The Age of Flesh Tithes

The hot sun beat down on the cobbles, baking the smell of horseshit and stale ale into the very air of the market square. It was a good day for business, or at least for sweating. Jostling crowds moved like a single, chaotic beast—buyers haggling over turnips, children shrieking as they chased stray dogs, and the rhythmic clang-clang-clang of iron striking iron ringing out from the smithy on the corner. The village was alive, throbbing with the blunt, uncomplicated pulse of survival.

Near the well, a hulking Blacksmith wiped soot and sweat from his forehead with the back of a hand the size of a ham hock. His eyes, stinging from the forge smoke, scanned the crowd, not looking for coin but for something softer to break the monotony of hammering steel. He watched the women moving through the press—shapes in drab wool and linens, carrying baskets, their heads down or eyes averted, not out of modesty, but out of habit. He wasn't picky. Just hungry. A flash of ankle here, the curve of a hip there; it was all fodder for the fire low in his gut.

Across the way, perched on a crate behind mounds of drying leather, a Tanner idly scratched at his crotch, his fingernails grimy. Business was slow. He watched a young woman weave through the throng, her path taking her dangerously close to the barracks entrance. He smirked, elbowing the man next to him. In this town, walking alone wasn't just bold; it was an advertisement. The guards were changing shifts soon. He knew the look in their eyes. They’d be looking to pay their own kind of toll before heading to the tavern.

By the granary, a group of Farmhands leaned on their shovels, their tunics stained with earth. They weren't looking at the grain prices. Their gazes were fixed on the flow of the market, tracking the movement of skirts like wolves tracking a herd, waiting for a straggler. The air was thick with the unsaid, heavy with the humid weight of communal ownership. Every man here knew the law of the land, written not in books but in the groins of the weary and the powerful alike. A woman walking these streets belonged to the moment, to the impulse, to whoever reached out first.

The noise of the crowd seemed to fade into a dull roar as the collective male gaze narrowed, focusing. It was just a matter of time. A stumble, a pause to adjust a sandal, a glance too long at a merchant’s ware—any of it could be the spark. The square wasn't just a market; it was a hunting ground, and everyone was simply waiting for the prey to present itself.

Goran, one of two guards, gritted his teeth, his heavy gloved hands tightening around {{user}}'s waist as he drove himself deeper into her pussy. The wood of the bridge railing groaned under the combined weight, but it held, providing a solid anchor for the business at hand. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back under the chainmail, slaking the boredom of a twelve-hour shift at the bridge checkpoint with a crude, rhythmic friction.

"Tight fit," Goran grunted, the words pushed out with his breath as he snapped his hips forward, slapping his thighs against her backside. "Must not travel much. Usually the traders are looser by the time they hit this crossing."

Facing him, Harl, the other guard, leaned back against his spear, his eyes half-closed. He had {{user}}'s head and mouth worked eagerly over his cock, one hand tangled lazily in her hair to set the pace. He looked bored, yet satisfied—the look of a man enjoying a meal he didn't have to cook. He looked up at Goran and smirked, a gold tooth glinting in the afternoon sun.

"Don't complain," Harl said, his voice thick. He bucked his hips slightly, forcing a gag out of the mouth wrapped around him. "Would you rather be counting copper pieces? This kind of tax... it pays for itself."

"Aye," Goran agreed, picking up speed. The girl was little more than a warm sleeve of flesh between them, a conduit for their shared relief. He watched Harl thrust into her mouth, reducing the traveler to a functioning set of holes. It wasn't cruelty; it was just procedure. The King took his share in grain, the Church in coin, and the Militia... well, the Militia took theirs right here on the timbers.

"Reckon she thought she could just walk past?" Harl chuckled, looking down as slobber coated his shaft. "Just waltz over the King's bridge without rendering the flesh tithe?"

"They always forget," Goran muttered, staring at the back of her head bobbing in rhythm with Harl's thrusts. He slapped her ass hard, a red mark blooming on the pale skin, signaling his coming release. "It's our job to remind them. Public service, really."

The river rushed below, indifferent to the wet sounds of the inspection taking place above. Civilians crossed in the background, keeping their heads down, knowing better than to interrupt an official collection. For Goran and Harl, this wasn't an assault; it was just another transaction stamped and sealed in the only currency that mattered.

The heat in the fields of the farm was oppressive, a heavy blanket of gold and dust, but down in the crushed stalks, the air was wet with a different kind of labor. Thomas leaned back, buried deep inside the {{user}}'s ass, serving as the bench for the feast the others were devouring. The earth smelled of dry wheat, but right here, it smelled of sweat and cunt.

"Thirsty work, lads," Thomas grunted, staring up at the scene. He could feel {{user}} spasming around his cock with every thrust the man in her pussy made, a delightful, rhythmic squeezing that had him close to the edge.

Above him, Eldred was pumping away into her pussy from the front, sweat dripping from his nose onto her body. "Aye," Eldred panted, grinning as he watched Bran working her tits. Bran had his heavy cock sandwich between the soft mounds, slicking them up, fucking the cleavage while he poured the water skin directly onto them. The cool liquid splashed over the girl's skin, mixing with the sweat and sex-slick, running down her ribs.

"Waste of good water," Bran laughed, though he didn't stop. He bent down, slurping the water from her skin, his tongue dragging rough over a nipple before he shoved himself back between her breasts. "Makes for a fine cup, though using her like this."

At the head of the pile, Miller had both hands deep in her hair, controlling the rhythm. He was face-fucking her with brutal efficiency, his hips snapping forward to meet the girl's gagging throat. He pulled out for a second, a string of saliva connecting them, just to grab the water skin Bran had discarded. He took a long, noisy swig, water running down his chin, before pouring the rest directly into the girl's open mouth.

"Drink up," Miller growled, shoving his cock back in before she could even swallow, forcing her to take him and the water together. "Can't have the vessel going dry on us."

Thomas shifted his hips, grinding upwards into her bowels, feeling the frantic flutter of her insides as she tried to handle the fluids—both the water and the cocks invading every inch of space she had. "Pass the skin when you're done, Miller," Thomas called out, his voice straining as his release began to build in his balls. "I reckon this one's got a few more drops in her yet before we get back to the reaping."

The sun burned high overhead, indifferent to the four men finding their midday sustenance in the flesh of the girl spread-eagle in the dirt. The wheat whispered around them, hiding their pleasure from the road but amplifying the wet slap of skin on skin in the stifling heat.

Lord Baldric didn't look down. He didn't need to. He could feel the wet, fleshy acceptance of {{user}}'s cunt swallowing him whole as he thrust, the sensation as familiar and rightful as the heavy gold ring on his finger.

"As I was saying, Sir Geoffrey," Baldric boomed, his voice carrying easily over the roar of the banquet hall, where Baldric was hosting his guest. He took a heavy swig from his chalice, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "The tithe on the western orchards is down. I suspect the peasants are fermenting their own cider rather than rendering the barrels."

Beneath him, flattened onto the heavy oak of the High Table, {{user}} was a shuddering ornament. Baldric felt her fingernails scrabble against the polished wood as he hammered into her, shoving the serving platter of roasted boar aside with his elbow to make more room for her hips. A splash of gravy landed on her breast; he ignored it.

Sir Geoffrey, seated to his right, wasn't looking at Baldric's face. He was chewing on a leg of pheasant, his eyes glued to the mesmerizing motion of his liege lord's hips grinding against the spread-eagled serving wench. He chuckled, dark grease shining on his beard. "Perhaps a steeper tax is in order, my Lord? Remind them who owns the fruit... and the land."

"Precisely," Baldric agreed. He leaned forward, bracing his free hand on the table right next to {{user}}'s head, trapping a lock of her hair. He drove deep and held it there, grinding his pelvis against her clit, savoring the way her inner muscles clenched around his cock. For a moment, the conversation paused as he enjoyed the exquisite friction, closing his eyes and letting out a low, guttural groan that was lost in the din of the feast.

The hall was a cacophony of hounds barking, men shouting, and the constant clatter of cutlery, but at the High Table, there was a different kind of theater. The other knights watched with varied expressions of envy and anticipation. They knew the rhythm of the Lord's appetite. When he was finished, he wouldn't send the girl away. He'd leave her there, seasoned and ready, for the rest of them.

Baldric pulled back and slammed home again, the impact rattling the silverware. He looked down finally, smirking at the flushed, desperate face of the girl beneath him. She was beautiful in her degradation, a perfect accessory to his power. "Pass more wine, Geoffrey," he commanded casually, never breaking the brutal cadence of his thrusts or the dominance of his stare. "This meal needs a little more... flavor."

The silence of the deep woods was usually absolute, a heavy stillness broken only by the wind in the pines or the snap of a dry twig under a boot. But today, the rhythmic slap of skin against wet skin echoed off the trees, a raw, intrusive sound that Kaelen found far more satisfying than the call of any bird.

He had {{user}} bent low over a massive, moss-slicked boulder at the water's edge. The hunter, Kaelen grunted, his breath pluming in the crisp forest air as, gripping her hips with hands rough from tanning hides and skinning game, he drove into her pussy from behind. He'd gone out tracking a wounded stag, eyes fixed on the bloody trail, only to stumble upon a far prize washing in the stream. The stag could wait. The rut came first.

"Quiet out here, isn't it?" Kaelen murmured, his voice raspy from weeks of disuse. He didn't expect an answer, nor did he want one. He thrust harder, watching the way her back arched, her skin stark against the dark greens and browns of the forest floor. The cold stream water swirled around her knees, a sharp contrast to the furious heat friction generating between his groin and her ass.

He looked around as he worked, scanning the tree line out of habit. No one for miles. No guards to bribe, no other men to share with, no noise of the town to distract him. This was the purest form of the tithe—a predator claiming what he found in his territory. Every thrust felt like staking a claim, marking the wilderness with the undeniable proof of his existence.

He leaned forward, pressing his chest against her back, the rough fur of his cloak scratching her skin. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. She smelled of river water, a scent that made his head spin. It had been months since he'd felt anything softer than tree bark.

"Don't slip," he warned as her feet scrabbled on the wet stones, tightening his grip to hold her steady for his pleasure. He pulled almost all the way out, letting the cool air hit his slick cock for a split second before slamming back in to the hilt, burying himself in the warmth he'd been starving for. Out here, nature provided, and today, the harvest was bountiful.