A Peasant's Wishing Well (Ch. 8)

Chapter 8

[The busty princess keeps a secret]

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 rolling hills stretched out in gentle waves, dotted with gnarled oaks and patches of lavender that swayed in the breeze, their fragrance mingling with the musky heat of their bodies after a long day’s travel. Princess Ploma led the way.

The group’s conversation turned to their destination, the Wishing Wells, as they crested a hill, the path stretching toward the horizon where the wells were rumored to lie. Scal broke the silence, his voice soft but curious, his deep-sunk eyes flicking to Ploma. “How close are we to the Gold Well, princess? That’s the one with all the riches, right?”

Ploma’s pink eyes widened. “Gold Well? Yes,” she said. “I think that’s where we’re headed. The map’s a bit… tricky, but it’s got to be close.”

Pickin reached for her hand, his fingers mingling with her own. He gave her a wink. “You’ve been playing along so well, Ploma. I’m proud of you.” His thumb brushed her knuckles, the memory of their true goal made him glow: the Life Well, to bring his father back from the grave was coming closer to reality. 

The princess disliked lying, often feeling sorry about the ploy, the lie that they were chasing gold instead of resurrection. But, Pickin explained at the start that they wouldn’t make it without Rass and Scal.

Ploma nodded, her golden hair swaying, her massive tits jiggling slightly as she squeezed his hand, her pink eyes softening. “I’m just happy to be with you all.”

Rass snorted, his broad frame looming as he stepped closer, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “What if we end up at the wrong damn well? You said there are four but only one Gold Well, right? Could be wastin’ our time chasin’ gold when we land in some wizard’s puddle.”

Ploma’s lips pursed as she considered. Rass's eyes dived into her cleavage, wanting to sample another experience with the girl. The way she posed just titillated his senses like no other woman could ever do.

She responded to Rass. “Well… I think we’re on track for the Gold Well, but there’s a chance we could end up at the Wizard Well. It’s hard to tell with these old maps.” She glanced at Pickin, her pink eyes seeking reassurance, her breasts bouncing slightly as she shifted.

Rass's smirk widened, his eyes roving her curves. “Wizard Well? Hell, if we end up there, I’m wishin’ for the power to teleport. Pop right into any lady’s bedchamber, no fuss.” He laughed, a deep rumble, his hand brushing the bulge in his trousers. “Though, I already got the power to make women wanna fuck me all the time.”

Pickin rolled his eyes as he released Ploma’s hand. “Keep dreamin’, Rass.”

Scal managed a faint smile, his deep-sunk eyes brightening slightly. “Wizard Well seems kinda cool. Magical powers are interesting.You could change the way people see you…” he said, his voice soft.

Rass's laugh was sharp, his dark eyes glinting as he clapped Scal on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. “You’re dreamin’ small. Me? I’d use my powers to fuck as many women as possible.” His smirk turned crude, his voice dropping to a growl. “That Lezia–damn, I dumped a bucket of cum in her ass. Tightest hole I ever fucked. You and Pickin missed out. Shoulda tried her out. She was so fucking easy!.”

Ploma’s face contorted with a hint of disgust, finally catching onto the boy’s antics after a month of travel. “I’m glad they didn’t. The first time should be romantic and lovely.”

“HAH!!!” Rass's eyes closed as he bellowed. “Romantic? Princess, men don’t give a shit about that. We just wanna cum on that pretty face of yours, watch it drip down those big tits.”

THe girl’s lips parted, her pink eyes widening, but she held her ground. “Pickin’s not like that. Neither is Scal. They’re… they’re gentlemen.”

Rass laughed, a deep, mocking rumble, his dark eyes glinting with challenge. “Gentlemen? They’re pussies, princess. Any man would fuck you the second you spread those legs. Hell, I’d show you right now.” 

She wrapped her arm around Pickin. “I don’t plan on having a penis in my mouth or my pussy until marriage.”

Scal nodded, his deep-sunk eyes earnest as he stepped forward, his slender frame trembling with conviction. “I like that idea.”

The ebony teen poked at Scal. “Experienced women are better. They don’t suck cock like a broken glass bottle.”

Pickin jabbed back, his response made on instinct. “Must be worse if they had teeth like yours, Rass?”

Rass's face darkened. “Shut the fuck up, Pickin! You’re just jealous ‘cause the princess let me fuck her tits last. Those massive puppies squeezin’ my black cock tight–bet you wish you could watch that again, huh?”

Pickin couldn’t deny the heat that surged through him at the memory of Ploma’s voluptuous body, the way her massive tits had bounced on another man’s cock. “You keep telling yourself that.”

A quiet tension simmered between them, replacing their former indifference with a growing feud. Every conversation spiraled into the same inevitable clash. Rass relentlessly taunted Pickin, who countered with sharp, biting retorts. These exchanges often pushed Rass to the edge, teetering between threats of violence and crude boasts about his sexual exploits with the princess.

Scal cleared his throat. “I’m… I’m real tired,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “We should eat and rest. Been a long day.”

Ploma nodded, her pink eyes softening as she squeezed Pickin’s arm, her desirable globes brushing his shoulder. “You’re right, Scal,” she said, her voice a soothing melody. “Let’s find a spot to camp. We’ve got a long way to the Wells.”

-.-.-.-.-

The rain came down in sheets, a relentless curtain that drenched the forest, turning the dirt path into a slick mire under the group’s boots. The canopy of ancient oaks and tangled vines offered little shelter, their leaves trembling under the weight of the downpour, dripping icy water that soaked through cloaks and tunics. Ploma’s golden hair, now slick with rain, clung to her shoulders, framing her pink irises, which darted nervously as she glanced back at her companions, her full lips parted in a breathless gasp.

Pickin trudged beside her, his lean frame hunched against the rain, his scruffy brown hair plastered to his forehead, his hazel eyes assessing the forest for shelter. His worn tunic was soaked, clinging to his muscled shoulders. His hand brushed the pocket where his father’s silver coin and Ploma’s bounty poster was, protected in a waxed pouch.

“There!” Ploma called, pointing to a dark hollow in a rocky outcrop–a cave!” The face of the mountain’s mouth yawning like a promise of refuge.

They ducked inside, the cave’s cool, damp air a stark contrast to the storm outside. The stone walls glistened with moisture, stalactites dripping in the dim light, the scent of wet rock mingling with the faint musk of moss. The floor was littered with loose stones and ash from some long-forgotten fire, crunching under their boots. They’d found no small sticks for kindling in the drenched forest, so Rass and Pickin had dragged a massive tree branch inside, its dead leaves still clinging, though sodden. It was a cumbersome thing, nearly as long as the cave itself, but they piled it in the center, its brittle leaves crackling as Scal struck flint to spark a flame. The fire roared to life, its flames leaping high, casting a fierce, flickering glow across the cave. The heat was intense, almost suffocating, the crackle of burning wood loud and erratic, leaving a scattering of ash and char on the stone floor.

Ploma stepped back from the fire, the wet dress glued to her alabaster skin, outlining her hardened nipples and her milkers. “It’s so h-h-hot.” Her teeth clattered against the cold.

The group laid out their bedrolls, the damp fabric heavy as they spread them on the cave floor. Pickin and Ploma sat close, their shoulders brushing, her voluptuous form bright against the fire. Rass and Scal sat across from them, the fire’s glow casting harsh shadows across their faces.

Scal hugged his chest, his voice soft, his slender frame hunching as he rubbed his hands against his body. “Wish we had somethin’ to eat.”

Rass was exasperated, his broad frame sprawling on his bedroll. “Can’t hunt shit with my sling in this rain. So get used to it.”

The naive teen felt sorry for the poor boy. She assuaged him with a soft tone. “Perhaps, we may focus on something else to distract our appetite?”

Scal’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “I know a game to pass the time,” he said, his voice tentative but eager. “From my village. You say three things about yourself–two true, one not. If someone guesses the lie, they win.”

Ploma straightened herself on the bed sprawl. “That sounds fun!” she exclaimed.

Pickin glanced at her. “Alright, I’m in.”

The asshole dampened conversation. “This is some dumb kid’s game. I’m skippin’ it.”

Scal’s eyes avoided looking at Rass. Ever since seeing Lezia mount his dark cock, the small lad had struggled feeling anything but animosity towards Rass. Rather, his eyes landed on Pickin. “You go first,” his voice was gentle but encouraging.

Pickin leaned back. “Alright,” he said, his voice steady. “I love eatin’ bitter apples, I know how to juggle, and I got a dog named Pookin.”

The players sat in silence for a second, then spoke.

Scal tilted his head, his slender fingers fidgeting with the blanket. “You don’t know how to juggle.”

Pickin grinned, eyes flicking to Ploma. “I do juggle,” he said, his voice light. “Pretty good too.”

Ploma nodded. “I’ve seen him juggle, but hmmm… you don’t have a dog, do you? You’d have mentioned a Pookin by now.”

Pickin’s grin widened. “You’re right, princess. No dog. You win.”

Rass groaned louder, his broad frame shifting, his dark eyes glinting with boredom. “This game’s dumber than Pickin!” he muttered, his sharp teeth flashing as he scowled.

Scal ignored him. “My turn. Ahem!” He cleared his throat as his tummy rumbled. “I like horses, I wanna be a knight, and… I have a crush on the princess.” His cheeks flushed, his eyes darting to Ploma, then away.

Ploma’s pink eyes slightly closed as she smiled. “Oh, Scal, that’s so sweet,” she said, her voice a sultry whisper, her cheeks flushing pink. “I’m flattered. I don’t think you like horses. You’re so skinny, riding must be uncomfortable.”

Scal nodded, his deep-sunk eyes softening. “You got me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Horses are hell on my bones. Your turn, princess.”

She was radiant, pursing her lips as her index finger rested against her mouth. “Hmmmmmm….two things true… one thing false” Her voice was bright. “I know! Okay… My boobs are 36GG, I’m a princess, and… we’re goin’ to the Gold Well.”

Pickin’s heart sank, eyes dilated in shock as they landed upon her, the lie about the Gold Well cutting like a knife. He knew their true destination was the Life Well, for his father, and her casual mention of the lie they’d fed for weeks stung with guilt. The fire crackled, its heat intense, ash falling like black snow on the cave floor.

Rass's head snapped up, his dark eyes narrowed. “Wait a damn minute,” his voice a low growl, his broad frame tensing. “Your cup size—36GG, yeah?”

Ploma nodded, her massive tits bouncing, her smile nonchalant. “It’s 36GG,” she sang gleefully.

Rass's eyes flicked to her, then to Pickin, his gaze hardening. “And you’re a princess, right? That’s true?”

“Of course!” Ploma said, her pink eyes sparkling, her lush ass shifting as she leaned back, oblivious to the storm brewing.

Rass stood from his bed, staring at Pickin through the high flames of the fire… harsh shadows across his jagged mouth. “So, the Gold Well… Pickin! You said we’re goin’ to the Gold Well to get rich. That’s the plan, right?”

Ploma’s smile faltered.

The princess laughed. “Got you!” That one wasn’t true!”

The peasant was stunned, his face wreaking dread as Ploma’s words poisoned the air.

“Oh, wait…Oops.” She realized her mistake. “I… I mean…” she stammered, her voice trembling, her eyes pleading with Pickin.

Rass's eyes blazed brighter than the cave’s campfire, his blood curling. “Where the fuck are you really guidin’ us!?” 

Ploma’s hands flew to her mouth, then broke the silence of crackling fire. “Don’t be mad at Pickin!” He just wants to bring his father back. We’re goin’ to the Life Well, not the Gold Well. I can still guide you to the Gold Well, but… it’ll take longer.”

Pickin’s heart pounded. “She’s right,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “It’s the Life Well. For my dad. BUT-BUT-BUT we might end up at the Wizard Well, too. That one… it could give you the power to turn anythin’ into gold, Rass. You’d be richer than any lord.”

Rass's eyes narrowed, his sharp teeth glinting as he stepped closer, his voice a low growl. “Wizard Well? I don’t give a shit about magic tricks. I want the Gold Well, and you lied to me!”

There was a terror arising within that dark space. Rass, slowly held his sling out in one hand, donning a smooth stone in the other.

“You know what? I’m done playin’ nice. You’ve been stringin’ us along, Pickin, and you, princess, with your big tits and innocent act, you’re in on it. You know what…

Rass shook his eyes off of Pickin and to the princess. He continued his taunt. “I’m only helpin’ you now if Ploma sucks my cock and swallows. I deserve it for this bullshit, and I want her mouth on my black cock, chokin’ on it while you watch, Pickin.”

Ploma whispered to Pickin. “I… I can’t. Not until marriage.”

“WHAT WAS THAT!?” Rass screamed at the two, hearing faint words jump through the flames.

“You touch her again, Rass, and I’ll gut you.” Pickin stood from the bed, shielding Ploma from his view.

Scal’s head was bowed, revealing his bony shoulders. “Rass, stop!”

Pickin took a deep breath, his eyes flicking to the fire, its flames leaping high, ash falling like a warning. He extended his hand, as if offering a handshake, his voice steady. “Rass, let’s talk this out.”

Rass looked down at his hand, his smirk faltering, “I get a blowjob everyday, until we reach the Gold Well. Got it?”

Pickin stretched his hand out. Rass reached forward, his eyes peaking over Pickin’s shoulder to look at the princess.

“FUCK YOU!” Pickin acted! With a grunt, he kicked the massive branch, sending a shower of embers and ash toward Rass and Scal, the glowing sparks flying into their eyes. 

“You motherfucker!!!!” Rass roared, his hands flying to his face, while Scal yelped, his slender frame stumbling back, blinded by the ash.

Pickin grabbed Ploma’s hand, her fingers warm and trembling, her chest bouncing as he pulled her to her feet.

“Run!” he shouted, his voice urgent, and they sprinted out of the cave, the rain hitting them like a cold slap, soaking Ploma’s dress further, her golden hair streaming behind her as they fled, the storm’s roar drowning out Rass's curses, the fire’s light fading as they vanished into the night, their mission to the Life Well now a desperate race against betrayal.

-.-.-.-.-.-

The forest became a battlefield as they sprinted, the rain pelting their faces, the ground slick beneath their boots. Rass's massive form crashed through the underbrush behind them, his muscled chest heaving, his tunic torn and soaked, his knife-like chompers primed at them, “You can’t run forever!” The asshole’s hands, thick and calloused, seized stones from the forest floor with swift recovery. “AAAGH!” His voice soaking in anger as he hurled those rocks with terrifying strength.

The rocks whizzed through the air, each one a deadly missile, their edges jagged as they sliced through the rain. One grazed Pickin’s shoulder, tearing his tunic and drawing a thin line of blood, the sting sharp against the cold. Another thudded into a tree beside Ploma, embedding itself in the bark with a splintering crack, the sound echoing like a warning shot.

“Keep movin’!” Pickin shouted, his voice rough over the storm, pulling Ploma behind a gnarled oak, her back brushing him. 

Scal scrambled after them, his slender frame weaving through the trees, his blanket catching on thorns as he dove into a cluster of bushes, his deep-sunk eyes wide with panic. Rass's screams followed behind his pathetic lackey. The ebony fiend’s voice was a guttural roar. “I’ll have her mouth on my cock, Pickin! You hear me? Those big tits, that tight ass–she’s mine!” Another rock hurtled past, narrowly missing Scal’s head, embedding itself in a pine with a force that split the bark, shards flying like shrapnel.

Ploma’s face was wide with fear. “He’s crazy!” she gasped, her voice a trembling trill, her golden hair whipping behind her. “Pickin, what do we do?”

“Just run!” Pickin screeched, scanning the forest, his heart pounding as he pulled her through a tangle of vines, their leaves slick against their skin. His burned foot throbbed, but adrenaline drowned the pain. They jived between trees, ducking low as another rock whizzed overhead, its force splintering a branch that crashed to the ground in a spray of wet leaves.

Scal stumbled, “Aw shit! Rass, can we stop!” his slender frame slipping on the mud, but Rass yanked him up, his voice urgent. “Stay with me, Scal! Don’t stop!”

Pickin and Ploma sprinted their footsteps awkward as they dodged the canopy of the forest. Twigs, branches, trees, ferns, all acted as obstacles to their run and cover from the slinging rocks.

“Oh, fuck!” Pickin yelped. “AAAH!!!” Ploma screamed. The forest floor sloped, a muddy incline that sent them sliding, their boots skidding as they tumbled down in a tangle of limbs and soaked fabric. Both their bodies bruised and muddied from the fall.

They scrambled to their feet, the mud clinging to Ploma’s dress and Pickin’s tunic. The slope had spilled them onto a dirt road, its surface slick but solid, stretching through the forest like a lifeline. In the distance, a figure gleamed in the rain–a golden knight, his armor catching the faint starlight that pierced the storm clouds.

Ploma's pink eyes widened, her lush lips parting in a mix of hope and fear, her boobs shook slightly as she stumbled to a halt beside Pickin. "Look–a knight! Should we... should we go to him?" she whispered urgently.

Pickin hesitated, but acceded. The knight was approached steadily, perhaps a patrol or a wanderer, but in this storm, he was a lighthouse of protection. "He could help us. He could stop Rass cold, buy us time?"

Ploma nodded, her golden hair whipping in the wind, her voluptuous curves shifting as she squeezed his hand tighter, her bubble-shaped ass tense beneath the clinging dress. "Okay... let's try."

They staggered toward the knight, waving their arms to flag him down, the mud sucking at their boots with every step. The steed snorted as it slowed, the knight reining it in with a gloved hand, his golden helmet tilting curiously. Up close, it was hard to see details through the torrent; lightning cracked overhead, illuminating his visor briefly, but the rain blurred everything into a hazy silhouette. 

"Halt!" the knight boomed, his voice muffled by the helmet and storm, deep and commanding like rolling thunder. He dismounted with a clank of armor, his broad frame towering, and drew his sword in a fluid motion, the blade gleaming wetly as he held it at the ready. "Who goes there on this forsaken night? State your business!"

Ploma stepped forward slightly, her massive tits heaving as she caught her breath, the rain cascading down her cleavage like rivulets of silver. "Please, sir knight—we need help!" her voice rose over the wind.

The knight lowered his sword a fraction, his helmet turning toward her, then Pickin. "By the heavens… you’re the princess! What are you doing out here?" he asked.

BAM!

Before they could answer, a sharp whizzing sound cut through the air–like an arrow slicing the wind, but heavier, more ominous. It was followed by a deafening clang, stone on metal, as a fist-sized rock slammed into the knight's golden helmet with brutal force. The impact dented deeply, crumpling it inward like tin under a hammer, the force reverberating through his body. The knight staggered, his sword dropping from limp fingers, clattering to the mud. He collapsed to one knee, then pitched forward face-first into the puddle-strewn road, his steed whinnying in alarm and bolting into the shadows. A thin trickle of blood seeped from his nostril, mixing with the rain.

“Aaaaah!” Ploma screamed, her hands flying to her mouth, her voluptuous form recoiling in horror. Pickin, his grip on her hand tightening as he yanked her back. "Run! Run! Run!”

Without another word, they bolted off the road, plunging back into the forest's embrace. The canopy here was denser. They ran and ran, their breaths coming in ragged gasps, Ploma's golden hair streaming. Pickin's burned foot stabbed in the back of his mind, but fear propelled him onward.

Behind them, Rass's voice echoed one last time–a furious, guttural roar of "I'll find you, you fucks!"--but it faded as the distance grew, swallowed by the storm's softening rumble. The rain eased to a drizzle, the thunder retreating like a defeated foe, leaving only the dripping of water from leaves and their pounding hearts.

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

King Samhydel remained mounted on his warhorse, the beast's flanks steaming in the relentless downpour that had turned the once-dry trail into a muddy quagmire. The animal shifted uneasily beneath him, its hooves sinking into the earth, but the king held the reins steady, his gloved hands unyielding. Around him, his loyal men scrambled to assemble a makeshift tent from oiled canvas and sturdy poles, their armored forms silhouetted against the flickering torches that hissed and sputtered in the rain.

The royal pavilion was still being erected further up the hull, its elaborate frame groaning under the assault of the storm. No one had anticipated this deluge; the skies had been clear at dawn, but now thunder rolled like distant war drums, and sheets of water showered from the heavens, soaking everything in sight.The king's stern face was etched with lines of unyielding resolve, his jaw set like forged steel beneath a neatly trimmed beard flecked with gray. Rain sluiced down his golden chestplate, once gleaming like the sun but now grimy with the week of mud and grime. He gazed out into the misty mountains that loomed ahead, their jagged peaks shrouded in swirling fog, the lush green hills below undulating like a living sea under the relentless patter. 

He was so close now…so tantalizingly close to finding his daughter, Princess Ploma. 

He thought to himself in solitude. What could have drawn her this far from the safety of the palace walls? The thought circled in his mind like a hawk, quickening his pulse even as his body remained statue-still atop the horse. If she had been kidnapped, surely a ransom would have come by now, some demand from bandits or rival lords, a scrap of evidence to barter her life… but no such missive had arrived. Instead, his pursuit had led him here through a trail of hushed accounts: passersby speaking of a girl with eyes like rose quartz, traveling with unlikely companions, her golden hair catching the light in remote hamlets. What purpose could she have in these wilds? The Wishing Wells whispered through his thoughts, ancient legends surfacing unbidden. The Wizard Well, said to grant arcane knowledge, was protected with an army beyond these hills or the Life Well, its waters to bring back the deceased. 

“Impossible”, he told himself, dismissing the notion with a mental shake. Ploma had no need for such wishes; he had given her everything–a life of luxury and protection. Why run off? Why abandon the throne for this forsaken frontier? It was puzzling, a riddle that twisted his gut tighter with each unanswered question.

"My king!" The voice cut through the rain's symphony, drawing his attention to the edge of the makeshift tent. A golden knight approached, his armor, almost identical to the king's but less carved, clinking with each purposeful stride. Heavy droplets peppered the metal plates, creating a delightful, whimsical song that danced off the surfaces like tiny bells, a stark contrast to the king’s gloom. The knight halted respectfully, water streaming from his helm's visor, his face obscured but his posture rigid with duty.

"What is it?" the king replied, his voice steady and unfazed.

"We've sent ravens to all nearby settlements, sire," the knight reported, his tone laced with reassurance. 

“Good.”

"Word spreads swiftly of the princess's description. There aren't many paths or havens this far from the capital. Perhaps, scattered villages, a few hermit enclaves in the valleys. We shall find her soon, I swear to you, your Grace."

The king turned his gaze upon the man, his eyes speaking volumes in their silence: urgency, doubt, a flicker of hope tempered by impatience. No words were needed; the knight understood the unspoken command to redouble efforts. Then, the king looked away, his stare returning to the misty veil of the mountains, as if willing the fog to part and reveal his lost child.

The golden knight bowed deeply, rain pooling in the creases of his armor. "My king," he murmured with deference, before turning on his heel and striding back into the deluge.

The horse nickered softly, steam rising from its coat. Inside the tent, a brazier crackled to life, casting wavering shadows on the canvas walls, but the warmth did little to dispel the chill in his heart. “Ploma, where are you?” he pondered, clenching a fist. The night stretched on, the rain a ceaseless murmur, echoing the turmoil of a father's unyielding quest.

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

Eventually, as the forest thinned slightly, they spotted it: a small, abandoned cottage nestled in a clearing, its mud-and-straw walls weathered but sturdy, a thatched roof sagging gently under a tangle of vines. No smoke rose from the crooked chimney, and the small circular window was crafted from mud packed into a large opening, allowing just a sliver of moonlight to peek through. Exhausted and drenched from the storm, they stumbled inside, slamming the rickety door behind them. The air was musty with disuse but blessedly dry, carrying a faint, comforting scent of old wood and earth that wrapped around them like a forgotten embrace.

Pickin leaned against the wall, his chest heaving as he caught his breath, viewing the dim interior, illuminated only by the faint moonlight filtering through the window. Dust motes danced in the pale glow, and the shadows seemed to hold echoes of lives long past.

"This... this is just like the one I grew up in." A nostalgic smile tugging at his lips despite the bone-deep exhaustion etching lines on his face. 

He limped over to the hearth, where a few dry logs still lingered like old friends, and sparked a fire with the flint from his pocket. The flames crackled to life, casting a warm, dancing glow across the sparse room, chasing away the chill and painting their faces in soft amber hues.

Ploma sank down beside him on the worn floorboards, her voluptuous form curling close, her royal jugs pressing softly against his arm in a way that felt intimate and reassuring. She rested her head on his shoulder, her pink eyes softening in the firelight, reflecting the gentle dance of the flames. "Tell me about it... your childhood," she whispered, her voice a tender caress, laced with genuine curiosity and a hint of longing.

Pickin chuckled faintly, though he winced as he stretched his injured foot toward the warmth, the pain a sharp reminder of their trials. "Simple times, really. Just Mom, Dad, and me in a little hut just like this one… mud walls that kept out the worst of the winters, that same kind of window where I'd lie awake at night, watching the stars wink down. We'd gather around a fire much like this, telling stories or singing old folk songs until the embers died. It wasn't much, but it was home... full of love." His voice cracked slightly, the weight of their perilous quest, of the elusive Life Well and the thought of reliving those memories once he brought his father back.

Ploma sighed softly, her breath warm against his neck. "That sounds so lovely, Pickin. My palace was all marble and gold, grand halls, servants bustling but never truly connecting. It was beautiful, yes, but... so lonely. No cozy fireside stories like yours, no one to share the quiet moments with. I envied lives like that, even as a child. I’ve always wanted this: simple, warm, real."

The peasant’s foot throbbed sharper now that the adrenaline had faded, a burning ache that made him grimace and shift uncomfortably. "Damn this burn," he muttered, glancing down at the ruined shoe, eaten away by the flames he'd kicked through earlier. His flesh was a soft pink, sensitive and raw. "Wish we could stumble upon that Wizard Well instead... teleport right to the Life Well, no more trudging on this mess of a foot."

Ploma giggled lightly, her knockers jiggling with the gentle motion, her pink eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and affection. "Flying would be even cooler, don't you think? Soaring over these endless forests, feeling the wind rush through our hair... like birds, free and untethered, leaving all our worries far below."

Pickin managed a weary smile, though he shook his head. “My foot’s a little too burnt to dream about flying right now, love. But... yeah, that does sound pretty magical. With you by my side, I bet we'd touch the clouds.”

"I'm sorry it's hurting so much. We've been through so much already..." The princess snuggled even closer, pouting sympathetically as she gazed at his injured foot, her hand reaching out to hover gently near it, as if her touch alone could soothe the pain. 

"Even if this trip's been a complete mess, I'm glad to have been by your side through it all, Ploma. I wouldn't trade a single moment with you." He turned to her with a depth of emotion that transcended the chaos of their journey. 

"Me too, Pickin. You're... you're my adventure. The one thing in this crazy world that feels true and right. I never imagined finding someone like you." She blushed deeply as she leaned in closer. 

With a soft, affectionate smile, Pickin reached into his pocket, pulling out a waxed pouch that had shielded its contents from the relentless rain. He unfolded the crumpled paper carefully–the wanted poster from Lord Griz, featuring Ploma's likeness in crude depiction. Ploma's eyes widened in surprise, her lush lips parting in a soft gasp. 

"You... you kept this? All this time? Through everything?"

Pickin nodded, his gaze steady and full of quiet devotion as he pressed it into her hands. "Yeah. I thought I might keep it, so I can see you every day… but it’s worth more in your hands… so you can remember our adventure together. Just us, against the odds."

Tears glistened, but she smiled sweetly, a radiant warmth spreading across her face. She tucked it carefully into the pocket of her dress, a contented breath that spoke of unspoken gratitude. "That's... very sweet, Pickin. Thank you. It means the world to me."

The fire in the cottage crackled softly, its golden glow casting flickering shadows across the mud-and-straw walls, the small circular window reflecting the faint starlight that pierced the now-clearing sky. The storm had passed, leaving the air heavy with the scent of damp earth, the distant chirping of birds signaling the return of life to the forest.

Inside, the warmth of the hearth wrapped Pickin and  Ploma. They closed their eyes and fell asleep in each other’s arms… but only briefly.

BAM

The quiet was shattered by a heavy thud against the cottage door, the wood creaking as it swung open, revealing a massive silhouette framed against the night.

“Oh shit!” Pickin stood up.

“Sit the fuck down!” Rass kicked the peasant back onto the floor.

His sharp teeth flashed in a predatory grin. “Finally found you two lovebirds,” Rass growled, his dark eyes roving over Ploma. “Thanks for givin’ me such a chase. Been a while since I had to hit a target that fast.” He cracked his knuckles, his teeth shining like ceramic shards in the firelight.

Pickin stood, his lean frame tense, his burned foot throbbing as he stepped in front of Ploma, shielding her. “Rass, I’m sorry… We’ll go to the Gold Well, I swear, right after I get my dad back from the Life Well. You’ll get your riches, just… let’s call it even.”

“Even!? You fuckin’ lied to me, Pickin!” He spoke irritably. “I’m fine with the Life Well first, but for stringin’ me along, I want payment. Now.” His gazed at Ploma.

Pickin shuddered at the implication. “We’ve had a long damn day, Rass. We don’t even have food… How about this: There’s a stream nearby, birds out there now the rain’s stopped. You’re good with that sling–go hunt us some fish or game, come back quick. We’ll rest, then we’re square.”

The ebony man closed the gap between him and Pickin. “Easy, eh?” he said, his voice dripping with challenge. “You think I’m your errand boy, Pickin? Nah, I’m makin’ this fun.”

Licking his lips, he tilted his head down to Ploma. She looked up at him with wide eyes and her fat tits presenting themselves so kindly.

Scal chuckled. “Easy? Okay, fine! We’ll play a game, and the princess is gonna be the star.”

The peasant’s heart sank. No way! You ain’t draggin’ her into your bullshit.”

“What’s the game, Rass?” Ploma asked. Her naivety cut through the tension.

He stepped closer. “It’s a classic game. The princess gets on her knees and has a little fun.” He turned to Pickin, his smirk cruel. “The first one to cum loses and goes fetch us food. How’s that sound?”

Pickin’s face flushed red, “You son of a—”

“I’ll do it!” Ploma interrupted.

Rass's eyes lit up, broken white pieces of teeth flashing as he clapped his hands, his cock visibly throbbing. “That’s the spirit, princess!” he said, his voice thick with lust, his broad frame vibrating with excitement. He turned to Pickin, his smirk triumphant. “See? She’s game. Let’s make this fair, princess–equal treatment for both of us, ‘cause I’m nice like that.”

Pickin's blood boiled but his cock betrayed him by hardening at the thought of Ploma’s touch, her huge tits bared, her lips on him again. He stepped forward reluctantly, his burned foot throbbing.

Ploma knelt on the straw-strewn floor, she looked so delectable on her knees as the silk hugged her amazing figure. That breast meat was bulging from her silk dress and her face looked enticing when moist from the rain.

Ploma kneeled between Pickin and Rass, blooming as the weight of the moment settled over her like a warm, forbidden blanket. The chilled air of the night nipped at her skin, making her soft hands tremble ever so slightly as she reached out. Her cold hands felt wonderful as  her fingers brushed against the hot fabric of Pickin’s trousers. She hesitated for a heartbeat, glancing up at the two boys, before undoing the fastenings with deliberate care. The trousers slid down his thighs, fluffing to the floor, revealing his six-inch cock. It was thick and veiny, the shaft was already half-hard and curving slightly upward. The bulbous tip slick with a bead of precum that caught the hearth’s light, the foreskin pulled back just enough to expose the sensitive head beneath. The peasant’s sausage pulsed faintly, begging for her touch.

She turned to Rass next, her fingers more confident now, though her heart raced beneath her heaving bosom. Unfastening his trousers, she tugged them down, and his dark, massive cock sprang free. His cockmeat was easily eight inches of unyielding girth, thick as her wrist, the ebony shaft a masterpiece of laden veins that throbbed with raw power. The head was swollen and slick, like a deep plum color at the tip where arousal wept in shiny droplets, contrasting sharply against Ploma’s milky white skin. It bobbed heavily in the air, exuding a musky scent that mingled with the woodsmoke.

This is all I wanted, Pickin.” Rass exhaled a deep, rumbling sigh of delight, his broad chest expanding as he eyed her hungrily. “Just a little fun to make up for your lyin’... and damn, princess, you’re makin’ it worth every second.”

“Okay…” Ploma’s hands reached for both cocks at the same time, her face swivelling between the two members waving before her. She wrapped her soft fingers around both cocks, curling with a secure yet teasing grip. First, she focused on Pickin’s six-incher, stroking slowly, building the rhythm into a blur of squelching meat and sweaty musk. Her palm traveled from the thick base up to the helmet of his dick, her thumb circling the sensitive underside where the veins met the ridge, making his shaft twitch and harden fully in her grasp. Dabs of precum leaked freely now, coating her fingers in a slick sheen that eased each up and down motion. She mirrored the motion on Rass's massive black cock, her fingers barely able to encircle its imposing girth, stroking from the root where coarse hairs met smooth ebony skin, up to the swollen head that flared like a crown.

“Get ‘em wet, princess,” Rass muttered, his voice a husky growl that sent shivers down her spine. “Show us what that pretty mouth can do... make us ache for it.”

Her innocent eyes browsed over Pickin, reminding him of her vows of oral celibacy. Then. she leaned forward. Her lush, full lips parted invitingly, sticking her tongue out. The big titty teen virgin dragged her warm, wet tongue along the underside of Pickin’s cock, starting at the base where his balls drooped, tracing the veiny path all the way to the tip. The salty sample of his cock mingled with her taste buds as she lathered her tongue up and over the sensitive head. Rass's eyes shut, a low groan escaping his lips as her golden hair fell forward, brushing his thighs like a silk brush. Her tongue loitered there, exploring every crest and peak of meat between Pickin’s legs. Her chest flattened against the underside to apply just enough pressure to make him buck slightly, her breath hot and humid against his throbbing length. It felt wonderful having her cool hands over the warm meat.

Rass laughed, shaking with amusement. “Fuck, princess, you’d look so good with my black dick all over that pretty face. Go on, give it a taste... wrap that tongue around me and make me feel it.” His cock pulsed harder in her hand, the head weeping more precum. 

Ploma, shot a look of scorn, looking as cute as an angry rabbit. Her tongue extended to drag languidly along his black mamba, up the veined ebony length that shimmered with her saliva. The musky, earthy flavor of him filled her senses as she reached the swollen head. Rass moaned deeply, “So easy… She’s so easy, Pickin!”

The taunts continued. “Heavens, you were born for this! Born to pleasure multiple men at once, princess! Gangbangs, orgies... you’d take ‘em all, wouldn’t you? Ooooh fuuck, watch the princess lick my dick, Pickin!” She started again, her head disappearing into the underside of the dark man’s testicles, the black and veiny meat rested on her nose and forehead more boldly now, her tongue brushed at the underside and built up–shimmying her tongue side-to-side, drawing out another guttural moan that vibrated through his chest. “Fuuuuck!”

She returned her face to Pickin. Her fingers once again glided over his shaft, toying with the sensitive bumps just below the head, twisting slightly on each upstroke to heighten the sensation, while her other hand pumped Rass's massive wet girth

“I wanna see my fick on your tits,” Rass commanded. “Show us what that stupid little Sanctuary taught you, princess... or maybe it’s just natural talent.”

Ploma’s cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and arousal, her massive 36GG tits heaving as she reached for the neckline of her dress. She pulled it down with agonizing slowness, the fabric scrubbing over her delectable shoulders, revealing her heavy mounds that bounced free with a soft jiggle. The light from the fire casted a flickering orange hue over the virgin’s body.

She leaned forward, as she pressed Pickin’s cock against her left breast. She mirrored the action with Rass, pressing his massive black cock against her right breast, the dark, throbbing length a stark, erotic contrast to her pale, succulent flesh. Then, she jerked them both off on her tits. The swollen head smeared its juice across her nipple, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure through her core as she rubbed them both, her flesh orbs bouncing gently with each slap on her knockers.

“Fuck, Pickin, you like seein’ my black dick on her white tits? Look at that contrast! My dirty, cock marking her perfect skin... bet it’s drivin’ you wild, makin’ your little prick jealous.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rass,” Pickin shot back, his voice strained, but his cock betrayed him… twitching harder against her breast, the tip leaking a fresh spurt of precum as Ploma rubbed it insistently against her nipple, the soft friction building an unbearable heat.

Pickin’s balls tightened, drawing up close as she looked up with her lush lips warm and plush, trailing feather-light pecks from tip to base, her hot breath fanning his skin and pushing him perilously close. Pickin grit his teeth tightly, almost shattering them as bad as Rass. Moreover, the peasant’s favorite toy started to throb harder in her hand–she knew he was close.

“Ploma,” Pickin gasped, his voice a desperate whisper.

The princess needed to do something. She immediately stuck her sore tongue out and guided Rass's eggplant to her tongue. She started jerking off the fiend against her tongue, mechanically striking the tip against her lips and soft, mouth meat.

“That’s it, princess,” Rass laughed, his eyes gleaming with dark intent. “Smack that black dick on your tongue! Show me what you’re made for... open wide and let me hear it.”

“I love your black cock on my tongue, Rass!” Ploma obliged. She continued to whack his thick shaft against it with wet, echoing slaps–the heavy weight of him bouncing off her soft, pink muscle, saliva stringing between them. Her hand jerked him off faster now, aiming the swollen head toward her open mouth, ready to catch whatever he unleashed.

Pickin’s face flushed crimson, sweat beading on his brow. As Ploma drummed Rass's black dick against her tongue like a sinful rhythm, she loosened the grip on Pickin’s cock but his voyeuristic nature was overtaking him. He thought this was it... he was going to shatter.

“Princess, I don’t think I can—”

Rass drowned him out with a booming roar. “AAAAH!!! AAAAAH!!! FUCK!”

His moans crescendoed into a primal shout: “FUCK, I’M GONNA PAINT YOUR FUCKING FACE!!!!” His massive cock pulsed wildly in her hand, the veins bulging as he erupted. Thick, hot ropes of white, translucent cum shot from the swollen head in powerful jets–the first splattering across her lush lips in a creamy arc, dripping down to her freckled cheeks like molten pearls. Another streak landed on her long eyelashes, weighing them down, while a third caught the firelight as it slid tantalizingly down her creamy skin toward her chin. The scent of him–musky and potent–filled the air as more bursts followed, his heavy balls contracting to sling every drop, coating her angelic features in a glossy mask.

He grabbed the back of her head with a firm but not forceful grip, guiding his throbbing cock to paint her further, the final spurts dribbling over her chin and sliding in rivulets toward the swell of her massive tits, one droplet catching on her nipple and hanging there like a tassel.

Ploma’s face contorted in a surprising pleasure, each jet landing with a warm, sticky impact that made her twitch. She closed her mouth tightly, avoiding the cum that dripped teasingly across her lips, her pink eyes squeezing shut as the sensation overwhelmed her.

Rass's grin was triumphant, his dark eyes glinting with satisfaction as he stepped back, his softening cock still thick and glistening with remnants of his release. “Thank me, princess,” he growled, his voice thick and sated. “Thank me for cummin’ all over that pretty face... for markin’ you as mine.”

“Mmmmph… Tink you, Rash,” she murmured through her closed mouth, the words barely audible, muffled by the thick load adorning her.

Rass leaned closer. “Now smile at Pickin! Let him see you with my cum all over your face... show him how good you look wearin’ it.”

Ploma managed to open one eye through the sticky veil, forcing a shy, tremulous smile. Her face was beautifully coated in Rass's thick, white load… streaks dripping across her freckles. Pickin’s eyes widened, his cock still rock-hard and throbbing against her breast, the sight of her youthful skin and naive beauty marred by Rass's crude release. It sent a shameful, intoxicating thrill through him. He loved it... the forbidden contrast, the way it highlighted her innocence turned wanton... but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it aloud.

Rass, the asshole, spoke with renewed energy. “Alright, lovebirds! I’ll go get us some food now. Don’t want you starvin’ before we hit the Gold Well.” He smirked at Ploma. “You did good, princess. Keep that pretty face ready for more.” He turned to Scal, his voice a low command. “Scal! you call me if these two try to run or get past that door. I’ll be close… real close.”

Rass pulled his sling and a handful of smooth stones from his pocket, the leather strap dangling as he stepped toward the door. He glanced back, “Don’t test me.”

The asshole stepped outside, the door creaking shut behind him. Moments later, the sharp crack of his sling echoed through the night, followed by the thud of a stone hitting its mark, a bird’s startled cry cut short as Rass hunted in the darkness.

“Ploma, I’m so damn sorry,”

Ploma dabbed the cum off her face with her sleeves. “Don’t be sorry, Pickin, I accepted his game for a reason. Rass is tired now. We just need Scal to fall asleep, and we can slip out.”

With a quick perusal, Pickin could see the exhaust on Scal’s face. The chase through the forest had drained him, his bony shoulders slumped with fatigue, his blanket slipping further, revealing his gaunt chest. “What’s your plan, princess?”

Ploma removed the last streak of cum on her chin, then shot a wink. “Watch me.”

She crawled toward Scal, her handfuls swaying hypnotically, the damp dress clinging to their heavy mounds, her hardened nipples outlined as they bounced with each movement, her lush ass shifting, the fabric molding to its bubble-shaped curve.

“Get back, Ploma,” Scal’s deep-sunk eyes grew. “Don’t try anythin’, or I’ll—I’ll call Rass!”

Ploma paused, her pink eyes primed to his, her lush lips parting in a soft, seductive smile. “Oh, Scal/” She reached for the laces at the front of her dress, her fingers deftly untying them again, the fabric parting to reveal her massive 36GG boobies, the ivory skin wet, her nipples still sharp, catching the fire’s glow like twin beacons. “You don’t need to call Rass,” her voice sultry, her tits jiggling as she leaned closer, their soft weight swaying enticingly. “You’re so tired, aren’t you?”

Scal’s jaw dropped. “I… I’m tired, yeah… And hungry. But… you and Pickin shouldn’t try anything.”

“I’m not tryin’ anything, Scal… “I just want you to feel good. You’ve been so brave, keepin’ up with us.” The emaciated lackey twitched his hands as Ploma reached towards his crotch, but he was too weak to respond.

Her soft fingers pulled the fabric down to reveal Scal’s cock–average in length, perhaps five inches, but thick and veiny for its size, the shaft dirty with grime from their journey, the head already half-hard.

“Ploma, don’t—” Scal started, his voice cracking, but she grabbed his face, her soft hands cupping his gaunt cheeks, and pressed her lush lips to his in a deep, silencing kiss. Her tongue teased him, her floral scent enveloping him, the warmth of her mouth sending a shudder through his slender frame. 

“Mmmmph…” Scal moaned softly, the sensation overwhelming his exhausted body.

“You’re so sweet, Scal,” she whispered. “Those eyes… you’re stronger than you know.”

She lowered herself to his penis, then wrapped her soft hand around it, her fingers gliding over the thick, veiny shaft spreading the precum with her thumb. She then lowered one of her alabaster pillows, the mound jiggling like jello as she pressed his cock against it, the hot, veiny shaft sliding against her smooth skin, the precum-slick tip brushing her hardened nipple, leaving a watery trail. The sensation sent a shiver through Scal, his slender frame trembling, his deep-sunk eyes locked on her breast, its enticing bounce hypnotic.

Pickin watched from the corner, still reeling from the brink of his climax,  throbbing with a mix of jealousy and arousal as Ploma’s voluptuous form worked its magic.

Ploma kept her ruby eyes locked on Scal’s. “Do you want to cum on my tits, Scal?” she mewed, her voice a mating song, her golden hair falling over one shoulder, framing her voluptuous curves. “On these 36GG tits… just let go.

Scal’s breath came in ragged gasps. “Ploma… fuck,” he gasped, his voice barely audible, his balls squeezed as her tit bounced against him, the sensation overwhelming.

“Please, Scal,” she whispered. “Cum on my big, soft tits. I want to feel it.”

“OH! OOH! Oooh…….” Scal’s moan was desperate, his slender frame shaking as his cock erupted, translucent cum from the swollen head, splattering across the best twin peaks he’d ever seen. His body went limp as he collapsed against the door, his breeches around his ankles, his snoring immediate and heavy, his slender frame slumping to the floor, utterly spent.

Ploma leaned back, the light caught the spattering of Scal’s cum on her silky skin, her eyes displayed triumph. She turned to Pickin. “We should go now.”

“Heavens, Ploma. You’re… somethin’ else.”

The cottage fell silent, the fire’s embers glowing faintly, the musky scent of sex lingering as they slipped into the night, the distant crack of Rass's sling fading behind them.