His cock was hard against her dress.

The thick, long, impossible ridge of it pressed against her lower belly. She felt it through his clothes. Through her skirt. It was hot. It was heavy. It was wrong.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

"I want to fuck you," he said.

His voice was plain. Casual. The voice of a man ordering a meal. He ground his hips against her. The cock dragged against her stomach. She felt the length of it. The weight.

"Whenever I want," he continued. "Until I am in this village. You will spread your legs. You will open your mouth. You will take my cock. That is your service."

"But—" Her voice cracked. "No. You are too... like them. You are—"

She was not believing it. Her eyes were wide. How could a man this handsome say such things? How could a face so beautiful speak like a beast? He looked like a prince. He spoke like a ravager.

He laughed.

The sound was low. It made her cunt clench. She hated the sound. She feared the sound. Her pussy twitched beneath her ruined panties.

"Your ass," he said. His hand gripped her cheek harder. He lifted the fat of it. He let it drop. The flesh slapped back against her thigh. "Your ass is just so thick. So fucking heavy. I want to see these cheeks clapping against my thighs as I fuck you. Is it wrong to act like a man?"

She bit her lip.

She looked down. Her face was flushed. Her blood-stained cheeks were hot. She was holding her own thick ass with both hands now, trying to cover herself, trying to hold the flesh he was groping.

"You should be treated as a woman, right?" He leaned in. His lips brushed her temple. "Not as a flower seller. Not as a widow. As a woman. A set of holes. A pair of heavy tits. A thick ass. A wet cunt. That is what you are."

He walked.

He pulled her with him. She stumbled. Her bare feet dragged through the blood on the floor. He walked toward the bathroom door. It was wooden. Brown. Small. He pushed it open. He stepped inside. He pulled her after him.

"Just remain silent," he said.

His hand went up her torn blouse.

It slipped beneath the fabric. Beneath the simple cotton bra. His fingers found her bare tit. He palmed the heavy weight of it. The flesh was soft. Warm. The nipple was stiff against his skin. He squeezed. The tit spilled over his fingers. He gripped the nipple. He pinched.

"Ah—!" she gasped. "Sir—!"

"They are big," he said. He looked down at her chest. He pulled the blouse wider. The bra tore. He pulled it down. Her tits spilled out. "And saggy. Perfect. Aren’t they?"

She trembled.

She looked down at her own boobs. They were heavy. They hung. The nipples were dark. They swayed as she breathed. She wanted to cover them. She was ashamed.

"Sir—" she whispered. "Please—"

He pulled her into the bathroom.

The door closed. The wood shut. The click was loud. The bathroom was small. A tub. A basin. A mirror. Steam from the morning. He turned to her. He removed his shirt.

The fabric lifted over his head.

His chest was bare. The skin was pale. The muscle was carved. Not human. Too perfect. He bent. He pulled his underwear down. It fell to his ankles.

She flinched.

She stumbled back. Her bare heel hit the tub. She grabbed her face. Her fingers pressed against her eyes. Then she spread them. She looked down.

She screamed.

"No— no— no— no— no—"

The scream came out high. Broken. Terrified. Her eyes were locked on his crotch.

His cock was twelve inches.

It hung thick and crimson between his thighs. But it was not just long. It was thick. It was a fist. The girth was wider than her wrist. The head was a blunt, dark crown. The veins were thick ropes. It was not big. It was impossible. It was bigger than a cucumber. It was bigger than her arm. It looked like it would split her in half.

"W-what is that?" she gasped. Her voice was a whimper. "What is that?!"

She was shocked. Her mind went blank. She had seen her husband. She had seen the men in the alley. She had never seen anything like this. The cock was not human. It was a weapon. It was a club of meat and blood.

He chuckled.

His hand moved. He grabbed her torn blouse. He pulled. The fabric ripped. It fell away. Her bra was already torn. He grabbed the straps. He pulled. The cotton tore. Her tits spilled free. They hung heavy. They swayed. She hugged them. She crossed her arms over her chest. She tried to hide.

"So it is it?" he said.

"No," she cried. "It is wrong. It is too— it is wrong—"

He moved.

He stepped forward. He grabbed her. He pulled her against him. Her thighs pressed against his cock. The heavy shaft was trapped between her legs. The heat of it burned her skin. The head pressed against her lower belly. It reached her navel. It was wet. It was slick.

"Nothing is wrong," he whispered.

He kissed her ear. His tongue dragged along the shell. His breath was hot. His lips were soft. His cock was iron between her thighs.

"Especially if I get to have a good fuck here," he said. "Don’t you think? You also need a man to fill your pussy. Your husband is dead. Those thugs were nothing. You need a real cock. You need this."

She flinched.

Her whole body went rigid. Then it went soft. Her leg went limp. She felt her weight shift. She felt her pussy twitch beneath her panties. The wetness was not fear anymore. It was something else. Something hot. Something shameful.

"Is it—" she breathed. "What is happening with me?"

"Nothing," he whispered.

He kissed her neck. His tongue dragged down to her collarbone. His hand moved to her skirt. He pulled at the waist. He shuffled her leg. He made her spread. Her thigh lifted. His cock dragged against her inner leg.

"Just your body wants to get clapped by me," he said. "Your cunt wants to be stretched. Your womb wants to be filled. Your thick ass wants to be slapped until it is red. That is what is happening."

He started to remove her dress.

His hands found the brown skirt. He pulled it down. She did not stop him. She could not. She was trembling. She was holding her tits. The skirt fell to her ankles. She stood in her torn white panties. The cotton was thin. The shape of her pussy was visible. The dark hair beneath. The lips pressed against the fabric.

"Look at you," he said.

His hand moved to her hip. He traced the curve. He moved to her lower belly. The soft pouch where she had carried her child. The stretch marks. The skin that was no longer tight. He touched it.

"Even with a child," he murmured. "I can tell how fluffy your cunt is. How tight it still is. How it would grip my cock like a wet, hot glove. You have a mother’s body. A woman’s body. And that makes my dick harder."