A Peasant's Wishing Well (Ch. 9)

Chapter 9

[The busty princess and her peasant find a Wishing Well]

Disclaimer: Any person in the story who engages in sexual acts or sexualized to any degree is at least 18 years of age or older.

The sun beat down like a merciless forge, hammering the earth into cracked submission as Pickin and Ploma pressed onward through the untamed wilderness. Days had melted into one another in a haze of dust and sweat, each arduous step a defiant pulse against the ache gnawing at Pickin's burned foot—a blistering reminder of the fire they'd barely escaped back in the shadowed alleys of Rass and Scal's domain. The terrain had turned savage, jagged rocks clawing at their boots, thorny brambles snagging at their clothes like jealous lovers, and the once-reliable map now a sodden ruin, its ink bled into illegible smears by relentless rains and the mud of forgotten trails. Mountains loomed in the distance like ancient sentinels, their outlines blurred on the parchment, but the paths that should have guided them were ghosts, forcing them to rely on instinct and the faint pull of destiny.

They had fled the main roads weeks ago, weaving through hidden thickets and shadowed valleys to evade the relentless shadow of Rass's pursuit. The weight of their shared secrets—stolen glances in the dead of night, whispered promises laced with forbidden desire—hung heavy between them, amplified by the isolation of their journey. Ploma's presence was both a balm and a torment; her lithe form moved with an effortless grace that stirred something primal in Pickin, her curves a constant distraction amid the hardship.

As the hills finally crested, revealing a sprawling structure in the valley below, their conversation shifted to the grim reality of their dwindling supplies. "Sir Pickin?" Ploma's voice cut through the dry air, soft and melodic, like a cool stream in the desert.

"Yes, princess?" he replied, his brown eyes lifting from the ground to meet her gaze, his voice roughened by thirst and exhaustion.

"We should be at the Wishing Well soon," she said, her pink eyes sparkling with a mix of hope and uncertainty.

Pickin managed a sharp, weary smile, though his feet screamed in protest. What had been mere weeks felt like an eternity etched into his soles. The end was near, yet doubts swirled in his mind like dust devils. "How will we know what it looks like?" he asked, scanning the horizon.

Their question hung unanswered as they topped the mound, only for the sight below to steal their breath. There, nestled amid rolling fields, stood a formidable garrison: towering walls of weathered lumber reinforced with stone towers that pierced the sky like spears. Golden knights patrolled its perimeter, their armor gleaming like molten sunlight, a full battalion that turned the fabled Wishing Well into an impregnable fortress.

"Oh..." Ploma uttered, her hand flying to her mouth in surprise.

She turned to him, her expression apologetic, those pink eyes wide with regret. "I'm so sorry, Pickin. I didn't expect it to be so guarded... I thought it would be hidden, ancient, not–.”

“YES WE MADE IT!!! YESSS HAHAHAHA!!!” Pickin, undeterred, felt a surge of triumph ignite in his chest. Against all odds, through fire and pursuit, they'd arrived. A grin split his face, broad and genuine, as he scooped her up in his strong arms without warning. 

“Oh my! Hahaha!” Ploma let out a startled gasp that dissolved into delighted laughter as Pickin picked her up and spun her around, her dress flaring like petals in the wind, her lush curves pressing against him in a way that sent heat racing through his veins. The soldiers below were mere ants to him now, their presence a challenge rather than a barrier. He was unfazed, his determination a shield stronger than any armor.

Ploma's laughter bubbled like champagne, her arms wrapping around his neck as she leaned in, her full lips brushing his in a small, teasing kiss. Her massive breasts heaved with her giggles, straining against the fabric of her dress, and Pickin couldn't help but feel the intoxicating warmth of her body against his.

Setting her down gently, he reached into his pocket, his fingers grazing the cool, familiar weight of his father's silver coin, one he'd vowed never to spend on anything but a wish. He pulled out the coin glinting dully in his palm. "One silver left… that's perfect."

Ploma, ever the optimist, rummaged in the small pockets of her dress, bending slightly forward in a way that caused the neckline to dip enticingly lower, offering a glimpse of her ample cleavage. She straightened with a faint, mischievous smile, producing two gold coins, shining like a captured sunbeam. "Two here are even more perfect," she teased.

"It’s all going to work," Pickin assured her, his tone resolute, though the burn on his foot throbbed like a distant drum with every shift of his weight.

They settled into the cover of a nearby thicket, watching from afar as the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in strokes of orange and crimson, casting elongated shadows over the garrison like fingers reaching out. Guards patrolled in precise shifts, their golden armor clanking rhythmically, voices murmuring in low, indistinct tones that carried on the cooling breeze. Then, from the east, a solitary figure emerged–an old farmer, his back bowed under the burden of two massive baskets slung over his shoulders like yokes of fate. He trudged up the steep hill toward the garrison's gate, his steps labored and deliberate, his weathered face a map of wrinkles carved by years of toil under the same unforgiving sun. The baskets overflowed with bounty: vibrant greens crisp from the earth, plump roots dusted with soil, and golden loaves of bread whose yeasty aroma wafted faintly to their hiding spot, twisting Pickin's empty stomach into knots of hunger.

The guards at the gate acknowledged him with curt nods, leaning their spears against the palisade as they rifled through the produce with practiced efficiency. Satisfied, one knight handed over a leather pouch. The old man bowed his head in deference, tucking the pouch into his threadbare tunic before turning away, descending the hill to where his horse and cart waited patiently at the base. The animal grazed lazily on a sparse patch of grass, oblivious to the intrigue unfolding above.

Ploma's pink eyes ignited with a revelation.  "Maybe we can pretend to be farmers and they'll let us in–just like him."

Pickin nodded slowly, his mind already turning the idea like a puzzle piece. "Smart thinkin', princess, but how about this: Look at how old the farmer is. See that?" He pointed discreetly, his arm brushing against her side.

"Old people are so cute!" Ploma interjected with a bubbly laugh, her enthusiasm spilling over him like warm honey.

Pickin waited patiently for the sexy teen to finish, a fond smile tugging at his lips despite the interruption. "We can talk to the farmer and maybe he'll hire us. We can get closer to the entrance... and maybe inside the Wishing Well itself!" His plan unfolded in his mind, a bridge from opportunity and eventually a bridge to his father.

A musing look settled over Ploma's face, her full lips curving into a thoughtful pout as she pondered. This was the culmination of their adventure… the final gambit in a tapestry of peril and passion. She knew, in the quiet depths of her heart, that she'd reflect on these times with unbridled joy, the thrill of their escapades forever etched in her soul. "Pickin, you're so smart, wise, and intelligent," she said, her voice blossoming with admiration, her pink eyes locking onto his with a heat that belied her innocent words.

"Princess, smart and intelligent are the same thing," he replied, a blush creeping up his neck.

"Wow... See how smart and intelligent you are?" She bit her lower lip playfully, tilting her head with a coy flutter of lashes, her body leaning just a fraction closer, the air between them charged with desire.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The path led to a small hovel nestled in a secluded glade, its mud-and-straw walls sagging slightly, the thatched roof patched with fresh reeds. A goat, a pair of chickens, wandered the yard, their soft clucks and bleats a gentle chorus in the twilight. The farmer unhitched his horse, his movements tired, his face lined with the weariness of a long day. He disappeared inside the hovel, the door creaking shut behind him, a faint glow of lantern light spilling through the cracks.

Pickin and Ploma exchanged glances, her pink eyes sparkling with curiosity. Ploma nodded, her golden hair catching the last rays of sunlight, her voluptuous curves a vision in the dimming light.

“Are you ready, ‘Modelina’?,” he giggled biting his tongue.

“Yes, Sir Pickin.” She bobbed her head side-to-side in a playful manner. Stroking her blonde hair up into the air with a flick of her wrist.

“You should introduce us. Anybody would find you disarming, princess.”

She moved closer, pecking his cheek. “Muah!”

The sky darkened. The animals slept. The old man snored loudly in the night.

tap tap tap

The old man emerged from the hovel at their approach, his face weathered but kind, his eyes squinting in the twilight. “Who’s there?” he called, his voice gruff but not unkind, his hand resting on the doorframe.

Ploma stepped forward, her smile radiant, her pink eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Good evening, sir. I’m Modelina, and this is my brother, uhh. Brotherino–.”

“Actually, it’s just Pickin.” The peasant massaged the back of his ‘sister’. Pickin continued speaking on behalf of Ploma. “We’re young travelers. Our home was attacked by bandits, and we’ve been wandering, searching for work. We saw you coming from the garrison and thought… maybe you could use some help on your farm?”

The farmer’s eyes softened, his gaze flicking over Ploma’s voluptuous form, her hourglass form made his old heart stutter, but he masked it with a nod. “Bandits, eh? Nasty business. Come in, come in—can’t turn away folks in need.”

He ushered them inside, the hovel small but cozy, its single room filled with the scent of fresh bread and herbs. A rough-hewn table stood in the center, laden with simple fare–bread, cheese, and a few apples–and a small fire crackled below a kettle, heating food and the hovel.

They sat, the farmer pouring them mugs of water from a clay pitcher, his hands rough and dry against the cup. “Name’s Chuddy. I farm for the garrison up the hill—good pay, but it’s lonely work. You two look strong enough. Give an old man help with the fields, and I’ll give you room and coin.”

Ploma’s smile was grateful, her pink eyes sparkling as she leaned forward, her egregious jugs pressing against the table, the dress outlining their heavy curves. “Thank you, Chuddy. We’re so grateful. What exactly do you grow for the garrison?”

The old man’s eyes snapped to her cleavage, “Ahem!” but he cleared his throat, focusing on his mug. “Grains, vegetables, fruits. Enough to feed a small army.

Pickin asked for more. “What is the garrison for?”

The farmer scratched the back of his hand. “I don’t know. I heard whispers it’s a Wishing Well, but askin’ gets you turned away.”

Pickin’s heart raced, “You ever go deeper?”

Chuddy shook his head, his blurry eyes on Ploma’s lush curves. “The pay is too good to pry.” He smiled faintly, his old eyes softening. “You two stay as long as you need. Work starts at dawn.”

Pickin looked around the hovel once more. He noticed something strange. “Chuddy, I uhh. Where do I sleep?”

The man pointed to the edge of a room where straw was collected. A goat munching at the pile of hay hungrily to itself. “You can use the straw, unless its all eaten.”

The voluptuous vixen laughed. “We’re thankful for any accommodations.”

WIth a nonchalant hand wave, Chuddy explained further. “Modelina, you can share my bed. I figure it would be weird to sleep alongside your brother.”

Pickin jumped, watching the man closely. He noticed the tent pitching in his rugged trousers. “Uuuh. My sister and I are fine sharing the straw.”

“Oh, nonsense! A girl like that should sleep in a bed. Those thingies–” He gestured a cupping motion on his chest “--look heavy. She needs to rest.”

The peasant ceased. “Well, she’s my step-sister, so it wouldn’t be weird to share a sleeping space together.”

“Aah. Alright.” Chuddy muttered to himself. “Fuckin’ tease…” 

“Huh?” Pickin’s face contorted.

“Nothing. Nothing.”

As Chuddy retired to his small bed in the corner, Pickin and Ploma settled on a pile of hay near the goat, scurrying it away with a wave… but Ploma couldn’t resist petting it before that.

The fire’s warmth dried their clothes. Ploma nestled closer to Pickin, her body pressing against his arm. “We’re close,” she whispered.

“Yes we are… the Life Well is so close.” Pickin smiled.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The morning sun crested the horizon like a baby peaking under a blanket, its golden rays filtering through the small farm. The air was crisp and invigorating, carrying the earthy scent of dew-kissed soil, fresh hay, and the faint, musky tang of animals stirring in their pens. The glade awoke slowly. The soft cluck of chickens scratching at the dirt, the low bleat of the goat echoing from its tether, and the distant rustle of wind through the surrounding woods, whispering secrets of the day ahead. 

Chuddy’s hovel stood as a humble speck in the clearing, its mud-and-straw walls bathed in the soft light, the thatched roof wet with remnants of the previous night's mist. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, a thin plume that spoke of a simple breakfast simmering within. Oat porridge thickened with whatever roots Harlan had on hand, its hearty aroma wafting out to mingle with the morning breeze.

Pickin emerged from the hovel first, his lean frame stretching against the dawn's chill, his scruffy brown hair tousled from a restless night on the hay. His burned foot throbbed dully, a persistent ache that flared with each step, but he pushed it aside.

The farmer was already outside, up and at it. His stooped figure silhouetted against the rising sun as he tied the horse to the cart, his rough hands deft despite their calluses. 

"Mornin', lad," Chuddy called, his voice gruff but warm, nodding toward the cart. "We'll head to the garrison soon as your sister's ready. Produce won't stay fresh forever."

Pickin nodded, grabbing a basket and heaving it onto the cart, the wooden frame creaking under the weight. "Appreciate the opportunity to help, Chuddy."

Ploma stepped out of the hovel moments later, her voluptuous form a vision in the morning light. Her purple satin dress, simple yet clinging, showcased her delectable waist that was flanked by giant tits and a perfect pear bottom. The fabric was translucent in spots where the dew had kissed it.

As the two men watched the angel move and bounce, Ploma was set on a different group of specimens. "Oh, look at you all!" Ploma cooed, kneeling beside a goat, her delicate fingers scratching behind its ears. The animal nuzzled her hand. “Hahaha!” she laughed, the sound light and sultry. She reached out to a chicken next, her egregious ass raised slightly as she bent. A sight that made Pickin's cock stir, a familiar heat building in his core despite the morning's tasks.

Harlan chuckled, watching her with a fond, appreciative gaze, his eyes lingering on her voluptuous profile. The way her flesh orbs jiggled with each laugh, her ass shifting as she stood. 

"Your sister's got a way with the beasts," he said to Pickin, his voice warm but tinged with a hint of longing. "Animals can always sense a kind heart."

Pickin smiled faintly. “Yeah, she's got a soft spot for them. Always has." He turned back to the cart, heaving another basket aboard, the produce thumping softly against the wood.

“You love that girl, don’t you?” The elderly man no longer prevaricated upon his senses.

“Uh, what?” Pickin turned to him.

“It’s alright. She’s your step-sister so that’s arousing in my mind.”

“I mean… uhh.”

The farmer leaned against his cart. “You do like her, though. Right?”

His shoulders raised in surrender. “Yeah… I do.”

“Have you ever thought about telling her?”

Pickin’s eyes looked at the corner. “I never thought about it. She’s the only girl I’ve really every known.”

“Didn’t your dad ever tell you about women?” Chuddy’s eyebrow raised in inquiry.

Pickin thought about it. His dad 

…

Pickin's mind drifted, pulling him back to a time when the world was smaller, simpler, and yet so full of mysteries that only a child's wide eyes could truly capture. He was just a boy then, no more than seven, with skinny legs dangling from the rickety wooden stool behind their humble stall in the bustling village market. The air was thick with the scents of earth and sweat, mingled with the faint, unappetizing steam rising from pots of stale soup and trays of soggy boiled bread. Their stall was nothing fancy, but it was theirs. Pickin Sr., his father, stood tall despite the weight of the world on his broad shoulders, his hands stirring the murky broth with a wooden ladle that had seen better days.

Pickin watched his father closely that morning, as he always did. His father was different around men, looser somehow. Women customers got polite nods and gentle smiles, assurances that the food was nourishing and fresh-picked from the garden. But with men? It was like a game, a rough-and-tumble dance of words that left Pickin puzzled.

A burly man approached the stall, his boots caked in mud from the fields, a smirk already tugging at his bearded face. He eyed the soup suspiciously, dipping a finger in and tasting it with exaggerated disgust. "This slop fished out of the pig pen this morning, old-man Pickin?"

The younger Pickin felt a spark of offense ignite. He thought how dare he insult his papa’s hard work? But his father just threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that shook the crates. "You mean you don't recognize your wife's cooking, Urgo? Tastes just like it to me!"

The man, Urgo, paused – then burst into laughter too, slapping his knee. "Fair enough, you old goat. But what in the heavens is this shit supposed to be, anyway?"

Pickin Sr. leaned forward, his eyes twinkling with that familiar mischief. "Ah, this here's the perfect meal for a hearty day's work, my friend. Packed with energy to keep you going, and plenty of water so you can sip it right out in the fields without missing a beat."

Urgo raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Energy, eh? Or will it just make me vomit all over my plow?"

Dad grinned wider, not missing a step. "If it makes you vomit, you’ll be happy to taste it again!"

“Hahahaha!!!” “Hahahaha!” They both erupted in guffaws over each other, the kind that drew stares from nearby vendors. Urgo clapped Pickin Sr. on the shoulder, tossed a few coins onto the counter, and sauntered off with a bowl in hand, still chuckling.

Pickin tugged at his father's sleeve as soon as the man was out of earshot, his small brow furrowed in confusion. "Papa, why was he so rude? He called our food slop and shit. That ain't nice."

The father shot an ugly look at his son. “Pickin Jr.! Don’t say adult words like that! It’s unbecoming.”

“Sorry, papa…”

Pickin Sr. knelt down to his son's level, his rough hand gently ruffling the boy's tousled hair. There was a warmth in his eyes, a quiet wisdom that made Pickin feel safe, like the world made sense as long as Dad was there to explain it. "Ah, son, it wasn't rudeness from the man… not really. Men talk to each other that way sometimes. It's how we show we care, you see? it looks mean, but it's all love underneath."

Pickin tilted his head, absorbing the words like a sponge. "But why don't women talk like that? Mama never calls her friends names."

His father chuckled softly, sitting back on a crate and pulling Pickin onto his knee. The market noise faded a bit in that moment, just the two of them in their little bubble. "Well, I find it easier with men. It’s erm… simpler."

"Why easier, Papa?"

Pickin Sr. paused, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the fields met the sky, as if pulling memories from the air. "When I was young, like you, I noticed men are straightforward. We say what we mean, blunt as a hammer. Women, though... they dance around a bit. They might say one thing, but feel another deep down. It's not bad, mind you—just different."

Pickin's eyes widened with curiosity. "So how do you know what Mama's thinking, then?"

His father gave a tender, knowing smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Truth be told, son, I never really did know for sure. I had to guess. Listen close, watch her eyes, feel the way her tone changes when she's happy or sad. Marriage ain't about knowing everything; it's about caring enough to try."

The small boy pondered that, kicking his feet against the crate. "But how'd you marry Mama if you had to guess all the time?"

His father leaned in close. "The truth is simple, my boy: men choose who they date, but women choose who they marry. I picked your mama because she made my heart sing, and she picked me because... well, I reckon she saw something worth keeping."

…

The memory faded like morning mist, pulling Pickin back to the present. He blinked, the hoe in his hands feeling heavier as he stood in the sun-drenched field. The old man beside him nodded knowingly, as if he'd sensed the shift in Pickin's thoughts.

"I know Ploma and I like each other," Pickin murmured, his voice soft with vulnerability. "But it's her choice, ain't it? Whether we go further."

T"That's true, lad. Women hold that power... But you can always influence her choice a bit. Sometimes, you just gotta tell her how you feel straight out. Speak from the heart, and it might work out better than you think."

Pickin smiled, a genuine warmth blooming in his chest. "Thanks, Chuddy. That means a lot."

The old man grinned back, but then his eyes twinkled with a roguish glint. "Ah, if I were young again, I'd be fucking her hard cowgirl style just to watch those tits bounce."

Pickin flushed, awkward heat creeping up his neck as he turned back to end the conversation. The old man's words hung in the air like a miasma of awkwardness.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Once loaded, Chuddy climbed onto the driver's seat, his rough hands gripping the reins, the horse snorting softly as it stamped a hoof. "Hop on, you two."

Pickin helped Ploma onto the cart first, his hands brushing her waist, the touch was always stirring in his loins, her tiny waist feeling fragile yet warm under his palms. She settled beside Chuddy, her ass pressing against the wooden bench, her 36GG puppies bouncing slightly as the cart strolled forward. Pickin climbed up behind her, sitting on a crate of vegetables, his burned foot propped up to ease the ache.

The path wound upward, the dirt road rutted and uneven, the horse's hooves clopping steadily as it pulled the cart higher. The air grew cooler with the elevation, the scent of pine sharpening, the distant villages below shrinking into colorful specks against the rolling hills.

Chuddy spoke as they climbed up the hill, his voice steady over the creak of the wheels. "The garrison's been there for about seventeen years, give or take. Guards come and go, but they don't mingle much with folks like me."

Ploma leaned forward slightly. "You said you think it's a Wishing Well. What makes you say so?"

The farmer shrugged, "Could be. They don't say, and I don't ask. But the way they watch it… like it's the king's own heart."

Pickin listened intently.

"How often do you deliver?" Ploma asked, conversing onwards with the old pervert.

"Every mornin'. 

“Wow! You must be so occupied!’

“Yeah, I don’t mind  it, but the horse struggles with the load more every year."

The garrison came into view as they crested the final rise, its high walls of lumber were daunting. Smoke rose from campfires within, the faint scent of roasting meat wafting down, a cruel tease to their stomachs. Harlan pulled the cart to a halt at the base of the steep incline leading to the gate, his horse snorting, its flanks heaving from the effort. "This is as far as my nag can climb," he said, dropping down with a grunt, his rough hands adjusting the baskets. 

"We'll carry 'em the rest of the way."

Pickin nodded, hopping down and grabbing a basket, its weight heavy against his shoulder, the produce shifting with each step. "Thanks for the job, Chuddy."

"Yes, thank you, sir," Ploma curtised.

Chuddy waved them off, "No thanks needed. You two helped me out quite a bit with this trip.”

Pickin and Ploma began the climb off the cart.

A sudden whistling cut through the air—a low, ominous hum that grew sharper, like a blade slicing the wind. Pickin's instincts flared, his hazel eyes widening as he spun, but it was too late. 

BAM!!!

A rock hurtled from the trees, striking Chuddy square in the face with a sickening thud. The old man gasped, “AH!” his rough hands clutching his temples as he crumpled to the ground, the baskets spilling their contents across the path.

"Chuddy!" Ploma cried, her pink eyes wide with horror.

From the shadows of the woods emerged Rass, his broad frame looming like a storm cloud, his sling swinging lazily in one hand, a fresh stone already loaded in the leather cradle. His shirt was torn and muddied, stretched taut over his muscled chest. Scal slunk behind him, his emaciated frame hunched.

"Well, well," Rass, his voice embedded with malice, chuckled. "Thought you could ditch me, huh? Run off like cowards after all that fun?"

"Rass, you bastard," Pickin snarled.

Ploma looked to the collapsed Chuddy. Blood leaked out of his ears as he lay unmoving. “I think you hurt him!”

The fiend drew closer. "Hurt? That was a warnin'. Next one's for Pickin’s head if you move." 

The peasant raised his hands. “Rass.. please don’t–”

"You two thought you could leave me behind? After I helped you get this far? Nah, we're finishin' this together."

Scal edged forward, his slender hands trembling as he pulled ropes from his pack, his deep-sunk eyes avoiding Pickin's gaze. "Sorry, Pickin. I gotta tie you up."

Rass's grin turned wicked, his sling slowing as he gestured to Scal. "Knot 'em up, kid. Hands and feet!" Scal moved with reluctant efficiency, his bony fingers looping the ropes around Pickin's wrists and ankles, then Ploma's, the coarse fibers biting into their skin. Pickin struggled briefly, his lean muscles straining. Ploma winced as the ropes tightened, her voluptuous form shifting uncomfortably, her massive tits heaving, her bubble-shaped ass pressing against the ground as she sat.

"Now," the asshole said, his voice low taking a knee next to the two, his cock hardening, the bulge straining against his trousers. "Let's chat, princess. You miss my cock? Been thinkin' about it since that little game?"

"No," she said nonchalantly, her voice steady. "You smell bad, Rass. And! Your teeth are gross!"

“Hahahaha!” Rass's laugh was edgy. "Cute, princess. But your job's simple: make me cum and find the Well. You've been good for one thing so far, but now we're at a Well. So, how were you plannin' to get inside? Were you pretending to be fuckin’ grocers?"

Pickin, shuffled from under his binds. "Rass… we can deliver the food, sneak in, then grant your wish. All of us, together."

Rass's eyes spied the garrison. "Together? Nah, I ain't trustin' you now. You'd bolt the second you're free."

In ponder, Ploma spoke aloud. "I have an idea! I can get inside alone."

The fiend’s brow arched. "Alone? How's that, princess? Gonna flash those big tits at the guards?"

"Because I'm the princess. By now, all the golden knights know the I’m missing. They'll let me in for safety… think I'm lost. I can tell 'em my father's comin' to meet me at the Well. Once inside, I'll... I'll grant your wish."

Rass's smirk faded. "You must have a brain as big as those tits!" he admitted. "But only you go. Pickin stays with us. If it's the Life Well, make that stupid wish for Pickin's pa, bring him back. Then he can go home, and it'll just be you, Scal, and me travelin', princess." His eyes roved her curves, his cock throbbing visibly, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "And I'll have all the time in the world to teach you good."

Ploma pouted. "But if it's the Wizard Well then ummm." she sank in thought.

Pickin struggled to speak with the rope. “Wish for Rass to have the power to turn anything' into gold. He’ll be richer than every lord in Drater.”

The sling was pocketed in Rass's tunic. He nodded with reluctant approval at the two captives. "That's good enough. Untie her, Scal."

Scal moved with efficiency, ensuring he was gentle with the lady.

Ploma stood slowly, her voluptuous form glowing in the early light. Rass stepped closer, his broad frame towering. "You better come back, princess or I’ll make sure Pickin’s brains scatter over the grass."

With a shaky breath, she bowed her head. "I... I'll be back.”

Rass watched her go, his eyes locked on her swaying ass, his sling still aimed at Pickin. "Can't wait to cum inside that asshole. She's gonna be mine, Pickin. All mine." The ebony man pressed his foot over Pickin’s face, digging his cheek and brow into the mud.

“Ugh…” Pickin grunted against the boot as his heart pounded. The weight of their plan pressed down, the garrison's walls looming like a fortress of fate, as the sun sank lower, casting the valley in shadows, the promise of the Wishing Well hanging in the balance.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

From afar, Pickin watched her go, his heart pounding with a cocktail of fear and longing. Tied to a tree at the base of the hill, his wrists and ankles bound by coarse ropes that bit into his skin, he strained against the restraints. Rass strut nearby, his sling whirling idly, the stone a deadly threat, while Scal stood silent, his body hunched in shame.

At the summit, the garrison rose like a fortress of high walls, weathered visibly. Guards patrolled the perimeter, their spears toward the sky, their golden armor a stark contrast to the rugged landscape. 

Ploma, now done climbing the hill, paused at the gate.

"Guards of the garrison! I am Princess Ploma, daughter of King Samhydel! I am here to meet my father at the Wishing Well–please, grant me entry!"

The guards at the gate froze, their spears lowering slightly as they exchanged glances, their eyes widening under their helms. One, a tall man with a stern face framed by short-cropped hair, stepped forward, his armor clinking softly. "Princess Ploma? The king's daughter? We've heard rumors of your disappearance, but... prove it, girl. These hills are full of tricksters and bandits."

Ploma's pink irises sparkled, as her hands trembled slightly, reaching into the hidden pocket of her dress, pulling out the folded bounty poster. It was the scandalous sketch from Lord Griz's fiefdom. She unfolded it carefully, the paper crinkling in the quiet, and held it up for the guards to see. The drawing captured her in detail… her face matched with uncanny precision on the paper, and her body rendered with sensuality: massive 36GG breasts heaving against a low-cut bodice, nipples faintly outlined. The curves so pronounced they seemed to leap from the page.

"See?" Ploma said, her voice steady but her cheeks flushing pink, her massive tits heaving as she held the poster higher. "This is from Lord Griz's wanted posters. It's me! Princess Ploma. My father is on his way; I was separated from my escorts and need safety inside."

The guards leaned in, their eyes widening as they studied the poster, their gazes lingering on her voluptuous form and the way the artist had captured the swell of her breasts… the innocent yet seductive expression. 

The guards exchanged murmurs, their eyes darting back to the poster, one whispering, "Look at those tits! Definitely her. King's daughter, alright." The stern woman nodded finally, folding the poster and handing it back, her gaze lingering on Ploma's voluptuous curves. "Alright, Princess. We'll escort you inside. But no wishes—the king forbade it for anyone but himself. Understood?"

Ploma nodded eagerly, her smile radiant as she picked up the baskets again, the produce shifting. "Of course! Thank you so much."

The guards opened the gate, their spears clanking as they flanked her, leading her into the encampment.

Inside, the garrison was a hive of activity, tents clustered around a central path that descended into a yawning cavern mouth, its edges reinforced with stone and timber, guards stationed at every turn. There were at least a hundred, a sea of gold and steel that made her feel small yet protected, their eyes flicking to her. Nobody expected to see a vision of perfection walk into a Wishing Well instead of out.

They reached a massive iron door at the cavern's heart, its surface etched with runes that glowed faintly blue, a lock as thick as a man's arm securing it. The guard produced a key, the metal clanking as she inserted it, the door swinging open with a deep groan that echoed through the cavern like a beast awakening. "In you go," she said, her voice steady, stepping aside to let Ploma enter. "We'll inform the king of your arrival. Stay here and don't wander."

Ploma signaled with a bow as she stepped inside, the door clanging shut behind her with a finality that made her heart skip. The chamber was a natural wonder, a massive circular pool ringed by boulders like a giant's bathtub, the water's surface lustrous and swirling with colors…orange eddies that flashed with lightning and fire, glowing like a rainbow trapped in liquid form. She looked up, her pink eyes widening in awe, the open ceiling a monstrous chasm soaring high into the mountain, so tall that birds circling above looked like tiny specks, ants against the vast blue sky. Dew amassed like rainfall from the heights above, trickling down in soft streams that fed the Well, the sunlight shooting straight down the hole like a divine beam, illuminating the water in a kaleidoscope of shimmering shades. It was much larger than the one in her castle, a true marvel of nature and magic, the air humming with an almost tangible power that made her skin tingle.

Ploma stood at the edge. The Well's waters swirled below, orange flashes crackling like distant thunder, the rainbow glow pulsing as if alive, waiting for her wish. She clutched the coin harder, her mind racing with thoughts of Pickin. Is this the Life Well or the Wizard Well? The Life Well's promise was to bring Pickin’s father back. But doubt crept in, what should her first wish be? What if this is the Well that grants magical abilities instead of renewed life?

She paused, her lips parting as she opened her eyes, staring into the Well's depths. "What if..." she paused. Her eyes lit up! “I know what to wish for!”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rass vanished over a low ridge, his broad frame swallowed by the foliage, leaving Scal alone with Pickin for a precious few moments.

The gully was quieter here. Scal lowered Pickin to the ground with a grunt, propping him against a moss-covered rock, the mud squelching under them. Pickin and Scal shared a quiet exchange. He could see the shame bubbling up in the scrawny boy.

"Scal... you don't have to do this. Rass ain't your boss… he's just a bully who's been draggin' you down."

Scal's deep-sunk eyes darted nervously toward the ridge where Rass had disappeared. "You don't get it, Pickin. Rass... he's strong. He protects me–sorta. If I cross him, he'll crush me. I've seen what he does when he's pissed."

Pickin leaned forward as much as the ropes allowed, his lean frame straining, his burned foot twitching in the mud. His voice emphasized. "Protects you? Come on, Scal… you hang around him 'cause you think he makes you tough. But look at yourself. You're smarter than this. You don't need him."

Scal trembled. "I'm weak, Pickin. Without him, I'd be nothin'—just a scrawny kid gettin' kicked around."

Pickin's voice grew more insistent, his words cutting through. "Weak? Scal, remember Lezia? After you took her out on that great trip, showed her a night like a lady–Rass swooped in and fucked her. He starved you on the road, made you do all the hard work, treated you like dirt under his boot. And you stuck with him. You endured that shit every day. 

Scal fidgeted with his fingers. His eyes drawling onto his fingernails. “I uuuh…”

Pickin shot at him. “So you got the strength to stay with a guy who beats you down, but not the strength to fight back once?"

Scal's fist tightened. “What if I can't...?"

"I'll help you. Untie the ropes, then we do this together. He can’t take both of us on and he KNOWS that! You're not weak… you're just lettin' him make you think you are."

Scal's breath came in short, ragged bursts. "Okay," he whispered finally, his voice breaking, his slender hands fumbling with the knots, untying Pickin's ankles first, then his wrists. The ropes fell away, coiling in the mud like defeated snakes, and Scal stepped back, his emaciated frame trembling but his eyes alight with a newfound fire.

Pickin rubbed his wrists, his lean frame rising slowly, his burned foot protesting but ignored in the rush of adrenaline. He admired Scal in that moment. The scrawny, short guy with the pointy hair and raccoon like eyes, who had endured so much abuse but now stood ready to fight back.

"You got this," Pickin encouraged, clapping Scal on the shoulder. "I'll keep my hands behind my back–make him think I'm still bound. When he gets close, we jump him. Together."

Scal nodded, his fist tightening again, shaking with a mix of fear and resolve. "Okay... okay. I can do this. For once... I can do this."

The sound of boots crunching on wet leaves echoed from the ridge, and Rass appeared. "What the fuck's goin' on here?"

Scal's hyperventilation peaked, his slender frame vibrating like a taut bowstring, his frail eyes burnt with a mix of terror and fury. "This," he whispered, then lunged forward with a guttural yell that ripped from his throat like a war cry. "NO MORE!"

Rass's eyes widened in shock, his sling arm rising instinctively, but Scal was faster than he'd ever been, fueled by years of pent-up rage. The smaller man collided with Rass's broad chest, his bony shoulder slamming into the ebony giant's midsection with surprising force, knocking the breath from Rass's lungs in a sharp whoosh. They tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs, mud splashing around them like dark blood, the slick earth turning their struggle into a slippery, desperate brawl.

"What the fuck are you doin', Scal?" Rass roared. His broad frame twisted, muscles bulging under his soaked tunic, the fabric ripping slightly at the seams as he tried to pin Scal beneath him. "Get off me, you fucking idiot!"

Scal's face was a mask of pain and anger. Each punch landed with a wet smack against Rass's jaw and cheeks, Scal's knuckles splitting from the impact, blood mixing with the mud. "I'm tired of your bullshit, Rass!"

Rass bucked beneath him, his powerful legs kicking up mud as he twisted, his sharp teeth snapping inches from Scal's arm. "You ungrateful fuck! I'll kill you for this!"

Scal gasped, his slender frame weakening, his fists slowing as he clawed at Rass's hand, his voice a strangled plea. "Pickin! Help! Jump him—now!" He turned his head, desperate, searching for his ally…

But Pickin was gone.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Pickin’s tired eyes darted around the cavern, his lean frame tensing as he steadied himself, his burned foot throbbing faintly. “Oh, shit…” he muttered, his voice rough with disbelief, his hands instinctively checking his body as if to confirm he was whole. His mind raced, the sudden shift from the hillside… where Rass was. But now–now he was somehow here!

Ploma called out jovially. “IT WORKED THE WISH WORKD!!!”

Pickin was fazed. ‘What?” He looked up from his body, seeing he was unmarked.

“You’re here! It’s amazing!”

Pickin shook his head, his mind swirled with too many thoughts at once. “How did–”

I made it happen.” She smiled again, her voluptuous form glowing in the Well’s light.

He tilted his neck in befuddlement. “What’d you wish for, Ploma?”

“I wished for the power to teleport you to me and it worked! You’re here!”

Pickin’s jaw dropped, his eyes pushed out blinking in dumbfounded silence as he processed her words, his lean frame frozen. “Teleport me?” he said, his voice rising with incredulity, his scruffy hair falling into his eyes as he shook his head. “Ploma, why didn’t you wish for the power to teleport yourself and anybody anywhere you wanted? That’d be… fuck… that’d be way more useful!”

“Ooooh!” she exclaimed, her voice a gentle lilt. “That would’ve been a good idea! I didn’t think of that!” She giggled to herself.

“PRINCESS PLOMA!” a gruff voice called, muffled by the heavy door, laced with suspicion. “Who’s in there with you? We heard voices! Are you alone?”

Ploma’s pink eyes widened with panic. Pickin’s heart raced, his lean frame tensing as he pressed himself against the cavern wall, the rough stone cold against his back as he tried to blend into the shadows. “Shush! Don’t let ‘em know I’m here!”

Ploma nodded quickly. Then, with a sudden spark of inspiration, she turned to the Wizard Well, the orange swirls and lightning flashes reflecting in her eyes. She held the coin aloft, her delicate fingers steady despite the pounding on the door, and with a radiant smile, she tossed it into the Well.

Pickin strained “Wish to get us out of here.”

cling She flicked the coin off her thumb, into the air, and towards the magical Wishing Well.

The coin spun through the air, catching the sunlight in a silver arc before it hit the water with a soft plink, ripples spreading across the surface, the rainbow glow pulsing brighter as if acknowledging the wish. Ploma’s smile widened, her pink eyes sparkling with joy, her expression bursting with barely contained excitement.

Pickin’s face scrunched in morbid curiosity. “What’d you wish for?” he asked, his voice rough, his lean frame stepping away from the wall.

Ploma’s smile grew even brighter, swaying her hips with her hands poised behind her back like a little girl.

“What’d you wish for, Ploma?” His voice was sharper now, a trace of panic creeping in.

Her silence stretched, her smile unwavering.

“Ploma… what did you wish for?” His hand outstretched, his heart raced.

She bit her lush lip, her pink eyes simmering in secret.

BAM BAM BAM

The guard’s pounding grew louder, the door rattling in its frame.

 Pickin’s face paled, realization dawning like a cold wave. “Oh, no you didn’t…” 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rass staggered along the path, his torn tunic was soaked in blood that glistened wetly in the fading light. His dark skin was smeared with gore, fragments of teeth clinging to his arms like grotesque trophies, his sling dangling from one hand, the leather cradle stained red, the rock clutched in his other fist dripping with viscous fluid, as if he’d been gripping a fresh kidney torn from a carcass.

In the distance, bright lights blinked like stars fallen to earth. Their golden glow pulsing through the gathering dusk. Rass's knees buckled, his massive frame collapsing to the ground with a heavy thud, the bloodied rock rolling from his hand to rest in the dirt. He sat there, panting, his broad chest rising and falling, the sling falling limp at his side, the taste of iron thick on his tongue as he spat a glob of blood onto the road.

The ground trembled beneath him, the rhythmic stomp of hooves growing louder, accompanied by the iconic clank of golden armor, a sound that rang like a bell tolling doom. Twenty golden knights emerged from the twilight, their horses snorting steam into the cool air. The lead man reined in his horse, his eyes narrowing as he took in Rass's bloodied form, the fragments of teeth glinting on his skin, the rock and sling a sign of violence.

“Boy,” the man called. “What in the heavens happened to you?”

Rass lifted his head as he spat another wad of blood onto the dirt, the glob landing inches from the horse. “Fuck off!”

The knights conversed in hushe tones, their armor clinking as they shifted, their swords tightening in their grips, but before they could respond, a figure dismounted with a heavy thud, his boots sinking into the muddy road. The man was tall, his frame broad but weathered, his salt-and-pepper beard framing a face lined with the weight of years and power. “Get up, lad. You’re hurt. Let us help you.”

Rass's slapped the hand away, the gesture sharp and defiant. He pushed himself to his feet, then stared at the man before him. It was the king himself, donning a golden crown like a halo. 

“You’re King Samhydel, huh?” Rass said, his voice decanting mockery. “Look at you, all fancy with your crown and knights, actin’ like you give a shit.”

The king’s eyes narrowed, his weathered face hardening, but his voice remained steady, a low rumble that carried the weight of command. “I am King Samhydel, and I ask again–are you alright? What happened to you, boy? Speak of it.”

“I just lost everythin’ ‘cause of your stupid fuckin’ princess,” he gritted his daggerish teeth.“She fucked me over, her and that bastard Pickin. Left me to rot.”

Samhydel’s face paled “You know where Ploma is? Speak, boy please! Tell us what you know.”

Rass's grin widened, “Oh, I don’t know where your precious princess is,” he drawled. “Last time I saw her, she was on her knees, lickin’ my big black cock, cummin’ all over her pretty royal face. Looked like she loved every second of it.”

The knights gasped, their armor clanking as they recoiled, their faces twisting with shock and disgust, whispers rippling through their ranks–“The princess? With him?”

Samhydel’s face contorted with rage. “You lie!” he roared, his voice a thunderclap that shook the hills. “Tell me where my daughter is, or I’ll burn you to ash where you stand!”

“Lie? Nah, Your Majesty,” he sneered. “That big black cock of mine looked fuckin’ amazin’ between her fat royal tits. Slid it right in that deep cleavage, fucked ‘em ‘til she was moanin’, then sprayed my load all over ‘em. Your little princess loved every drop.”

“Blasphemer!” he bellowed. Samhydel’s scream tore through the air. The king thrusted his palm forward, the air crackling with power. Just as he had done before, he readied himself to shoot dragon flame from the palm of his hand…

…but only a puff of black smoke sputtered from his hand.

“HAHAHAHAHA!!!” Rass's laughter grew louder, a mocking cackle that grated against the king’s ears. “What the fuck’s that, old man? Pointin’ your hand like some wizard? You look fuckin’ stupid.”

Samhydel’s face twisted, the heat flickering but failing to ignite, the black smoke a tiny invisible plume. The knights held their breath, their armor clanking softly, their eyes wide with anticipation. For a moment, the king’s rage seemed to falter, clarity passing through his gaze. His face soothed as he stared into Rass's defiant eyes.

“AGH!”

Then, in a single, fluid motion, Samhydel’s other hand moved, his sword flashing from its scabbard with a metallic shing that cut through the twilight. The blade arced through the air, a streak of silver and Rass's laughter choked into silence as the steel met his neck. His head parted from his body in a clean, brutal strike, tumbling to the dirt with a wet thud, his dark eyes frozen in shock, his sharp teeth bared in a final, mocking grin. His massive frame collapsed in two, blood spasming beneath him.

The knights stood frozen, their spears lowered, their faces pale as the king sheathed his sword, his salt-and-pepper beard trembling with suppressed rage. He turned to his men, his voice low but steady, carrying the weight of a man who’d once clawed his way from poverty to power. “Somebody made a wish at the Wizard Well,” he said, his tone cold, final, the air still crackling with the echo of his failed magic. “I know where they’re going...”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

High above the world, where the sky stretched endlessly like a vast blue canvas dotted with fluffy white strokes, Pickin clung to Princess Ploma with a desperation born of pure terror. His arms wrapped around her slender frame tighter than a vine around an ancient oak, his face buried against the soft warmth of her bosom as tears stung his eyes and trickled down, dampening the delicate fabric of her gown. The wind whipped around them, a roaring symphony that drowned out the frantic pounding of his heart. They soared through wisps of clouds that felt like cool mist on his skin, so close to flocks of birds that he could almost reach out and brush their feathers—if he dared loosen his grip even a fraction.

"Aaaaaah!!! STOP! STOP! STOP!" Pickin's scream tore from his throat, raw and pleading, as another gust buffeted them higher. His voice cracked with fear, echoing into the endless expanse. Below, the earth was a distant dream–a patchwork quilt of winding roads snaking through emerald fields, dotted with tiny clusters of villages that looked no bigger than toys from this dizzying height. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying for solid ground beneath his feet again.

But Ploma? Oh, she was in her element, her laughter bubbling up like a spring in the desert, pure and unbridled joy. She held him effortlessly in her arms, her ethereal magic making them both weightless, defying gravity as if it were a mere suggestion. Her long, velvet silk dress fluttered wildly around them, the rich purple fabric catching the light and shimmering like a living flame against the azure sky. The cold air rushed past her cheeks, invigorating and crisp, carrying the faint scent of distant rain and freedom. She tilted her head back, her golden hair streaming like a comet's tail, and let out a delighted yelp that danced on the wind.

"Isn't this amazing, Sir Pickin?" she exclaimed, her voice bright and exhilarated, cutting through the rush of air like a melody. She glanced down at him, her ruby eyes sparkling with wonder, completely oblivious to the way his body trembled in her embrace.

She continued the excitement. "Look at it all! We're soaring like eagles, free as the birds themselves! The clouds are so soft, and the world below... it's like a beautiful tapestry woven just for us. Can you feel it? The wind!--oh, this is pure magic!"

Pickin tried to respond, but his words were muffled against her, lost in the whirlwind. He lifted his head just enough to peek at her face, seeing the sheer bliss etched there–the way her lips stood in radiance, how her cheeks flushed rosy from the chill and excitement. It was heartbreakingly beautiful, that contrast: her unfiltered happiness against his mounting panic. 

He swallowed hard, forcing the words out louder this time, his voice laced with vulnerability. "Please, Princess! I... I don't want to fly anymore! My foot feels better now–honest! It doesn't hurt a bit. Just... just put me down, I BEG YOU!"

"Oh, dear Pickin, soon!" She shushed him.

She blasted through the air at breakneck speeds, loving every moment of it as Pickin was held in joyous terror.