Yselles Side Story: The Tavern Claim
Yselle turned away from the wooden ledger desk. She left Mina sitting on the stool and walked back to the brick hearth. The fire required attention. She grabbed the smooth wooden handle of the leather bellows. She pumped her arm back and forth, establishing a steady, rhythmic cadence. The forced air rushed into the forge bed. The coals flared, shifting from a sullen, resting orange to a blinding, hungry yellow.
The ambient heat in the workshop spiked. The thermal wave pushed against the stone walls, fighting the winter chill seeping under the heavy iron doors.
Yselle picked up a pair of long iron tongs. She reached into the center of the coals, securing her grip around a raw billet of high-carbon steel. She hauled the metal out of the fire. The billet glowed with a translucent, radiant heat. She pivoted on her heel, her heavy leather boots grinding against the dirt floor, and swung the metal over the primary anvil.
She picked up her ball-peen hammer. She raised her arm, her shoulder muscles bunching beneath her linen tunic, and brought the heavy iron head down against the glowing steel.
The strike produced a sharp, deafening ring. The sound echoed off the high wooden rafters. A shower of bright orange sparks exploded outward, raining down across the scarred oak workbenches and the dirt floor. Yselle struck the metal again. She fell into the mechanical rhythm of her trade. Lift. Strike. Turn the billet. Strike. She used the physical exertion to channel the lingering adrenaline left over from breaking her niece open on the workbench.
Mina sat on the wooden stool, watching the display of raw, utilitarian violence.
The young magic student kept her hands folded in her lap. Her dark pleated skirt hid the damp, soiled state of her cotton undergarments. The brass buttons of her wool bodice held the massive, dough-soft weight of her chest in place. She pushed her wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose, her brown eyes tracking every arc of Yselle’s hammer.
Mina had spent her life reading theory. She studied the geometric lines of kinetic bindings and the academic principles of spell-weaving. She understood magic as an intellectual pursuit, debated by aging masters in silent libraries.
Yselle offered a different curriculum. The forge master manifested power through sweat, callouses, and relentless physical force. The dark soot staining Yselle’s forearms stood as a testament to her labor. The wet, slurping sounds Mina’s own body had produced mere minutes ago still echoed in her mind, a chaotic counterpoint to the sharp ringing of the hammer against the anvil. Mina felt a dull, heavy throb radiating from her swollen core. The virgin tissue Yselle had stretched and breached carried a persistent ache, a physical reminder of the boundary she had crossed.
Yselle struck the steel one final time. The metal had cooled, shifting from bright yellow to a dull, cherry red. The temperature fell below forging heat.
Yselle set the ball-peen hammer down on the anvil. The winter draft slipping under the iron doors possessed a bitter, creeping bite. Torren’s house offered no reprieve. The thin walls and poorly sealed windows let the cold seep into her joints. It was the reason she paid Mara for a permanent bed at The Stag & Ember during the winter months. The ambient heat of the tavern’s brick oven kept her hammering arm loose and capable for the morning quotas.
She used the iron tongs to carry the cooling billet over to a metal rack, setting it aside. She walked to the wooden bucket sitting near the quenching trough, picked up a coarse linen rag, and dipped it into the cold water. She wrung the excess moisture out and dragged the damp cloth across her face, wiping the sweat and soot from her brow.
She tossed the rag onto the rim of the bucket. She turned her head, looking at the heavy iron doors separating the workshop from the Tanner’s Wynd.
"Torren will return soon," Yselle announced. Her voice carried clearly through the quiet forge. "The municipal clerks take their midday meal at the hour bell. They will force him out of the armory offices. He will walk back here angry, carrying his ledgers and his complaints about the silver tariffs."
Mina stiffened on the stool. The mention of her uncle brought the rigid, academic posture back to her spine. She adjusted her twin ponytails, ensuring the dark hair fell neatly over her shoulders.
"I will prepare my travel bag," Mina said. She looked at the small canvas satchel resting near the base of the ledger desk. "He expects me to sleep in the guest room at the house."
"Torren expects many things he does not receive," Yselle stated.
She walked across the dirt floor, closing the distance between the hearth and the ledger desk. She stopped directly in front of her niece. Yselle crossed her arms over her chest. The dark smudges on her canvas trousers and her linen tunic gave her the appearance of a frontier warlord rather than a dutiful wife.
"You will not sleep at our house tonight," Yselle instructed. "The draft there stiffens my shoulder, and I am sleeping in my room at the tavern tonight to keep my arm warm for the morning quota. You will stay at The Stag & Ember with me."
Mina tilted her head. Her magnified brown eyes blinked behind her lenses. "Uncle Torren will argue. He prefers to keep the family under our own roof."
"He prefers to cage his assets," Yselle corrected, her tone devoid of compromise. "I hold the authority to dictate where my guests sleep. You will stay at the tavern."
Mina studied her aunt’s face. The forge master did not offer the invitation out of simple hospitality or a sudden concern for drafts. A dark, predatory calculation rested in Yselle’s pale eyes. The physical transaction on the workbench had altered the dynamic between them, shifting them from relatives by marriage to participants in a shared, secret vice.
"Why do you want me at the tavern, Aunt Yselle?" Mina asked. Her voice dropped to a quiet whisper, acknowledging the illicit nature of the conversation.
Yselle leaned forward. She rested her hands on the armrests of the wooden stool, trapping Mina in place. The scent of acidic flux and stale sweat rolled off Yselle’s clothes, wrapping around the academic student.
"Because I possess a wooden storage chest beneath the stairs in Mara’s kitchen," Yselle explained. She kept her voice low, a rough rumble that vibrated against the vellum parchment on the desk. "Inside that chest, I keep a heavy leather rig. The dark straps fasten around the hips. The center ring holds a blunt, thick shaft."
Mina let out a short, hitched breath. Her stomach tightened. The heavy flesh of her chest swelled against the wool bodice, the dark areolas hardening into tight peaks beneath the linen blouse.
"I opened you up with my fingers today," Yselle continued, her pale eyes locked on Mina’s flushed face. "I breached the tissue. I listened to your body talk. I heard the slurping sounds, and I heard you squeal like a stuck pig while you begged me to take you."
"Aunt Yselle," Mina whimpered. The explicit recap of her own submission shattered her remaining composure. The dampness between her thighs returned, slicking the soiled cotton of her undergarments.
"The fingers served as an introduction," Yselle said. She reached out, hooking a single calloused finger under the collar of Mina’s blouse. She dragged the rough skin against Mina’s collarbone. "The leather rig provides the true grounding weight. I want to take you to my room. I want to lock the heavy oak door. I want to strip those canvas trousers off, and I want to buckle the dark straps around my waist."
Mina parted her lips, drawing shallow, erratic breaths. The theoretical concepts of magical kinetic bindings faded into nothingness, replaced by the blunt, physical reality her aunt painted.
"I am not going to lay you on your back," Yselle instructed, leaning closer until her breath ghosted over Mina’s cheek. "I want you to straddle my hips. I want to point the blunt shaft upward. You will take the weight. You will sink down onto the leather, taking the hilt directly against your cervix. And then, niece, you will ride it."
Mina let her head fall back slightly. The twin ponytails brushed against the vellum ledgers. She squeezed her thighs together, chasing the friction against her swollen clitoris.
"I want to sit beneath you," Yselle murmured, her eyes dropping to the massive, strained bulk of Mina’s chest. "I want to watch the brass buttons on your bodice snap open. I want to watch you pull the linen blouse over your head and toss it onto the floorboards. I want to see the sheer, unapologetic weight of your flesh spill out."
Yselle moved her hand, resting her palm against the side of Mina’s left breast. She squeezed the dough-soft tissue, feeling the heavy sway of the weight.
"When you drive your hips down against the leather rig," Yselle specified, her voice taking on an analytical, measuring tone. "The impact will force a reaction. Your chest will bounce. The heavy flesh will slap against your ribs. The dark peaks will point down toward my face. I want to lay on my mattress and study the mechanics of that bounce. I want to witness the exact visual you plan to unleash on the provincial academy."
Mina groaned, her fingers digging into the edge of the wooden stool.
"Those aging spell-weavers," Yselle continued, mapping the fantasy directly onto Mina’s future. "Those gray-bearded masters with their silver robes and their tenure. You told me they stare at the buttons of your bodice. You told me you want their heavy hands. When you lock the dormitory door and push one of those dilfs onto his back, this is the sight he will see. You straddling his hips, taking his old cock deep, while your massive breasts heave and slap above him. I want the preview, Mina. I want to watch you practice your weapon."
The explicit validation of her body broke the last remnants of Mina's academic shame. The academy taught her to hide her flesh behind wool and linen. Yselle taught her to weaponize it.
"I will stay at the tavern," Mina breathed, her brown eyes dilated behind her wire-rimmed glasses. "I will straddle your hips. I will ride the leather rig. I will let you watch me bounce."
"Good," Yselle praised. She patted the side of Mina’s cheek, a gesture of dominant affection. "You belong to the forge now. We will leave the moment Torren finishes his complaints."
Yselle stood up straight. She stepped back from the ledger desk just as a loud, metallic clatter echoed from the street.
The heavy iron doors of the Ash Forge swung inward. The winter wind howled through the opening, carrying a flurry of gray snow and the scent of frozen mud into the sweltering workshop.
Torren Harrow stepped across the threshold.
He moved with the stiff, lumbering gait of a man carrying excess pride and lacking actual capability. He possessed a thick neck, a barrel chest, and arms built for hauling iron, but his posture lacked the lethal, focused grace of the mercenaries who guarded the working lanes. He wore a heavy wool tunic dyed a dark, muddy brown, paired with thick canvas trousers and scuffed leather boots. His face carried a ruddy, congested flush, a byproduct of cheap ale and the biting wind.
He turned and slammed the iron door shut, sealing the forge again. He carried a stack of bound parchment ledgers under his left arm. He marched toward the primary workbench, his boots stomping against the dirt floor. He dropped the ledgers onto the oak planks. The heavy books landed with a loud, authoritative thud.
"The Guildmaster employs fools," Torren barked. He did not offer a greeting. He immediately projected his frustration into the room, demanding an audience for his grievances. "The municipal clerks sit in their heated offices, chewing roasted nuts, and they tell me the silver tariffs require an adjustment. They claim the canopy incursions disrupt the trade routes, therefore the armory must reduce the payout for our spearheads."
Yselle stood near the ledger desk, her arms crossed over her chest. She watched her husband vent. She felt no fear, no anxiety, and no desire to placate his ego. She had spent the afternoon taking her pleasure from the baker in Mara’s kitchen and opening his niece on the workbench. Torren Harrow’s complaints sounded hollow, lacking the power to dictate her mood.
"Did you negotiate the base rate?" Yselle asked, her tone flat and uninterested.
"I told the head clerk he holds a quill, not a hammer," Torren sneered. He walked to the quenching trough and splashed cold water over his face. He wiped his jaw with the back of his sleeve. "I told him the Ash Forge provides the steel keeping the Night Stalkers out of his bedchamber. They agreed to maintain the original contract for one more moon-cycle. But they require the first dozen spearheads before sunset tomorrow."
Torren turned around, his eyes scanning the workshop. He noted the single cooling billet on the rack and the scattered tools near the anvil.
"You work slow today, wife," Torren criticized. He pointed a thick finger at the empty anvil. "The fire lacks heat. You waste charcoal. I step away to handle the politics of this business, and the physical labor stalls. Pick up the tongs. Establish the rhythm."
Yselle did not move. She stared at the man who claimed ownership over her labor.
"The iron will heat when I pump the bellows," Yselle replied calmly.
Torren frowned, his thick brow furrowing at her lack of immediate compliance. He turned his attention to the wooden desk.
"Mina," Torren grunted, acknowledging his niece. "Gather your schematics. Roll the vellum up. I will walk you back to the house. The guest room requires sweeping before you settle in for the night."
Mina sat on the stool. Her massive breasts rested against the desk. She looked at her uncle, the man who demanded compliance, and then she looked at her aunt, the woman who had broken her open and promised her the heavy leather rig.
"Mina is not staying at the house," Yselle stated.
The declaration cut through the ambient noise of the forge. Torren stopped. He turned his heavy head, glaring at his wife.
"I dictate the guest arrangements," Torren warned, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling threat. He stepped away from the quenching trough, moving toward Yselle to use his physical bulk for intimidation. "She is my blood. She sleeps under our roof."
Yselle held her ground. She did not flinch. She possessed the strength to swing a ball-peen hammer for twelve hours straight. She possessed the backing of Callis, the vanguard commander who held the working lanes. Torren held a piece of paper recording their marriage.
"Our roof leaks in the winter, Torren, and the draft stiffens my shoulder," Yselle countered, her voice steady and unyielding. "I am sleeping in my bed at the tavern tonight to keep my hammering arm warm for your morning quota, and she is coming with me. She requires a proper fire and a warm meal."
"The tavern is filled with mercenaries and blood," Torren argued, his face flushing a darker shade of red. "It is not a suitable environment for an academic student."
"It is a fortress," Yselle corrected. "And I am the one who will walk her there. She stays with me tonight, Torren. The decision stands."
Torren glared at Yselle, his thick hands balling into fists at his sides. He searched for a crack in her posture, a sign of the submissive wife he expected to find. He found only the rigid, immovable iron of a woman who knew her own strength, armed with an excuse regarding the quota that he could not argue against. He lacked the courage to force the issue, aware that a physical altercation with Yselle would end with him bleeding on his own dirt floor.
Torren scoffed, a dismissive sound meant to salvage his bruised pride. "Fine. Take her to the tavern. Waste your coin on Mara’s roasted pork. But I expect you back at this anvil at dawn. The municipal spearheads will not forge themselves."
"The quota will be met," Yselle promised.
She turned away from her husband. She walked to the ledger desk, placing a hand on Mina’s shoulder. She felt the young woman trembling beneath the wool bodice, a mixture of adrenaline and anticipation vibrating through her muscles.
"Gather your bag, niece," Yselle instructed. "We are walking to the tavern. You have an appointment in my room."
Mina nodded. She stood up, her dark pleated skirt falling back into place. She picked up her canvas satchel, keeping her eyes fixed on the dirt floor as she walked past her uncle. She stepped out into the winter wind, leaving Torren Harrow alone in his quiet workshop, while she followed her aunt toward the heavy leather rig waiting in the dark.