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F x m WoW Corruption Warlock Seduction Plump

Description: Lars is bored of being a farmer and through a succulent provocative warlock he starts training to be a warlock himself.

Tags: Seduction, corruption, disease, sickness, famine, straight, stacked, plump, juicy, warlock, world of warcraft, wow

Lars was an ordinary human, living an ordinary life, doing ordinary things until ultimately his ordinary death. This wasn’t to say he wasn’t aware of all this but it wasn’t like Westfall was the center of anything out of the ordinary.

The sun raged overhead, warm crisp beams of light making his journey all the more sweltering. Occasionally, the shadows cast by massive airborne beasts provided temporary cover but it was short-lived. Lars took out a well-used rag, half damp from overuse, from his trousers and patted his head dry. He ragged it, and went back on his journey to Stormwind. The air was thick with the scent of freshly plowed earth and the distant promise of rain. Despite the idyllic landscape, Lars bore a weight upon his shoulders – the burden of an unfulfilling life as a farmer.

Stormwind, the bastion of light for the human race, the core foundation of the alliance, a fierce fortress, was merely a few hours away and Lars had trading to do. He visited once or twice a month to sell what all humble dissatisfied unfulfilled with life humans sell, meats and crops from his quaint little farm that kept him busy from the brink of dawn to the dead of night.

Lars would be more impressed with the city and the exotic marvels it possessed had it not become a routine to him. It was just another chore to cross off from his ever-extensive, near-constantly growing list of chores.

The weathered and dark-skin-like leather farmer trudged wearily along the dusty path that stretched from Westfall's to Stormwind. His calloused hands, evidence of years spent toiling in the unforgiving soil, wrapped around the handle of a cart where various meats and crops were stored for sale and barter. Each step he took felt like a reluctant dance with monotony. He was willingly marching himself to the gallows of a dull life.

His ruminations were interrupted by the distant hum of activity that signaled his approach to Stormwind. The sprawling city's towering spires gradually came into view, a stark contrast to the simplicity of Westfall. And yet, he was uninspired by it. Lars' pace quickened, and the anticipation of marking off the chore sparked to his tired eyes.

As Lars entered the Trade District, he was unimpressed with the vibrant tapestry of life that unfolded before him. Merchants haggled over goods, countless transactions everywhere he looked, adventurers clad in gleaming armor strode purposefully, and the aroma of exotic spices wafted through the air. And yet the faint trace of manure still ruled supreme, even here.

Lars found himself gazing at exotic wares on display – silks from far-off lands, glittering gemstones, and weapons forged with otherworldly craftsmanship. Perhaps he might get something if the market turned a profit.

The Trade District of Stormwind buzzed with activity as Lars set up his cart, proudly displaying the fruits of his labor - fresh cuts of meat and bundles of robust healthy crops haphazardly arranged on rough-hewn wooden crates. The aroma of his wares wafted through the air but was quickly overpowered by the wild cornucopia of scents the heart of the city offered – some not pleasant.

Amidst the vibrant market, a mysterious figure cloaked in dark blood-red robes approached Lars' stall. He noticed her immediately when she rounded the street corner. Her body was a sensation, but her ass was divinely plump, he could see the thickness even while she approached him. Directly. She walked to him with a seductive and sensual purpose, ignoring everything but him. And he found himself doing the same. The fabric clung to her every curve, accentuating a silhouette that oozed an undeniable attractiveness. Her dangerously divine hips rocked hypnotically. Her face was pale, stark, and sharp.

The woman's eyes, pools of emerald locked onto Lars. A seductive smirk played upon her lips as she surveyed the farmer's humble offerings. She had an aura of contempt to the way she looked at him, and his items, as if they were being judged and found wanting. Unfazed by the crowded market, she moved with a grace that hinted at otherworldly power. It seemed that the world moved for her, her path was never obscured.

Lars felt an odd sensation crawling up his spine as the mysterious woman spoke, her voice low and honeyed, dripping with a mixture of contempt and teasing mockery. It was made worse that she was toiling over his cart, sifting through some of his fruits, utterly ignoring him, "Ah, another farmer, how quaint. Tending to your pitiful crops and livestock, a life destined for mediocrity, I presume?" She pulled back an apple, tossing it up, catching it, and biting it. The rich laden juices dripped down her lips.

Everything she did was arousing. Her pale flesh made that apple look redder than red. The confused, yet offended look on the dark-skinned farmer's face showed he didn’t know what to make of this. Instead, he just studied the enigmatic woman. There was an undeniable darkness about her, an unnatural essence that stood the hairs on the back of his neck. Despite the disquieting feeling, he maintained a cautious but polite demeanor – An unsure smile.

She circled Lars' cart, inspecting the produce with a haughty air. The way she inspected them, like they were below her, dirty, made him feel ashamed of his laborious offerings, "How do you endure such a wretched existence, tethered and tendering to the soil like a beast of burden?"

That bristled his ego, that woman's disdainful tone. She knew. He could tell, she knew him and his submission to accepting a life unlived. "It may not be glamorous, but it's an honest living," he retorted, a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes. His voice was lacking, not quite as determined as it was defeated.

The mysterious woman chuckled, a sultry sound that sent a shiver through Lars. "Honesty is overrated, my dear farmer. Besides, you don’t believe that yourself, do you? I don’t think you do.” She leaned deep into the cart, her plump rear popping out, the robe wrapped around her like a second skin. He could see every definitive detail of her derriere, the smooth shape, the

size, those hammy fleshy shelves individually wrapped by crimson robes snug and constrictive.

She withdrew a single flower, a single Mage Royal, and inspected it for its failures to be as beautiful as she was – a look she often held for all things. She held it in a way that indicated that it was hers. Moreover, it was always hers. It belonged to her. It was her property. She tickled it under her pale chin as she finally, for the first time, looked at him.

Lars did not retort, whether it be because of how breathtaking she was now that he could see her in all her glory, or that he didn’t have anything more to say on the subject, or perhaps because he was a man of patience, was left to question because Drusilla was not done, “I would ask if it bores you, but I know that is true. How could it not? No…” She stepped closer. She was smaller than him, by a long shot, but what she lacked in height she made up in more feminine allure, this caused her to have to look up at him and yet still seemed she was looking down, judging him, “My question is, why have you remained in this dull low station? And why have you endured it?”

She smiled, her nose flaring as she inhaled the rich freshness of the flower just below her nose, which brought an honest smile on her face.

“If not me, who?” He shrugged though these questions were strikingly identical to his normal daily ruminations.

“Very pragmatic of you,” This lacked anything resembling a compliment, “To think this is what you have chosen for yourself – to be weak, invisible to society, a commoner in a world rich with possibilities.” She prefaced each of her accusations by stepping closer to Lars. By the time she was done, he was leaning backward, and she was forward.

“But I think you can be so much more than a mere whelp of a farmer. Something great, something powerful. You can be a warlock. You have so much potential, don’t squander it like you already have,” Her porcelain hands, trailed by fingers, run down his chest, smoothing her ruffled shirt as if this was an ordinary thing.

It wasn’t. Not to Lars.

With deliberate grace, the woman extracted a folded black linen robe from her satchel, revealing a garment that seemed to absorb the ambient light. It was only cloth and yet seemed to possess a quality unlike that of its brethren. This was, simply cut, not a cloth cut from other cloths. Its texture was smooth, a tactile in its perfection. Atop the dark fabric lay a weathered tome, its bindings were frayed and ancient. The leather cover had been rubbed down and raw by the mark of countless hands that had sought its knowledge. The woman's fingers grazed the ornate embossing, Despite the well-worn condition of the tome, she pinned the folded robe and tome with either hand carefully, revered, conveying the power that seemed to demand respect.

Or rather, the possibility.

Lars’ might not be a man of many words but he understood the implication and took what was offered. His eyes finally pulled from the sumptuous and sensational female to curiously inspect the gift gifted to him.

Finally, able to talk, Lars’ opened his mouth and a smooth silk finger, warm beyond what was natural, shushed his lips, “Leave it all behind. I can train you. I want you to take this tome back to your sorry little broken down pathetic farm and study it. Day and night. You will know when you are ready. When that time comes, report to the North Shire Abby.”

She turned around, smearing her finger on his lips as she spun. She still had the herb in her hand, sniffing it. She hadn’t paid for it, Lars’ hadn’t asked for it, though by her coquettish demeanor, Lars’ had serious doubts that she would pay for what always seemed to belong to her in the first place. She flagged the herb over her head in salutations, “I know you haven’t been more than a few miles from where you live. North Shire Abby is in North Shire Valley. Just go North, you can’t miss it.” She chuckled as she disappeared in the crowd.

The crowd. In the busy marketplace. The sounds of civilization returning to the farmer. He wasn’t alone. They weren’t alone. And yet it all had melted away, it seemed, when she was present.

---

The journey home was many great pounds lighter, on account of goods and wares sold, and his coin pouch was about two pounds heavier. All and all, the market was a resounding success. It always was. Yet for all his success, his mind was addled by what was given to him by the female from the market. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t worrying his thoughts on the tiresome and tireless burden of his chores, but of this book and the mysterious female who relinquished it to him.

It made the journey seem shorter. It had never been short before.

--

Under the boundless canvas of the sky, still pink with youth, Lars embarked on his daily pilgrimage across the mediocre tapestry of his land. The farm, constructed from his toil and resilience, was many acres, which meant hard work and no rest. Many of his crops were prime for harvesting. Only some of which would be sold, the rest stored in his granary located a stone's throw from his humble home.

With the first rays of the sun awakening a new day, Lars emerged from his rustic dwelling, his weathered boots, which would have to be replaced in another year at the least, crunching on the gravel path that led to the heart of morning chores. The air was vibrant with the rich scent of fertile soil, the earthy scent enveloped him as he stepped onto the fields awaiting the embrace of his calloused hands and his freshly sharpened sickle. So experienced with this simple farming tool that had he ever needed to go to war, he would defend his life with this weapon over any other.

Rows of crops swayed in a gentle morning breeze, his attentive eyes glancing for anything likened to disease on his healthy crop.

A weathered straw hat perched atop Lars' head, casting a shadow over his determined, ebony features. He was dark-skinned, but the constant harassment of the sun charred his darker yet. The hat there to allow him to see, not for any other reason.

His bulky arms were lead-heavy from cutting down crops, and so he placed his weapon down collected the fallen wheat, and put it into a cart, the same cart he used just yesterday to go to Stormwind.

He moved to the barn, a standing sentinel at the edge of the fields. The barn doors creaked open, revealing a treasure trove of tools of the trade. Rakes, hoes, and shovels stood in readiness.

Lars tended to the livestock in the farm, which grazed in the meadows, that hid behind the treeline of his property.

And yet all the time his mind drifted to that arcane forbidden book. He hadn’t taken it out since he acquired it. It just sat in the cart, undisturbed. Yet the promise of power whispered to him. It occupied his mind as he toiled on his endlessly endless days.

That night, he decided to bring it out and ponder through it. Much of it was beyond him. The words were distinct but had an essence of rambling, and confusion. He understood the words, but not the essence, not the heart of them. He lost several hours that night, piecing together the meaning being the meaning. The sun was reborn and he’d yet to sleep.

He was, however, a worker at heart. He minded the crops, minded the livestock, minded the general upkeep of his homestead, yet his mind was listlessly and exhaustively minding those words he read. His muscles ached and burned from lack of sleep but there was never a rest for a farmer. It might not have kept the mind enslaved, or perhaps, enslaved in its rigorous routine, but it enslaved the body constantly. Never a real rest, never a real day to just experience life.

And yet, his mind wore on the words in the book, and the disparaging precise comments that the stranger had stabbed at him. It was like he was being awoken from a long slumber. Even though he was struggling through no sleep, he felt oddly alive for the very first time. The colors seemed more colorful. The sounds, the smell, everything. Long since he had felt like a condemned man, waiting for death. This woman showed him the mirror, and what he saw in the reflection was a man unfulfilled.

That night, sweaty and rundown, he lay in his bed with the book opened, his eyes greedily absorbing the truths that were etched erratically in haphazard scrawl in the tough bound book. He didn’t sleep. There was no blowing out the candle, curling against his poorly spun and woven blanket, no preparation. Instead, sleep came between blinks.

The angry sun, high in the sky. His tired eyes snapped open. He didn’t need to see the sun or the shadows to know that he had overslept. A farmer just knew the time of day, an internally built and cultivated clock. The book lay cradled in his arm, open still.

He worked like a hurricane. His well-honed routine was more precise and diligent than ever before. He worked with purpose and meaning. Lar’s was not attempting to overcompensate for time lost, and much had been lost, but with the objective of liberating his time to go back to the book. He took frequent breaks to brood over the book before returning to repairing the axle of his cart.

This continued for a week. He became rather adept in splicing his time, rather evenly meted between duty and book. Even though he worked less on the farm now, given he had something to occupy his downtime, did not mean he was negligent in his duties. He just worked faster. With purpose.

He wouldn’t call his allure for the book and the secrets it held to be particularly supernatural or an addiction, but he was well aware that he was spending a rather sizable time brooding over the book. Even more thinking on what he had learned, thinking and inscribing it into his brain.

Another day passed. When he woke up, his well-honed nose flared open. He shot up from his bed. He peeled the book off his arm and placed it on the wooden nightstand that he had carved many years ago from the old oak tree out back. Out his window, he noticed what caused him such a start. The crops weren’t just diseased, or dying, or anything. They were outright dead.

He hardly had time to put anything reasonable aside from the scraps of clothing he had on the day prior. Bare rough feet went through the dusty path to his field. His eyes and hands ran against the lifeless husks of withered grasses and crops. The vibrant green colors had decayed to black with edges of yellowish brown. To his touch, the plants crumbled and flaked off.

No sign of disease though. He would know. Diseases worked in a certain way and he knew them all. This was not that.

The ruination was not complete there. As he walked through his fields, it occurred to him that he didn’t hear the telltale signs of life. It was empty, he couldn’t even hear the wind. No movement either. Just an empty desolate void.

Whatever killed off every single solitary field had somehow expanded to his livestock as well.

He didn’t do a full inventory of his property. He needed only to see enough to know enough.

He returned to his home and heavily sat in his chair, a heirloom. It was, perhaps, the most comfortable object that he owned yet in this moment it failed to convey its comfort to him. He looked dead outside and sighed to himself. His entire life's work, was gone, dead. Even the granary was ash. Perhaps he was in shock, but it didn’t hit him like a thunderclap, it didn’t hit him at all. His eyes screwed to the closet where the black robe was and then to the book, opened, on the table in front of him.

This must be a sign.

It had to be.

And even if it wasn’t, he used his pragmatic mind, which that strange woman had contemptuously remarked on, to reason that he had nothing left… Nothing left except.

He took a shower, scrubbing the weeks of grime and grim off of him. He did shower, but there was a difference between a shower to get by and a shower for civilized society and folk. He spent two hours hard at work on his body, showing the same effort here as he would have invested in the fields. If it was possible, with such diligence, he’d have washed his skin porcelain white.

He didn’t feel like it was the end of the world though. Under it all, he felt like a prisoner who had just been released, a surprise escape, shackles rusting and breaking free. The excitement and fear rushed through him, worming into his mind, and leaving him paralyzed with inaction.

The robes were smooth against his naked flesh. It felt like being hugged by a cloud. Such material was not proper for a farm and served no utility. He couldn’t remember if he had ever worn something so cozy like this before in his life. He doubted it.

With the book opened, his hawk nose bent down, eyes working through the lines of text, he started off to the North Shire Abby.

The journey was long, but time didn’t exist for Lars. He was wrapped with the overwhelming feeling that he had simultaneously lost and gained everything at the same time.

--

Nestled within the rolling hills of Elwynn Forest, Northshire Abbey stood as a bastion of tranquility. Its stone walls, weathered by the passage of time, rose gracefully against the backdrop of lush greenery and nature. A cobblestone path snakes through meticulously tended gardens, adorned with vibrant flowers and ancient, towering trees.

The abbey itself, human architecture at its most masterful, boasted a commanding presence with its soaring spires and sturdy buttresses. Gray stone gave way to a crimson roof. Intricate stained glass windows, depicting scenes from Azeroth's spiritual history, added to the grandiose glory of such a retreat.

Within the abbey's courtyard, novices clad in simple brown robes engage in contemplative exercises. A serene pond reflects the azure sky, mirroring the peaceful ambiance that envelops Northshire Abbey.

Lars absorbed this all. It was quite the contrast from where he was but a few hours before. He found it much more tranquil than even when his farm hadn’t been wrought to ruin.

With as much serene activity going around the premises, there was someone who stood out like a sore thumb. He was a stalwart figure, imposing and distinct in his intricately detailed plate armor. There was a battle-hardened veteran aura wrapped around him. A crimson cloak billows behind him as he surveys the practitioners with authority.

“Ho there.” the steadfast man said in a heavy accent, thick, stern, yet welcoming.

“Ho there,” Lars responded, awkwardly waving his black hand in traditional greeting as he finished the long wind up to the Abbey proper.

“I have been expecting you. Name is Marshal McBride.” one of his sword-calloused hands rubbed against the edges of his cloak, drying it off before extending a handshake.

Lars smiled unsure how to take that information and completed the ritual, shaking hands with Marshal McBride, “Me?”

“The farmer?”

“Was.”

“You are the one. Not many with your skin color and powerful build. Come on, don’t twaddle. We have much to accomplish.” McBride turned around and escorted Lars through the stone halls of the Abbey.

Lars looked like a tourist, gawking at the splendors and marvels behind the stone walls. He was doing what he had seen so many do in Stormwind. It was an entirely different atmosphere in the building. It seemed colder. The sunlight filtered through those impressive stained glass windows into a kaleidoscope of hues as rich as the rainbow within the hallowed halls. The air held a soothing scent of incense.

“The Northshire Abbey is being used as a recruitment and training center for any adventurer brave enough to keep the kingdoms peace.” Marshal McBride said routinely, a statement that seemed tired and old to him.

Aside from that, there was very little communication. McBride left Lars to his silent contemplation, allowing him to take in all the sights and splendors.

They made it deep into the heart of the Abbey where stone walls and passages bled into wooden constructs. There were rows of doors, all identical. Lars’ glanced into the few that were opened. Bed, desk, chair. Bed, desk, chair. All carbon copies of the previous.

The heavy dull armor stilled to silence. Lars stopped as well. A door was pushed open and an arm swept inviting Lars in, “You will be housed here.”

Lars went in mechanically. An envelope, wax sealed, was pushed into his hand, “I was instructed to give this to you. It is from one of our local warlock trainers,” he smiled before rubbing his chin,

“Shame. Someone like you, with your build? Full Armor and a great sword. You would be a great recruit.”

The ebony hands were busy with the letter, delicately opening it. The wax seal was broken, but by far and large, it was relatively undisturbed.

Too often people like the followers of the Holy Light scare those curious about true power into thinking they cannot investigate any form of the arcane-- Not all things from outside this world are evil. Not all entities seek to dominate or subjugate others. If you are powerful enough, those same entities can become followers.

This is something I would like to discuss more with you. Seek me out in the graveyard on the right side of the Abbey.

-Drusillia La Salle, Warlock Trainer.

Marshal McBride was peeking downward at the letter too, curiously reading however much he could while it was upside down to his view. He was slow at word because Lars was finished before him and neatly folded it and put it back into the envelope.

“Seems I am being summoned.”

A good-natured and hearty laugh escaped from the Marshal, “She’s been known to do that.”

--

“Got your letter,” Lars said holding it up, neatly housed still.

“And I got you. I guess it did what I intended for it to do.”

If Lars was surprised that she was the one and same female from the market, he didn’t show it. But it was. And that brought a tight little smile onto his face. He’d been thinking about her, almost constantly, since their ships crossed, their fates met.

The graveyard was old, ancient even, sacred ground. He hadn’t been to such a place before and it was a curious sight.

“Keep it.” She flourished her hand, “You are late. I expected you some time ago. You kept me waiting.”

“I came the moment I got it,” Lars retorted, his voice soft now, submissive even.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. It was clear that he was in the wrong, would always be in the wrong, and she was always right, even when she was wrong she was right.

“I apologize.”

“You apologize, Ma’am. Had being a farmer addled your sense of respect?”

Lars sputtered words but nothing concrete came out. She walked toward him, around him, circling him like a shark, there was a twisted grin on her face, “The robes look good on you.” He felt nails raking against his well-defined back, tracing the sculpted muscles underneath, hidden by the robes of his now chosen path. His new path.

“Have you felt the power yet?”

He felt smaller before her. God help Lars, he was aroused and yet trembling. He might be wearing clothing, but he felt naked to her inquisitive eye.

“As you know, I am the Warlock Trainer. I trust I don’t need to explain what that is? The question is do you want to be trained by me?” She batted her eyes, looking directly into Lar’s eyes. Nails raking down his chest, “Of course you do.”

He inhaled heavily and remained still. His eyes watched the hand trail down his chest teasing, possessively.

“As you get stronger as a Warlock, you will be tempted into corruption,” There was a wiry smirk on her crimson-painted lips, adding to her demonic appearance, “But that won’t happen…” Both of her hands were on his chest now, exploring before she did a half circuit around the bulky farmer, her hands never leaving his body and found themselves squeezing his ass. Not gently, “Do you want to know why?” She teased, her shortstack body lifted by her toes so she could be flush with his ear, whispering directly to it.

“W...Why…” He nervously said more a moan than a whimper.

“Because you belong to me, don’t you? You are mine. And I don’t give you permission to be corrupted by the dark forces,” Her tongue slipped out onto the ear, her fingers continuing to play against the ass, thumbs twinning and borrowing into muscular ass cheeks. Her heavy touch smoothed the soft robe against his ass, her fingers manipulating that ass as she squashed it, “Because that pleasure belongs to me.”

Lars could barely stand. Her body was that of a goddess, surely temples would have been built for such divinity. Judging by the escape this place offered, perhaps there already was such a thing. Her breasts pressed into the mid of his back, plush and lowly, oozing warmly against him. The only thing that truly separated them were two clothes robes, which felt more silk than clothing, and her bra. The fabric of her bra was different than the robes and the thin veil between them still brought his attention to the subtle differences.

It was a rich feeling. He had toiled so long in the fields that he had forgotten what tactile sensation was. And the reminder was omnipotent. The robe that cloaked him was barely enough to provide cover from a mere gust of wind. Let alone somebody as sensationally hot and thick as Drusilla.

“Right? You and that tasty dark-skinned body belong to me. All of it. Every single inch of it.” She purred, but it was cold and sharp as granite. To add some emphasis to exactly what she had in mind, she grabbed his ass cheeks again, this time tenderly, “Feels only fair that I should give your ass the same type of treatment you wanted to give mine,” She lowly chucked before giving it one playful little swat, just enough to show who was who in this situation.

Lars response was inaudible, a twisted concoction of moans and grunts. The feeling of having his power and individuality stolen from him was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. And Drucilla, she was a force of nature, relentless in her pursuit of whatever it was that she wanted. Currently, it was him, and he just couldn’t seem to grasp onto sanity long enough to save himself.

She came back in front of him, her fingers still toying with his body. Her emerald eyes stared him down. Her hands paid exquisite attention to the muscular features of his body, easily found because the robes he wore offered less than no protection.

“I caught you looking at me in the market. I wouldn’t have paid you any mind had you not. After all, what would someone like me want with someone like you, a lowly farmer?” She smirked coquettishly, giving an extra layer of comfort to her otherwise judgmental words “I could feel absolute devotion and lust permeating off you, thicker than your low station in life.”

It was true. Even in the heart of the Trade District, she caught his attention, stealing it away like a thief, leaving him yearning for her with excruciating … devotion, the word supplied to him was absolutely the correct one.

Tombstones, adorned with moss, stood like sentinels in memoriam. Gnarled trees cast solemn, somber shadows, their branches stretched out like gnarled crone’s decrepit hands. It is still day, yet the only signs of life were Drusilla and Lars. They were also tucked away, snug and secure, as to provide them some semblance of privacy.

Something about the atmosphere provided made the endeavor particularly wicked and exciting. And they both felt it, a contagion of lust and questionable choices.

Lars had found himself backed up against a meticulously cared-for tombstone, high enough to press against his butt. Drusilla wasn’t just coming onto him quick and hard like lightning, she was literally coming onto him so vicious and relentlessly that the farmer-turned-acolyte could only barely manage to keep his footing, and even then only that with the support of a stone slab that hadn’t moved in over a hundred years.

Drusilla, “You seemed more talkative… Whatever seems to be the matter, my farmer?” She teased, her breath hot with lust. He hadn’t done much at all, mostly a silent observer. She’d worked herself up for this all by herself, but in doing so, had worked the dark-skinned man up beyond the breaking point.

They both drank from the chalice of wanton unabated lusts, but only one of them could operate while being inebriated, given she had built a tolerance. The short stack warlock trainer twirled around like a dancer, presenting her lush curved ass for Lars. It curved outward as she hiked it backward, popping it out so that the already skin-tight robes stretched threadbare along such a curved surface. This made the robes splice into her wide-hipped explosive ass, turning a perfectly spherical phenomenon into two, giving it a more articulate definition as the round surface spliced and split into two.

“Come on, Farmer. Let me feel those big strong black hands, calloused from working your fields, from tending to the earth. Time to tend to me.” She rocked her wobbling ass-backward. Catching against his crotch.

Drusilla, swaying to an unseen rhythm, rocked herself back and forth, catching the tent that was fully erect and positioned jackknifed upward accusingly at the tree branch's hidden sky. The subtle movements were intoxicating. Through her seductive ways, she’d already brought Lars to full erection, but she was far from finished. She leaned forward, thrusting that ass even further backward, her head tilted and turned to look at the dark-skinned man that she

had carefully, exquisitely and twisted around her finger, her long straight black locks of hair coiled around the frame of her face, giving it a particularly lusty veneer.

The farmer couldn’t contain himself much longer and found his hands operating on natural instinct. He, himself, might not have the presence of mind to fulfill his aching desires, but that did not mean that his body couldn’t steal command. Those tough hands took either of her massive cheeks and squeezed, sampling the rich textured splendor that spilled over his fingertips. The flesh was particularly soft and responded to his firm grip, spilling into the palm of his hands, through his fingers, and practically swallowing his meaty hands whole.

“There you are, I knew you could learn.” She teased him, and his response was positively physical, regripping his hand, trying to smash as much of that robe-covered flesh into the palm of his hand. It was a bold testament to just how chunky that rump was, his hands were coarse throughout, hardened by toiling the fields, blessed in size by his sheer impressive form and yet he was simply incapable of acquiring a firm hold on such defiant cheeks.

That didn’t stop him from trying and trying again. His touch was thirsty but nonetheless reserved and worshipful.

That ass continued to pound up and down against that shaft, teasing it, swallowing the very engorged throbbing body of that fleshy protrusion between her warm cheeks. The hushed rustle of fabric caressed fabric, the friction growing more and more intense with each yearning thump. The subtle symphony of soft friction was only overshadowed by the low-throaty pants by the companions as they exerted themselves in mutual satisfaction. Drusilla’s exertion was in her physical movement, Lars’ was in maintaining his sanity. Each delicate movement produced a gentle swish, a tactile sonata. The threads of their robes were heating up and they didn’t seem to care. They could start a fire from their rubbing and they wouldn’t stop. The sound that conspired to create was more akin to a whispering secret, something for them and them alone.

The music, however, grew bolder. It was no longer the wispy whimpers of soft violin and piano

– the percussion came in loud and echoing. Their bodies managing to gyrate. It was easy for Lars to follow the lead of this powerful ubiquitous ass that hypnotized him and held his cock in prison, embedded like a sword in a hilt, poking desperately from the crack like a drowning man.

“In all things, I am your teacher.” She spoke lowly, her soft voice had a husky smokey flavor to it as her hands slithered behind her. The pale flesh of her soft hands both contrasted against the darkened rough hands of Lars. The size contrast was laughable as well, yet her slim fingers still managed to pry the locked hands from her ass cheeks, drawing them forward to her body proper, to place them wrapping around her breasts as she bent over further.

She educated Lars, prompting him to sample all her glory, not just one aspect. She teased his hands shut around her breasts and circularly rotated his hands, “These might be more your speed. We will work to the bigger assets when you can manage to handle my breasts,” that same condescending attitude was rearing its head up.

It was true though, those breasts were the right and perfect fit for his hands, her ass significantly bigger.

This also allowed her to jut her ass skyward, to allow a stream-less unhindered track for her to squirm Lars cock right on deep inside.

Lars grip on those breasts encouraged music from the warlock's mouth, but as he got aroused, edging almost, from that plump ass pumping his cock, and her cooing words of encouragement from his devoted display of desperation depressing his fingers into the breasts, Lars felt a tingling warmth build up into his cock. It wasn’t hard anymore, nothing of the sort. It was like steel, pure and engorged and desperately seeking to explode. His powerful thighs thrust forward, against her rhythm, no longer able to keep himself on the sideline as a spectator.

Her movements were sensual, soft, and controlled, and left to her own devices, her speed would bring him to completion, but not soon enough, not to his taste. Lars was not a man in control, and he knew that, he’d been run down his entire life, and the dominance that Drusilla exacted on him truly secured and assured his position in the dynamic they were crafting together, but his body was moving utterly on its own. It didn’t just want this release, it needed it.

His back arched against the tombstone, fucking himself forward, hands drawing Drusilla closer than close to him, but as the anxiety built and desperation controlled his body, he felt nothing at all. His hands were pried from her chest, and her fat ass was strutting a foot away, just bouncing hypnotically before she turned around and smiled widely. Somewhere between that blissful feeling and his unfulfilled need she’d leave him high and dry, “We can’t have you doing something like that all over my robes, now can we?”

She looked divine, not just because of her beauty, but because of her assertiveness. Lars was on the brink and was now left a panting mess of haggard breath, he was desperately stimulated and Drusilla was not going to let him release.

She walked to him, over to the side, snatched his hand, and pried her trainee’s hand to force his profound body to walk with her. They cut through the cemetery, their eyes ever altered and glancing this way and that. They had the luxury of being rather lewd without concern because of the hallowed less traversed ground they occupied but she was marching right to the walls of the Abbey, a much less covert place.

Lars felt like one of his livestock, being taken at the whims of the master and while he was bigger, and stronger, didn’t mean that he had full command of his own destiny. He had never felt in control, untethered from anything remotely considered direction, but now it seemed he had no control and his direction was being guided by someone else. Given his state of frothing frank arousal, he wasn’t about to try to liberate himself.

They cut through the cemetery. It happened in the wink of an eye. Drusilla clapped both of her hands on the dry cracked wall and thrust her hips out, her fleshy ass bountifully bouncing as she did so, “Show me how much you want this.” She directed simply, stretching herself against the wall like a yawning cat.

The dark-skinned man didn’t need any more invitations, he was already halfway to doing exactly that without an invitation. Of course, the only thing that stilled him was knowing that

Drusilla would not approve of him acting without permission. She was stern, every movement of her body, glance of her eye, conveyed dominance in the most absolute fashion.

He got onto his knees, cold shadowed soil sunk under his impressive weight, and squeezed that massive ass that presented before him like a smorgasbord. There was something divine about her ass. It wasn’t outrageously big to the point that it lacked any aesthetic value, nor was it small where there was just nothing there. It was just right and it was perfect and it was right in front of him and he needed it more than he needed the air that he breathed.

Lars lunged at the robe-covered flesh shelves and began to kiss and massage it. His mind had long since been overstimulated to the point of short-circuiting and all he could think about was that ass and everything that it involved.

“That’s right, you just keep going like that until I tell you to stop.” She would weave his such compliments whenever she could remember it, the rest of the time musical murmurs of delight escaped her own heavily panting mouth.

Lars tongue rubbed against the threads of the robes. He could taste the pure flesh underneath, given the thread barren they had encouraged from their wild antics already. The robes added a distinctly patterned friction and resistance to his tongue but that didn’t bother him at all. His hands pried the ass apart and he shoved his nose and mouth inside. He feasted on a treat that seemed only reserved for the nobles and the rich. Drusilla was perfection god carved from flesh.

They both twisted and devolved in their embrace. Drusilla and Lars had no presence of mind but it was easy for them to keep their sordid affair under wraps because Lars panting passionate moans were obfuscated by the chunky flesh that enveloped his face and Drusilla found that her hand was the best way to keep her voice down from the obvious delight that this farmer was encouraging from her trembling body.

The dark face disappeared nearly entirely into the cheeks, they were spread beyond stretching to accommodate such an action, yet neither of them minded. The warlock started to gyrate and thrust her ass backward, continuing to encourage the burying of that face against her lovely round ass, rocking it up and down, letting the oceans of flesh wobble and slap against him.

“A fast learner, I see,” her voice was rich with teasing laughter of the most sordid time.

She bent down and picked up the hem of her robes, lifting it, tugging so that it rested against her hip, revealing her chubby, chunky ass in all its pale glory. Pinned between her wobbling, spankable ass was a simple thin black g-string that rode right up, disappearing in the mix of perfect ass flesh.

The flesh was pristine, unblemished, it wasn’t stretched, no signs of cellulite, nothing. It was remarkable and the invitation was clear and Lars accepted it without needing to be told what to do. His tongue washed along the insides of the ass cheeks, lathering it with frothy saliva that had most recently been drooling from his mouth in a lusty haze.

“Get in there. I am not impressed.”

The words provoked him to redouble and double down his efforts. The thick fat flesh was shimmering with his saliva, coated on the walls, coats ontop of coats. The gelatinous consistency was delicate and danced against his face. Light refracts off the trail of cream he left, giving it a playful kaleidoscope coloration. His bold hands pried that fat cheeks apart and he spit right into the light pink pucker hole, it was pulsating and gaping open ever so often. It was like that button was living and breathing and eager. Perhaps as much as he was.

He pulled back, inspecting it, enjoying it, watching the vibrancy that was so captivating. The essence quivered gently in his palms as he manipulated the wobbling flesh, it encased his fingers, replacing his black hands with pale whiteness. It was a delicate balance between firmness and yielding softness, like quicksand.

He was so involved that he hardly noticed her ass lowering down, or that he was pushed into a laying position, “Enough with your games… You need to be trained, really trained.”

He was gently brought to his back, feeling the cold pure earth against the back of his black uniform. For such a stout woman, proportionally perfect except for her oversized rump, she was very agile and used her lovely voluptuous ass to work against his body, touching and feeling him repeatedly. She squatted down against his prone body, rubbing her ass against his face before working down to his neck, chest, his abdomen, to his crotch. He could see her ass, naked and perfect, looking right back to him. Instinctively, his hands sought the soft embrace of her flesh.

She squeezed that cock wedged between her soaked saliva-coated drooling ass. He felt the warmth of his spittle drain onto his cock. His robe was still on though, but it was sheer and the creamy nectar bleed through it right against his fleshy rod. She rode down against it, crushing his manhood, forcing it to move and readjusting it so it was tightly pinned between her.

“You love this, don’t you? How do you expect to resist corruption when my ass can defeat you so easily,” She chuckled, but it wasn’t mean-spirited. It was cattish and coy and all things pleasant.

She heaved herself upward, raising her ass, his ankles pinned to the ground with her hands manacling them snug and secure, the tip of the raised robe pointed up, almost liberating itself from her embrace, but before that could happen, she clapped down, allowing the cock to be stroked against that pure and perfect saliva lubricated ass.

He could see from her gyrations up and down that she wasn’t just soaked from his own saliva, but that there was an oozing slimy little creak of cream where the crack of the ass disappeared to the front of her.

She continued this motion, up and down, gentle and soft. Her butt wobbled repeatedly until he felt a sudden and outrageous warmth in his cock. The robe would show signs of his ejaculation, and it would be hard to get to his new room unnoticed, but none of that mattered. His hands flailed, washing over her ass, sampling it, while then going to his hips and clutching.

He didn’t know how to contain himself, or how to process the sheer mind-breaking sensation that was sizzling his pleasure center.

“You like seeing that big thick black robe against my ass, don’t you?” She teased playfully.

Lars legs spasmed and his muscles fluttered in absolute rebellion. Her grip tightened harder, to secure his form, as she teased him. But then she stood up. Leaving him sprawled on the ground withering in agony and denied orgasm. He was still humping the air, a delayed reaction. His brain was moving full steam ahead.

She stepped on the black-robed cock, smiling, “No, what is in that big black cock belongs to me. All of it. And I don’t want it yet, you have to earn it. Understand?”

He nodded. The basking lust still overwhelmed his mind.

“I said, understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Yes, Ma’am Drusilla. I understand.”

She teasingly kicked it, “Better put some cold water on it if you don’t want others to notice.” And with that, she walked away, not even sparing a look behind her shoulder.

And all Lars could see was that ass.