The path through the forest at night.

They walked in a loose line — the five women ahead, Jacob behind, the torchlight from the lantern he had grabbed from the hut casting long shadows through the trees.

He was looking at the shadows.

That was what he was telling himself.

The shadows were interesting. The forest at night was interesting. The path was interesting. The particular way that five women walk single-file on a forest path at night when they are wearing makeshift clothing that involves a great deal of fabric movement with each step was absolutely not something he was cataloguing.

He was cataloguing it completely.

The swinging of Nara’s hips. The particular density of Marla’s stride — angry and purposeful, the walk of a woman who is going somewhere and not enjoying who is behind her. Celia’s loose, easy gait. Gia’s smaller steps. Fatima’s—

He breathed out.

"Thank you, grandma," he said, quietly.

To the forest.

To the night.

To the grandmother who had apparently assembled five extraordinary women in his hut for him to follow through a dark forest.

And watch the sight of their hips swaying like this.

Ahead, Marla’s shoulders went rigid.

She had heard.

He did not know she had heard and she had decided not to indicate that she had heard because the alternative was turning around and that required looking at him and she was currently managing a blood pressure situation that did not benefit from additional inputs.

"THANK YOU, GRANDMA!!"

He shouted it.

To the trees. To the sky. To the general direction of wherever his grandmother was, which was apparently a waterfall, apparently with someone she wanted to introduce him to.

The forest absorbed the shout.

Nara covered a smile.

Celia looked at the canopy.

Marla walked harder with irritation of Jacob’s eyes on their hips but a joy that said.

’Yeah, thanks to your grandma... you will see something interesting.’

.

.

.

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### At the Waterfall

"KHWACKKKK~~!! GGULLGNNNKKHHH~~~!!!"

The pool.

The moonlight on it. The waterfall throwing white against the silver surface. The mist above it carrying the particular warmth of a night that had been full of things.

And at the edge of the pool — the water at his knees, his legs bent, his body folded at the angle of a man who has made himself a fixture of the shallow water with the unhurried ease of something that belongs in every environment—

Raven.

His white hair braided.

Not his hair. Edda’s white hair — her thick, long, silver-white braid, the beautiful braid that had been so carefully maintained through fifty years of dignity, now wrapped once around her own neck. The braid pulled taut from behind in his fist, the pressure of it against her throat conducting the choking from his grip through her own hair, her body’s own architecture turned against her.

Her throat pulsed.

The full, visible pulse of a woman whose airway is being managed by an external party — the tendons in her neck standing out, the skin flushing deep red at the point of compression where her own braid pressed against her carotid, her eyes showing white at the tops as they rolled with the combined pressure of the choking and the twelve inches of dragon cock currently buried past the back of her throat.

His cock was in her mouth.

All of it.

The full twelve inches pressed through her lips, past her teeth, past the back of her mouth, into the muscular column of her throat — the outline of him visible from outside, the impossible bulge of twelve inches of girth pressing the skin of her neck outward in a ridge that moved with each thrust.

Her throat was milking him.

The involuntary, continuous, peristaltic contraction of a throat that has been filled past its design parameters — the muscular walls closing around the shaft with every swallow reflex, the pressure of the grip conducting the full length of him, the tightness of it something that her throat had produced simply by trying to survive what had been put in it.

Her tits rested on his knees.

The full, heavy, warm weight of them draped over his bent knees where he crouched at the pool’s edge — the flesh spreading over the bone and muscle of his kneecaps, the nipples pressing against the tops of his thighs below the waterline, the water lapping at the undersides of them with each small shift of movement.

Her hands were on his hips.

Both of them. Her dragon-slayer hands — the wide-knuckled, strong, fifty-years-of-fighting hands — pressing against the solid muscle of his hips with the full force of a woman who is trying to push something away and is not succeeding.

She pushed.

He did not move.

SKHLRK—

The sound of his cock driving into her throat was not a flesh sound.

It was a wet, dense, interior sound — the sound of something thick pressing through something tight that was wet from the inside, the full acoustic reality of a throat being used, the particular gurgling-friction noise that lives at the intersection of depth and girth and the specific wetness of a woman’s throat full of saliva and tears.

SHLRCH— SHLRCH—

"Glmph~!! Mmngh~!!"

Not moans. The sounds a throat makes when it is occupied — the compressed, muffled, wet output of vocal cords that have something pressed past them, the sounds escaping around the shaft with the air that was being pushed out by each thrust.

He pulled her up by the braid.

The full length of his cock withdrawing from her throat as her head came up — the exit producing a long, obscene, continuous ’SHLRRRRK’ as twelve inches of glistening wet shaft cleared her throat and her mouth, the saliva stringing from the head of his cock to her lower lip in thick, continuous threads.

She gasped.

The full, desperate, drowning gasp of a woman who has just had her airway returned to her — her mouth wide open, her chest heaving, her nose running freely, the snot and tears mixing on her upper lip and chin.

"HAAAAH— HAAAH— HAAAAAH—"

Not words. Air. Just air. The greedy, panicked intake of a woman whose body had been managing on the oxygen his magic had been feeding directly into her lungs and was now receiving real air again and did not know how to be moderate about it.

Her throat.

Her throat was swollen.

She could feel it — the interior swelling of tissue that has been stretched and used, the warm ache of her throat walls pressing against each other, the particular hoarseness that comes from twelve inches of something pressing past the vocal cords. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

He looked at her face.

Red. Deeply, thoroughly red — the flush of asphyxiation and tears and the effort of a body working hard at the edge of its oxygen budget. Her eyes were wet and rolling and not focused on anything. Her nose was running. Her lips were swollen and wet and stretched-looking, still holding the shape of the girth that had been pressing them apart for the last several minutes.

"Your mouth," he said, pleasantly, "is as tight as your pussy."

She looked at him.

From somewhere behind her eyes. From the place she had been occupying since the grass, the place that was past management and past dignity and past the fifty years and was simply present in what was happening to it.

"The hell," he said.

His thumb traced her swollen lower lip.

"Aren’t you," he said, "a very high quality woman."

SHLRCH—