บท 5: Chapter Five: Flesh, Flirtations, and Unspoken Desires
Days blurred into a rhythm of lust and labor. Thomas would wake each morning with Lyra still wrapped around him, her body warm and yielding, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air. He'd use her as soon as his eyes opened, slipping inside her with a slow, sleepy thrust, her soft gasps filling the room as he moved, his cock sliding in and out, the slick sounds of their bodies meeting in an unhurried cadence. Sometimes he'd talk to her, his voice low, asking her how she was or teasing little bits of her past out of her while he fucked her slow and deep, his hands exploring every inch of her flesh like he was still trying to figure her out.
When he left her, sated and spent on the thin mattress, Thomas would trudge back to the cookhouse, where the barmaid was always waiting with a smile that was a little too wide, a little too knowing. She was Marla—big, brash, with a laugh that filled the room and cleavage that threatened to spill out of her dress every time she leaned over. She made crass jokes, her humor as thick and heavy as her figure, her words laced with innuendo that kept Thomas on edge throughout the day.
Marla had a habit of brushing too close, her large breasts grazing his arm as she reached for a bowl, or bending over in front of him, her ample rear swaying as she picked up something from the floor. She'd toss out lines like, "Careful where you put that meat, Thomas, might end up somewhere you didn't expect," and grin at the way his cheeks would flush. Sometimes she'd wink, her eyes full of mischief, and Thomas would bite his tongue, trying to focus on his work while his mind wandered back to Lyra's waiting body at home.
But Marla was persistent. One day, as Thomas was wiping down the counter, she sidled up to him, her breath warm against his neck. "Why you always in such a rush to get home, eh? Got a wife waitin' on you?"
Thomas hesitated, the rag stilling in his hand. He glanced at Marla, her expression expectant but playful. "Not a wife," he said slowly, the weight of his confession settling in his chest. "I've got… an addiction. To flesh. If I don't… cure it every day, it gets worse. Makes me irritable, angry. So, I've got someone. A personal whore at home."
Marla's eyes widened, the playful light in them dimming as she processed his words. "A whore? Every day?" She couldn't seem to wrap her mind around it, her mouth working silently as if tasting the bitter truth of it. Thomas nodded, his expression grim, and Marla let out a low whistle, her gaze dropping to the floor. The rest of the day passed in awkward, stilted conversation, Marla's usual jokes replaced with uncomfortable silences and sideways glances.
A few days later, Marla couldn't hold her curiosity any longer. As they cleaned up, she asked, her voice quiet, almost embarrassed, "How many times, then? You know… with her?"
Thomas shrugged, wiping down a cutting board. "Three, usually. But if I had the coin, I'd go for four." He said it matter-of-factly, without shame, but Marla's cheeks reddened, and she spent the rest of the day sneaking glances at him, her eyes flicking to his crotch as if expecting to see proof of his constant need.
By the end of the day, Marla approached him, her face flushed, her demeanor oddly timid. She fidgeted with her apron, her gaze darting away as she spoke. "Three times… that's rough on the girl, isn't it? I mean, poor thing must be exhausted."
Thomas frowned, unsure of where she was going with this. "She's used to it," he replied, but Marla shook her head, taking a deep breath.
"Doesn't have to be," she murmured, her voice low, almost sultry. "I… I've been thinkin'. You could… take me once. Here, in the tavern. Quick and easy. I could use it." Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken need. "Gets me all bothered, you know? Being touched by those men all day. Don't want 'em thinking I like it."
Thomas blinked, stunned. He tried to decline, telling her she didn't owe him anything, that he'd find another way, but Marla was insistent. She took his hand, her grip firm, her eyes pleading. "Just… just once," she whispered. "I need this, and you need it too. Don't think about it too hard."
The kitchen was quiet, the last of the day's light fading through the small, grimy window as Marla led him to the corner. She hitched up her skirt, her thighs pale and dimpled, trembling with a nervous anticipation that Thomas had never seen in her before. He undid his trousers, his cock already stiff, throbbing as he pressed up against her. Marla's breath hitched as she felt him, her hands bracing against the countertop, and with one swift motion, Thomas buried himself inside her, pushing deep into the wet heat of her cunt.
She let out a sharp, breathy moan, her hips jerking back against him as he set a fast, urgent pace, his cock driving in and out, each thrust hard and deliberate. The wet, rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh echoed through the empty kitchen, mingling with Marla's low, guttural moans as she rocked back against him, her large breasts bouncing with every impact.
"Fuck… yes, just like that," she gasped, her voice thick with arousal. She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles white as Thomas thrust into her relentlessly, his pace unyielding, his grip tight on her hips. Each movement was rough and raw, driven by a mutual need that had been simmering beneath the surface for days.
Thomas grunted, feeling the tightness building, his thrusts growing erratic as he neared the edge. Marla's body trembled, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she felt him fill her, her walls clenching around his cock, milking him as he came with a low, guttural groan. He stayed there for a moment, panting against her back, the heat of their bodies mingling as they caught their breath.
They cleaned up quickly, the silence between them charged with a newfound understanding. Thomas escorted her home, watching as Marla rushed inside to hug her daughters, the girls clinging to her as if afraid she might vanish. He lingered, just long enough to see Marla smile—a genuine, grateful smile that softened the hard lines of her face. She looked back at him, her eyes shimmering with unspoken gratitude, and Thomas nodded, turning away to leave her in peace.
When Thomas returned home, Lyra greeted him at the door, still naked, her eyes bright with curiosity as she sensed his lighter mood. He scooped her up, holding her close without the usual urgency, his hands gentle as they roamed her body. He kissed her softly, savoring the quiet comfort of her presence, and they fell into bed together, their limbs tangled, their breaths mingling.
As they lay there, Thomas ran his fingers through Lyra's hair, his touch tender. "Ever think about what you'd be if things were different?" he asked, his voice soft, almost hesitant.
Lyra looked up at him, her expression thoughtful. "Rich," she said simply, a wistful smile touching her lips. "I'd be rich, so I'd never have to do this again."
Thomas chuckled, brushing a thumb over her cheek. "And how would you get rich, Lyra? What would you want to do?"
She hesitated, her eyes distant as if searching for a long-forgotten dream. "I'd sing," she said finally. "If I could… I'd sing. But I don't know any songs."
Thomas nodded, shifting closer. "Doesn't matter. Just… hum something. Anything that feels good."
Lyra closed her eyes, her brows knitting in concentration as she searched her memory. Slowly, she began to hum, her voice soft and haunting, the melody uneven, but there was a raw beauty in it. It was a lullaby from her childhood, something her mother had sung to her in the rare, tender moments before life had taken its brutal turn. The notes hung in the air, delicate and ethereal, each one tinged with a faint sadness that seemed to speak of a life unlived.
The hum faltered as a fit of coughs wracked her, breaking the fragile melody, but Thomas held her close, letting the sound lull him. He closed his eyes, listening to the faint, broken tune, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a peace that went beyond the fleeting satisfaction of flesh. Lyra's voice carried him into sleep, the last, lingering notes of her song echoing in his dreams.
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