She returned to her mission... with a dick | FUTA!

The heavy iron door of the keep’s inner chamber thudded shut behind her as Thyra set the wrapped bundle on the long oak table. The three senior knights and the regional commander stared at the blood-darkened cloth. She untied the knots without ceremony and let the witch’s severed head roll free, matted hair spilling across the wood like blackened seaweed.

“Mission complete,” she said, voice steady even though her thighs kept pressing together under the plate. “Witch of the Black Hollow is dead. No more disappearances along the eastern trail. Her final words were… unpleasant. Something about a gift that would never leave me. I didn’t understand it then. Still don’t, entirely.”

Commander Varrick leaned forward, examining the head with a grunt of approval. “Clean cut. You always did favor the neck. Good work, Knight Thyra. The crown will hear of this. Take the rest of the night. You’ve earned it.”

One of the older knights smirked. “Try not to get yourself cursed next time, girl. Last thing we need is another walking omen.”

Thyra forced a short laugh that came out thinner than she wanted. “I’ll do my best.” She gave a crisp salute, turned on her heel, and walked out before any of them could notice how carefully she was moving.

The walk back through the village streets felt longer than usual. Every step made the unfamiliar weight between her legs shift and thicken. By the time she reached the modest stone cottage she shared with {{user}}, the pressure inside her trousers had become almost unbearable. She pushed the door open with her shoulder, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and the faint trace of {{user}}’s soap hitting her at once.

She found them already inside. The moment their eyes landed on her, she felt the heat climb higher up her neck.

“I’m home,” she muttered, already working at the buckles of her breastplate. Metal clinked as she set the heavy pieces aside one by one—pauldrons, gauntlets, the cuirass that still smelled of sweat and residual blood. Underneath she wore only the dark grey sleeveless training top and the thick leather trousers that had grown uncomfortably tight on the ride back. The front of them strained outward in a thick, unmistakable ridge that ran down the left side of her crotch and kept twitching.

She caught {{user}} staring. Of course they were staring. The bulge was impossible to miss, and every time she shifted her weight it gave another heavy throb against the leather.

Thyra’s ears burned. She cleared her throat, fingers hovering at her belt.

“Something… happened. After I took her head. She laughed. Said I’d carry a piece of her forever. I thought it was just dying spite. Then on the way back I felt this… pressure. Heat. Like something was growing. I didn’t dare look until I was alone on the trail.” Her voice dropped, half embarrassed, half still trying to make sense of it. “I still have everything I used to have. But now there’s… this. And it’s been hard for the last hour. Every bounce of the saddle just made it worse. I can feel the air on it even through the trousers. It’s ridiculous...”

She unbuckled the belt. The leather straps whispered as she shoved the trousers down past her hips in one rough motion.

The cock sprang free with an almost audible slap against her lower belly—thick, flushed a deep rose-pink that darkened toward the head, a full twenty-seven centimeters of heavy, veined flesh that curved slightly upward under its own weight. The shaft was hot enough that the cooler air of the cottage made the skin tighten further. A thick, prominent vein ran along the underside, pulsing visibly with each heartbeat; smaller ones branched across the sides, standing out against the smooth, satiny skin. The head was broad and glistening, already leaking a clear bead of precum that stretched into a thin string before breaking and dripping onto the floorboards. The whole length twitched once, then again, as if proud of the attention.

Beneath the heavy, tight sac of her balls—already drawn up and flushed darker than the rest—her folds were slick and swollen. The outer lips shone with wetness that had soaked through the thin underlayer she’d worn beneath the trousers. A thin strand of arousal clung between her thighs when she shifted her stance. The scent rose immediately: warm, musky, unmistakably feminine underneath the sharper, saltier smell of her new cock. It filled the small space between them, heavy and intimate.

Thyra stared down at herself for a second, then let out a short, helpless huff of laughter that cracked in the middle.

“Well. That’s… not subtle, is it?. it won’t go down.” She glanced up at {{user}} again, cheeks blazing, the tip of her cock giving another eager pulse that sent a fresh bead of precum sliding down the underside. “I can feel every draft. Every time I breathe it throbs. It's frustrating!.”

She kicked the trousers the rest of the way off, leaving herself bare from the waist down, the massive erection bobbing heavily with the motion. A single drop of clear fluid landed on the floor with a soft, humiliating tap.

“I don’t fully understand what she did,” Thyra admitted, voice quieter now, almost shy despite the obscene display. “Only that it’s permanent. And that every time I look at you it gets worse.”

She stood there in the soft light of the cottage, armor discarded, cock rigid and leaking, cunt visibly dripping beneath, waiting—face flushed, breathing uneven, the new weight between her legs twitching with every heartbeat.

The mattress dipped under Thyra’s weight as she settled between {{user}}’s spread thighs, one hand braced beside their hip, the other carefully guiding the heavy length of her cock. A few days of careful exploration had taught her the angles that made them gasp instead of tense, yet every time the broad, flushed head nudged against their entrance she still hesitated for half a second—just long enough to feel the heat and the faint resistance before she pressed forward.

The first thick inch slid in with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips. The tight ring of muscle stretched around the flared head, pale skin giving way to the deep rose-pink of her shaft as more of it disappeared. Veins stood out along the underside, thick and dark, pulsing hard enough that {{user}} could probably feel every heartbeat. The cock was almost too hot, the skin stretched smooth and satiny over the rigid core, and the sudden enveloping pressure dragged a low, shaky sound from Thyra’s throat.

“Gods, you’re—tight,” she muttered, half laughing, half breathless. “I keep forgetting how much of this thing there is until it’s halfway in and I’m already seeing stars.”

She eased deeper, centimeter by careful centimeter, letting their body adjust around the thick girth. The scent of sex hung heavy between them: the warm, musky smell of her own arousal mixed with the cleaner, sharper scent of the oil she’d used, and underneath it the salt of sweat already beading along her collarbones. Her balls, drawn up tight and flushed darker than the rest of her, rested against the soft curve of {{user}}’s ass once she bottomed out. Twenty-seven centimeters buried to the root, the heavy length twitching inside the snug heat, every ridge and vein dragged against sensitive walls.

Thyra stayed still for a moment, forehead resting against {{user}}’s shoulder, breathing hard. The pressure around her cock was almost overwhelming—hot, silky, clenching in tiny involuntary flutters that made her hips jerk forward without permission. She liked that. Liked how their body tried to push her out and pull her deeper at the same time. Soft enough not to hurt, yes, but not so soft that she denied herself the slow, grinding rolls that let her feel every millimeter of that grip.

She drew back until only the thick head remained inside, watching the shaft reappear glossy and dark with oil and their shared slick. The veins stood out even more now, shiny and prominent. Then she pushed in again, slower this time, savoring the way the tight ring stretched and swallowed her. A thin strand of precum had already leaked from the tip and mixed with the oil; each thrust forced a little more out, the wet sound of it filthy and intimate in the quiet room.

“Still okay?” she asked, voice rough. She didn’t wait for words—only watched the way {{user}}’s hands fisted in the sheets, the small shift of their hips that encouraged her to keep moving. That was enough. She found a steady rhythm, hips rolling in smooth, deep strokes that filled them completely every time. The slap of skin on skin stayed soft, controlled, but the pressure never lessened. She could feel every clench, every tiny spasm around the thickest part of her cock, and it made her own cunt throb and drip steadily onto the sheets beneath them.

Sweat gathered at the small of her back. A drop slid down the side of her breast and fell onto {{user}}’s stomach. Her ponytail had come half-loose, golden strands sticking to her damp cheeks. Every time she bottomed out her balls pressed flush against them, the sensitive skin of her sac drawing another quiet, shaky breath from her. The dual sensation—cock buried deep, empty cunt fluttering with neglected need—left her trembling.

She adjusted the angle slightly, one hand sliding under {{user}}’s thigh to lift it higher, and the next thrust dragged a thicker vein directly across a spot that made their body tighten hard around her. Thyra’s eyes fluttered. “There—felt that. You’re squeezing me like you’re trying to keep it.” A breathless little laugh escaped her. “Not that I’m complaining. Feels too good to complain.”

Her pace stayed measured, but the force behind each stroke grew just a fraction heavier. She liked the resistance. Liked the way their body stretched to take her and then clung on the way out. The wet, rhythmic sound of her cock sliding in and out filled the room, mixed with the soft creak of the bedframe and the quiet, shaky breaths she couldn’t quite hold back. Precum and oil had turned the entire length of her shaft glossy; every time she pulled back it shone in the low light, veins standing out in sharp relief against the flushed skin.

She leaned down, pressing her forehead to {{user}}’s, still moving in those deep, careful thrusts. The tip of her cock nudged against something that made their thighs tremble around her waist. Thyra’s own breath hitched. Her free hand found their hip, thumb stroking absently even as she kept the steady rhythm.

“Still soft,” she murmured against their skin, almost to herself. “But not too soft. I like how you feel around me. Like you were made to take this ridiculous thing the witch stuck me with.” Another slow, grinding roll of her hips buried her to the root again. The heavy weight of her cock pulsed inside them, thick and relentless, every vein and ridge dragging along their walls.

She wasn’t going to last much longer—not with that perfect, clenching heat, not with the way their body kept pulling her deeper. But for now she kept the pace steady, careful, and just selfish enough to chase the sensation of being squeezed so tightly she could barely think.

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