she squirms with pleasure even as his warm palms move over her arms, a lesson in how she speaks to her lovers—a maddening mix of sultry and insulting, a lesson in how wonderful she looks when she is aroused, eyes closed, mouth open in wordless gasps at one moment, teeth biting into perfect lips to hold back a lustful moan at the next; she moves like a dancer in his lap, sinuous and strong, like she’s being paid to do this, and by the time he even begins to touch her in places that are considered private, she already is putty in his hands, gasping and moaning, trying to speak, and failing spectacularly.
It is the farmer’s first summer, and first romance since arriving in Stardew Valley. It was only this afternoon that they presented the most beautiful woman in town with a bouquet, and she had accepted with shining eyes and a blinding smile… but nothing further had happened. They had spoken together for hours, drinking wine and enjoying each other’s company, but no one had removed any articles of clothing. Olivia had spoken of wanting to visit the beach together, of showing off her new swimsuit, and the farmer had blushed, but there had been no offers to model said swimsuit, no talk of moving this conversation to the bedroom. And when the farmer left, they had kissed, and it had been warm and intimate and full of promises of soon, but it was clear that the time was not now.
All of this to say: this is the first time since the farmer’s move that they have seen a woman in a state of undress, in a state of passion like this. And it is magnificent.
The wizard pulls down her dress, and the farmer feels faint. There is not a living soul in Pelican Town who has seen that dress and not wondered what is underneath—for all of Olivia’s breathless protests about what the townspeople might think, surely she must be aware that they already think, and they do so in rather graphic detail.
She is wearing a bra underneath her dress like a proper woman, and if her new swimsuit looks even the slightest like this, then the farmer resolves—they are going to invite Olivia to the beach tomorrow, and not just any beach, a secluded beach, because this is a sight that they need to see again, immediately: full breasts straining against red silk, struggling to contain the assets hidden underneath, the most delectable of curves, and not just her breasts—as mind-numbing as they are—but the curve of her waist, her hips just begging to be grasped, her soft belly, her swaths of warm skin begging to be kissed, and her face… a mask of indignation and pleasure, a perfect mix. It wouldn’t suit a woman like this to be too… easy? A woman like this should never drop down to her knees and beg for lovemaking—no, a woman like this should incite something akin to fear and awe, she should be offended that such lowlifes have dared to look upon her in a state of undress like this, have dared to place their hands upon her, have dared to believe themselves worthy of pleasuring her. She is a Goddesss, and she needs to be worshipped.
The wizard has wasted no time shoving his magical hands down her bra, and she makes some attempt at protesting, at sounding offended at his boldness, but she succumbs to his touch, and easily. Her hands are grasping at his muscular forearms, as if to pry his hands away from her breasts, or to hold them in place, perhaps none of them know for sure, much less her. The farmer watches as she throws back her head, moaning now for all it’s worth, hiding nothing, but even the farmer can see that the Wizard’s touch is deliberate, he is deliberately touching her, not teasing her or focusing on her nipples—he’s caressing her breasts in a circular motion, as if he were molding her from clay, and the farmer’s mouth falls open as the bra begins to grow, as her breasts begin to grow, soft flesh spilling out over the top of the bra, spilling through the Wizard’s talented fingers, and she’s shrieking in indignation as she realizes what he’s doing to her, but she’s thrusting in earnest now, no longer satisfied with squirming in his lap, she is full on thrusting herself against his knee, fingers biting into his arms, trying to gather some relief….
“Don’t you agree, Farmer?”
And all at once, the farmer finds themself moving forward, as if in a trance, a trance cast over them by crafty wizards and beautiful goddesses, and Olivia is looking at them now, her face twisted with extreme arousal and confusion, and then she pushes against the wizard’s arm, trying to push herself upright, trying to do something, and she’s saying things, broken things like,
“Farmer… how long—what are you… darling—this—this isn’t what it looks li…”
But her stuttering explanations are cut off as the wizard finally pulls his hands out from underneath her bra, and it is apparently an extremely enticing feeling, because she lets out a loud groan as he does so, and her cheeks are now bright red, the same color of the dress that is still pooled around her waist.
“Hello, Olivia,” the farmer says, and their voice is shaking. Friendly, amicable, but shaking. The wizard’s hands are clasping her waist now, and his fingers are subtly toying with the material of her dress, and it’s a thoughtful expression on his face as he invites the farmer forward.
“Come, farmer, and check over my work. The clasp opens in the front.”
Olivia bites her lip as the farmer pulls up a seat, a simple barstool, and sits across from them. Their eyes are gleaming in the light of the fire, and she wants to apologize, to tell them that she never meant for this, that she came here tonight to tell the Wizard that this could never happen again, and the next thing she knew, she had fallen into the magical tangle of the wizard’s arms, and she would understand if the farmer wants to take everything back, never wants to see her again…
“This is a localized spell, localized transformation. It may come useful for you one day in your work as an adventurer.”
The wizard is saying some nonsense, but the farmer’s eyes are for her, only for her as they reach out with calloused fingers and unhook her bra.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this,” the farmer murmurs, and Olivia scoffs, even as that voice, that soft, sexy voice pours into her like fire, like pure electricity, threatening to burn her up if she doesn’t channel it into something… into something soon.
“We only met five weeks ago, Farmer,” she reminders them, and a sly smile crosses the farmer’s adorable face.
“Five weeks, then.”
And then the chill of the wizard’s living room air is biting into her exposed breasts as the farmer pulls the cups away, slides the bra from her arms, carefully setting it aside.
She is exposed now. She is naked now, topless in front of her two lovers, and they are both staring at her with mirror expressions of hunger, staring like starving dogs at her magically enlarged breasts. The sultry sound of the violin fills the silence as they stare at her for several long moments, and as she stares at the farmer, and their handsome face—she always thought they had the most handsome face, the most beautiful face, solemn and serious and playful all at once, it’s no wonder she found herself drawn to them like a magnet from the first day they met.
“Let her see,” the farmer finally says, and their voice is soft with awe, reverence. The wizard whispers a low command, and a mirror appears beside them. Three faces turn to look at their reflections, and Olivia finds herself staring at the three figures shown within: the wizard, still fully dressed in his purple robes, showing absolutely no skin at all except for his hands and what little of his face can be seen behind his beard, underneath his hat—he is still wearing his hat—and the farmer is sitting across from them, also fully dressed in simple robes, dark blue wizarding apprentice robes, meant to protect clothes from getting splattered with magic and potions, and it’s so dashing, it’s all so dashing, the perfect color against the farmer’s skin, eyes, hair.
And then there is her.
Sitting wedged between two sorcerers, her ridiculously large breasts bouncing even from the mere motion of her taking a breath, the wizard’s hands clasping her waist, rings gleaming on most of his fingers, his lips once more dangerously close to the sensitive skin covering her shoulder. She had reached out to take the farmer’s hand, her other hand is on the wizard’s knee, keeping her sitting upright, and her dress is still bunched around her waist, hiding her last few shreds of dignity from sight.
She looks very small sitting between them, situated between these two giants, these two solemn, towering sorcerers. She looks soft, vulnerable. She looks like a plaything for them, a rag doll to be shared between them, used and ravished and held, pushed to her limits by these two powerful immortals until her head is nearly ready to explode. Her arms and legs are strong, toned, slender, and her belly is just the perfect amount of soft, just the most adorable amount of sag, and her breasts…
She looks good.
She thought she would look ridiculous. She herself had spoken a time or two about the kind of women who go these great lengths to enhance themselves, to make themselves more attractive to men; two olives on a stick, she’d said once about a woman who, in fact, had looked like two olives on a stick.
But the wizard had done his work well. And his work is clear—her breasts are enormous, but they are perfect, they look perfectly formed, perfectly shaped, impossibly heavy, with just the perfect amount of sag to invite hungry hands to lift them up, caress them, play with them.
“If there is a more beautiful woman in all of Stardew Valley, I have never seen her,” the wizard says softly, breaking the warm silence between them. Olivia darts a glance up over the farmer’s face, the little girl in her hoping that the mysterious newcomer will agree, and the look that the farmer is giving her through the mirror shows that they know exactly what she wants, exactly what she’s thinking.
“I’m not sure about that, Magnus,” the farmer says gravely, and Olivia glares up at their reflection, not bothering to soften her expression when she catches a glimpse of the teasing gleam in their eyes. “Let me inspect the spell first. Then perhaps we can discuss beauty.”
“What a party of fools I have landed myself into,” Olivia complains, but the farmer takes no notice of her words, and she watches their reflections as an elegant hand reaches out and gently lifts up her breasts—she gasps at this first touch, skin on skin, fiery and hot like the wizard’s, but completely different somehow, more… more. More loving, perhaps. More intimate.
The farmer’s eyes are roving her body like she’s a mere science experiment, and they are saying something about composition, the composition. Apparently it’s a good spell, a very good spell, and if they don’t get on with it and stop poking and prodding at her like she’s a piece of meat, and start poking and prodding at her like she’s a goddamn naked woman sitting in their arms, she’s going to scream.
“None of the sensitivity is lost, either, in fact, it’s slightly heightened by the spell,” the wizard is saying, and all at once, his hands leave her waist, sliding up over her belly, and she’s already moaning before his hands come up underneath her breasts, squeezing them forward so that her nipples are pointing directly at the farmer’s face. “Touch for yourself and see.”
It’s lewd, it’s positively lewd, and Olivia curses the day she took that fateful walk in the woods, and she curses the equally fateful day the farmer appeared on her doorstep, looking tousled and carefree, but still wholesome and dependable somehow—those two horrible days and all the decisions that came thereafter have led to this horrible moment: her sitting in the Wizard’s lap, half naked in a room full of fully dressed magicians, the Wizard squeezing her enlarged breasts so hard that her nipples are poking out toward the farmer’s eager face, and the farmer… the farmer reaches up and touches them. The farmer is touching her nipples, and it feels like nothing she has ever felt before in her entire life, no man or woman’s hands have ever felt like this before, not even her own, it feels like a hook has been hanging inside of her belly this entire time, and only just now is it beginning to jerk upwards, and it is jerking hard, she can barely breathe, barely form coherent thoughts, can barely feel a damn thing except for the strain in her belly and those cursed fingers moving over her nipples, back and forth, pressing and rubbing and playing, and her head falls back against the Wizard’s shoulder, moaning without shame, her hips fully thrusting upward now, rubbing against the wizard’s leg, against the farmer’s knee, searching for any kind of relief.
“Very susceptible to stimulation,” the farmer is saying, a hint of admiration in their voice. “Very responsive. Well done.”
“Oh, damn you,” Olivia whines. “Damn you damn wizards, you—you damn... magicians.”
The wizard gives a low chuckle, clearly enjoying himself, and Olivia reaches up a shaking hand to point at their reflections.
“This is all… it’s all…”
But the words never leave her lips, and it’s because the farmer has brushed the wizard’s hands away from her breasts, and their mouth is waiting to catch them as they fall, and if their fingers were enough to send her to the brink of madness, then their tongue is enough to drag her over the edge, kicking and screaming, tearing at her own flesh, convulsing in the dirt like the maddest madwoman to ever exist on this cursed planet, and the Wizard has returned to kissing her neck, and that was bad enough, the universe be damned, but now she has to deal with his hands on her thighs—†hey have come down to settle on her thighs, her bare thighs, her ill-fated dress has now been pulled down and pulled up to cover only a very small and very specific area of her body, and that area is becoming more and more exposed by the moment, if the Wizard’s big, stupid hands are any indication…
But none of this compares—all of this pales in comparison with the farmer. The farmer is fully kneeling before her now, abandoning the chair, and their mouth is sucking wholeheartedly at her breast, the breast that is further away from the mirror, giving her a full view of how their hand is playing with her other breast, alternating between flattening it against her chest with a warm palm, or caressing its fullness, squeezing and exploring, or… or teasing her nipple. It’s a horrible sensation, the sensation that she is just on the edge of losing control, but she can’t—she can’t quite get there, she can’t quite reach it, and she’s gasping and thrashing and bucking her hips and spewing curses, but those hands and that hot mouth refuse to stop, refuse to give her what she needs, and she’s left here to flounder in this sea of endless strain, like she needs to pull her body apart, she needs them to pull her hair, needs them to be a little rougher with her, needs them to fucking touch her where she fucking needs it, and she needs it, she needs it—
When she feels it, her body goes ridged.
The wizard has disappeared. She is lying in bed. Time has passed, and she is lying in a bed, a large bed, and she is staring up at her reflection on the ceiling, and her arms are outstretched, silver ropes wrapped around her wrists, binding her to the headboard, and the farmer is grinning down at her. One hand is still caressing her tired breasts. Between the two of them, her breasts have been mauled and pawed beyond their limits, and all she wants is for it to stop, but she wants it to not stop, because even now, she can still feel the strains of arousing racing through her as her nipple is plucked with skilled fingers, but…
But there is some thing else. There is another hand, a hand belonging to the farmer, and it has disappeared beneath her dress. She is still wearing her dress. She never wants to see that dress again in her entire life. But there is movement underneath the silky folds of material, and all at once, she can feel, can feel fingers rubbing lightly over her pussy through her underwear, and she’s soaked, she has to be soaked, for all of her screaming and curses, she knows she’s soaked, and she’s straining against the ropes, but she can’t move, can’t close her legs to get friction either— her ankles are bound just like her arms, bound loosely enough so that her knees can bend, but not so loosely that she can move her thighs close enough together to get any relief.
“I do love this dress,” the farmer says contently, and Olivia gasps as they bend and begin to undo its zipper with their teeth.
You’re going to zip your tongue, darling, she wants to say, but it’s such a silly thing to say, and the farmer has done so well up to now, everything has gone so perfectly so far, she doesn’t want to break a moment of this wonderful spell, a moment of their special night together with silliness—
Besides, the farmer has begun to rub against her with increasing intensity, and she doesn’t know why they didn’t take her underwear off before magicking these ropes onto her, the farmer is going to have to tear her underwear right off of her, and it’s a matched set, dammit, matching bra and panties—
The feeling of material sliding over her skin makes her gasp and it seems the farmer was successful at unzipping her dress without zipping their tongue, because all at once, her reflection is completely naked except for a pair of underwear that looks very, very soaked.
“All of this for me?” the farmer murmurs, bending down to kiss the inside of her thigh, their nose brushing against her still-covered pussy.
“Of course not. Some of it was for Magnus,” Olivia says, and she laughs as the farmer bites her.
“You’re a liar and a cheat,” the farmer says, hands sliding underneath her, squeezing her buttocks, lifting her up slightly. The farmer’s mouth is fully on her pussy now, and the sensation of their lips rumbling against her core as they speak is terrible. “A filthy cheater who took a whole 45-minute walk in the middle of the night just to cheat on me. You’re a horrible, wicked woman, Olivia.”
“Nobody asked you to hide behind that bush and spy on people. This is your own fault,” Olivia replies, arching her back as the farmer slides a pillow underneath her hips. Deft fingers pull the underwear away from its place in the same motion… and it’s embarrassing how wet she is. The farmer makes some sort of sound that is halfway between a moan and a gasp, and then strong hands are undoing the ropes binding her left ankle, sliding the panties down, and then retying her ankle before she thinks to get a good kick in—and then the farmer is offering her a drink of water, a drink of water through a straw—You’re looking a little thirsty, darling—and she’s too busy drinking as they undo her other leg and slide the underwear away—and then they’re taking the cup of water away and offering her a look at the scrap of red silk, and it’s worse than she imagined, just completely soaked through with arousal, and she groans at the scent, and the farmer looks immensely pleased with themself.
“If we were at home, I would gag you with this. I bet you would like that, wouldn’t you, my love?”
Olivia manages to pierce them with her fiercest glare, and the farmer sets her panties aside.
“I would not,” she says, even though she would. The farmer hums in acquiesce.
“Well then, lucky for you this room has been spelled for silence. Do not hesitate to let your cries of passion ring free and proud.”
“You should be so lucky as to get a single peep out of me, farmer,” Olivia scoffs. “Better men and women than you have tried and failed. So many men and women have tried and failed.”
But the farmer does not grow angry as she hopes, instead, they crawl up and press the tenderest kiss to her lips, hands cupping her cheeks, fingers sinking into her hair, and in a moment, she forgets her bondage, and forgets her supposed infidelity, and forgets her artificially grown breasts, and forgets the Wizard whose bed they’re borrowing, and forgets everything except for the one whose body is draped over hers, skin on skin, warm and warm, the most delicious of feelings, two bodies pressing together, bound together by love and devotion and history, and she’s melting into that touch, melting against flesh and muscle, and she’s moaning, freely, despite her insistence that this lowly farmer should struggle to get a single peep from her, she is moaning, and she moans all the louder as one of their hands leave her cheek, traveling down over her clavicle, over her breast, over her belly, and finally, pressing between her legs, finally, pressing against her without any barrier, and two fingers are parting her slightly, and a nimble middle finger is rubbing steadily over her folds, and their fingers are slipping, that’s how wet she is, their fingers keep slipping, and she is pushing herself up against that gentle touch, wanting more, giving her everything to this sweet kiss, straining against the bonds holding her back, and it is such a sweet touch. The farmer has such a sweet touch, like they know exactly how wonderful this feels, and all they want is to give it to her, to give her everything, and all she needs to do is to lie back and enjoy it, and that talented finger is stroking at her clit now, pressing a steady pulse against her, and she’s moaning the farmer’s name like it’s her own, and the other hand is pulling at her hair, just the most delicious sensation of pain, the most tender sensation of pain, and then the farmer is moving down, and their hands stretching up as their head presses kisses in a circle around her belly button, and fingers wet with her own arousal circle her nipple, and… and…
Farmer, farmer, farmer…
There is a mouth kissing her. A mouth kissing her nether lips, a tongue pressing into her, and when she looks up at their reflection, all she sees is a beautiful head nestled between her legs, and two strong arms outstretched to grasp at her breasts, and her arms are tied down, and her legs are tied down, and all she can do is lie here and feel, lie here and watch as the farmer’s head bobs between her legs, watched as those skilled fingers tease her nipples, and she wants to grasp at her own breasts, she wants to sink her fingers into the farmer’s hair, pull them closer, but she can’t. All she can do is lie here and tremble and scream as the farmer works her up, as the farmer pulls their hands away from her breasts and slips two, then three fingers into her, pumping slowly into her core, making her shriek, making her strain against the bonds, driving her crazy, and the farmer is taking their time, taking it slow, clearly enjoying themself, and she has never been madder in her life, never been driven more mad in her life, never wanted more pressure, more speed, and she’s cursing, cursing at the farmer for torturing her, and the farmer is laughing at her, and—
Don’t you dare fucking stop, don’t you DARE fucking stop, she cries, but the farmer has stopped, has pulled back completely, leaving her flailing like a fish, and she’s steaming mad, and she looks ridiculous, her reflection looks ridiculous, with her breasts flopping around and her legs trying desperately to come together, and she’s cursing, she’s never been angrier in her life, never hated anyone so much before, and all at once she feels a touch, and she sees the contraption in her lover’s hands—purple, thick, full, and vibrating with magic.
It’s a tool. A tool that the farmer has kept secret from her for weeks, a tool that the two fools have apparently been working on for some time, and the farmer gives her a cheeky grin as they squeeze out a generous amount of lube over the tool, because it’s not just… it’s not just meant to penetrate her, it’s not just meant to stimulate her clit simultaneously. It’s meant to fill her, in every possible way, and already she can see that it’s big, it’s too big, it’ll be too much, far too much…
But the farmer bends down and kisses her, and she kisses them back, and when they say, Do you want this, darling? she bites back the part of her that’s screaming that she does NOT want this, she likes being able to walk and sit down and move with dignity, thank you very much—and she nods.
It’s horrible. The farmer straps on the device and looms over her the entire time, those hungry eyes boring holes into her without fail, one hand caressing her face, tucking the hair behind her ears, the most innocent of expressions on their face, the most innocent of touches, while their other hand switching between her breasts, touching one, then the other, then the other—and all the while, operating the monster that is harnessed to their waist, pressing her legs apart so hard that they’re burning from the stretch, one section of the contraption furiously rubbing against her clit, one section thrusting deeply into her—pulling back until it has almost vacated her pussy completely, and then plunging back into her with abandon, and the last… the last section pulsing inside of her, filling her from behind, moving in a way that, at times, its head nearly meets with the head deep in her pussy, and it’s the most horrible feeling, it fills her with so much lust, all she can do is scream when it happens, and the farmer notices, and keeps doing it, they’re doing it on purpose now, and she might as well be on fire, she is on fire, and she’s coming, she’s coming, coming, coming, but the farmer doesn’t stop, doesn’t let her come down, doesn’t let her catch her breath, and she’s being pushed right up against the brink again, and she’s straining against the bonds holding her down, trying to sit up, trying to get at the damned farmer, trying to bite, trying to kick, trying to do anything, but all she can do is howl as the farmer brings her up to another orgasm, and it’s ugly, she has probably never looked so ugly in her life, but she doesn’t care, she’ll never care about anything again, as long as the farmer doesn’t stop, as long as the farmer keeps pressing into her, keeps moving inside of her, keeps sucking at her breasts and caressing her skin, they can lie here for all eternity for all she cares—
Dammit, farmer, dammit, fuck, you’re killing me, you’re fucking… you’re…
She’s coming again. But there was a copious amount of teasing throughout the course of this evening, and it’s all coming out right now. It’s all happening right now. She’s saying things she doesn’t even know, she’s screaming that the farmer is ruining her, screaming that’s it’s too big, it’s too much, she can’t take it anymore, she’s going to—she’s going to… but the farmer doesn’t stop, and she doesn’t stop either, and she might as well be screaming for her own humanity at this point, because if this isn’t the peak of what it is to be human, if this isn’t the highest of the highest high, then there is nothing else, there is nothing else, there is…
The farmer has flipped her over, and she’s lying with her face squashed against the pillow, and she can’t see anything now, can’t see anything but the blurry fireplace and blurry sheets, and the farmer is thrusting into her from behind in earnest now. Never mind that the other two parts of the contraption are still working perfectly fine, but the farmer had been holding back for some reason, and now… now they are not. Now they are pressing into her like their lives depend on it, and her moans are more throaty now, more wanton, more animalistic, and she’s on her knees, ass thrust upright in the air like the whore she is, arms still bound and outstretched, and her breasts are swinging wildly as the farmer’s thrusts become more insistent, and then their strong hands creep around to hold her breasts, keep them from bruising each other, and if she could speak, she would thank them for being so thoughtful, but those helpful fingers are plucking at her nipples, and they’re already tired and sore from all of the attention they’re received today, she can’t stand any more, can’t stand one more lustful touch rubbing over her goddamn nipples, and she screams, she’s screaming, and she’s screaming as loud as she can, and she can’t stop, and she doesn’t want to stop.
Eventually, it does stop.
She takes and takes and takes, and loses count of how many times she orgasms, but eventually, her body can’t fucking take anymore, and she lets out the safe word, saying it not without a small tingle of regret, but the farmer lets her come down slowly, letting her collapse onto the bed, undoing the ropes holding back her arms and legs, waiting until she’s ready, and then slowly easing the damned contraption from between her legs (she may or may not let out a loud, tired groan when it slides out of her).
“I probably could’ve done a little more,” she admits as the farmer sets the dildo—if it can even be called that—aside and settles down beside her once more. She’s so sore.
“You did wonderfully,” the farmer replies, bending and kissing her nose. “I was worried that you wouldn’t… I mean, I was worried you might not like it.”
“What, the wizard? Or that thing?”
“Any of it,” the farmer shrugs, nonchalant and loving all at the same time. God, how she loves them. From the first moment she saw them, she loved them, and every single step she took led them to here, to the two of them lying together in bed, and that… that is wonderful.
The farmer gives her a knowing glance, as if they can hear her thoughts, and there’s a smile on those perfect lips as they descend to meet her own.
“I think I see chocolate cake and wine on the table.”
“And some water, too, I hope,” Olivia says, stretching out and yawning widely. She feels like she’s been run over by a bulldozer, in the best way possible. The farmer’s eyes follow her body as she stretches, even now, even still, after an entire night of lovemaking, the farmer still looks at her like they’ve never seen anything so perfect before in their life.
“Stop ogling and get me something to re-hydrate. You’ve drunk me all up,” Olivia orders, nudging at the farmer’s bare thigh with her foot. The farmer grins and scrambles to their feet, smoothing out the covers as they stand, but then they come around to the other side of the bed and bend over her, pressing a sweet kiss to her lips.
“Happy anniversary, my love,” the farmer murmurs, and Olivia feels her mouth curling up to smile against soft lips.
“Happy anniversary, darling.”