Cassia Side Story: The Seat at Supper
The tavern was closed to the public for the evening, the heavy iron bolt thrown across the front door. The main room was warm, filled with the rich, savory aroma of roasted root vegetables and searing venison steaks sizzling in Mara’s kitchen.
Cassia sat at the head of the long oak supper table. She looked the picture of Imperial elegance, her silver hair immaculate, her dark velvet dress draped flawlessly over her frame.
But concealed entirely beneath the heavy velvet skirts was the local smith’s masterpiece. The boiled leather harness was strapped tightly around the Spymaster’s hips, anchoring the massive, polished ironwood cock directly over her center.
Bessa was pacing nervously near the hearth.
The weaver had changed out of her damp, work-stained wool and into a tight, thin linen dress that clung desperately to her plush, heavy curves. Her face was flushed a permanent, feverish pink. The single, devastating climax in the cellar had not quenched her five-year drought; it had only woken the starving animal inside her.
Bessa walked over to the head of the table. Her breathing was shallow as she looked down at the high-born lady.
"My Lady," Bessa whispered, her fingers nervously twisting the tight linen of her skirt. "The wooden benches by the fire... they are too hard. I cannot sit on them. I am still too sensitive."
Cassia paused, a delicate silver wine goblet hovering just inches from her lips. Her sharp, grey-blue eyes swept over the weaver’s flushed face and heavy, trembling thighs.
"Is that so, Bessa?" Cassia murmured, her aristocratic voice dropping into a dark, knowing hum. She set the goblet down and leaned back in her heavy oak chair, spreading her velvet-clad knees slightly. "Then where exactly do you propose to sit for supper?"
Bessa’s cheeks burned crimson. "On your lap, my Lady. Please."
Cassia’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. "Hop up, weaver."
Bessa didn't need to be told twice. She hiked the back of her tight linen dress up just enough to expose her bare, plush ass, keeping the front draped down to hide her modesty. She straddled the Spymaster’s thighs, her soft hands gripping Cassia’s velvet shoulders to brace herself.
Cassia guided her in.
Bessa let out a high, stuttering gasp as the blunt, rigid head of the ironwood breached her swollen entrance. Because she was seated completely upright, gravity did all the work. The weaver slowly sank down, her thick thighs spreading wide across Cassia’s lap, taking every single inch of the daunting wooden shaft until it bottomed out completely against her cervix.
Cassia wrapped one pale arm securely around Bessa’s soft waist, holding her firmly in place as the weaver shuddered through the overwhelming, immense stretch.
A moment later, the heavy front door rattled.
Callis stepped into the tavern, bringing a gust of freezing night air with him. He was covered in sawdust and sweat, his heavy wool coat dusted with snow. He kicked the door shut, dropped a massive load of chopped firewood into the iron bin, and let out a heavy sigh of exhaustion.
The young fighter wiped his brow and looked toward the supper table.
He froze.
His sister was seated at the head of the table, sipping her wine with absolute composure. And perched sideways across her lap was a plush, heavy-breasted woman Callis immediately recognized as a new face. He didn't know her name yet, but he recognized the type instantly—a seasoned, mature tradeswoman with wide hips and a desperate, flushed expression.
A new one, Callis thought, blinking in surprise. He assumed Cassia was simply being territorial, claiming the best seat and using the new woman as a plush armrest to flaunt her high-born dominance.
Callis pulled out a chair halfway down the table and heavily sat down. "The raven is sent. The firewood is stacked. Perimeter is clear."
"Excellent work, little brother," Cassia praised smoothly, her tone perfectly conversational. "The Duchess will be thrilled."
Callis reached for a piece of bread, but his hand stopped mid-air.
Bessa couldn't hold still. The sheer, unyielding girth of the ironwood buried deep inside her womb was too much. The weaver whimpered softly, her hands tightening on Cassia’s shoulders, and began to unconsciously bounce her wide hips in a slow, grinding rhythm.
Callis’s eyes locked onto her waist.
Because Bessa’s linen dress was so tight, the mechanics of what was happening beneath the fabric were entirely, obscenely visible. Every time Bessa sank her weight down on Cassia's lap, the massive length of the ironwood pushed incredibly deep into her core.
Callis watched in absolute shock as a blunt, distinct bulge physically protruded from deep within Bessa's lower belly, pressing the taut linen fabric outward with every downward thrust.
His gaze dropped slightly lower.
The angle of the straddle and the sheer size of the wood had forced Bessa's incredibly fat pussy wide open. Even hidden beneath the draped linen, the sheer thickness of her flushed flesh was undeniable. Her massive, swollen lips created a heavy, distinct mound that bulged visibly right where her center was mashed against Cassia’s velvet thighs. The fabric was already turning dark with a rapidly expanding wet spot.
Callis's jaw dropped. The realization hit him like a physical blow.
He had not even learned the new matron’s name yet. He hadn't touched her. And his polished, aristocratic sister was sitting at the dinner table, casually wearing a massive strap-on, actively breaking in the fattest, wettest cunt in Hartsgate before the roasted venison was even served.
Callis swallowed hard. His Vanguard training told him to assess the situation, but his primal, frontier-warped brain just wanted to stare. The slow, wet squelch of Bessa grinding down on the hidden wood echoed in the quiet tavern, entirely unapologetic.
"Don't stop," Bessa whispered into the velvet of Cassia's shoulder, fully aware that the Lord of the territory was watching. She ground her heavy mound firmly against the hidden harness, chasing the brutal friction.
Before Callis could even process a reaction, a heavy, commanding voice echoed from the kitchen doorway.
"Eyes on your plate, Lord Vale," Mara rumbled.
The tavern matriarch stepped into the dining room carrying a massive iron platter of sizzling meat. She didn't just use her voice; she walked directly behind Callis and cuffed him firmly on the back of his thick neck.
Callis flinched.
"That one isn't yours yet," Mara commanded, setting the heavy platter down right in front of him. "And you do not stare at the Spymaster's dinner."
Callis had spent decades being raised, disciplined, and brutally corrected by the high-born woman sitting at the head of the table. To him, Cassia wasn't just a sibling; she was the strict, terrifying surrogate mother of his youth. Between Cassia’s unbothered authority and Mara’s iron-fisted frontier rules, the reprimand triggered an immediate, deeply ingrained submission.
Callis dropped his gaze instantly, his spine snapping perfectly straight in his chair as he stared down at the empty wooden plate.
"Sorry, Cassia," Callis mumbled.
Even though he used her name, his voice was entirely stripped of its Vanguard lethalness. It carried the distinct, chastised tone of a scolded son apologizing to his exceptionally strict mother for tracking mud into the manor.
Cassia took a slow, elegant sip of her wine. She looked over the rim of the silver goblet, her eyes gleaming with dark amusement at her perfectly trained brother. She gave Bessa's plush hip a firm, possessive squeeze, simultaneously tilting her own pelvis upward to drive the rigid wood just a fraction deeper.
Bessa let out a choked, desperate whine, her fat pussy visibly rippling beneath the wet linen.
"I must say, Callis," Cassia noted, a wickedly satisfied smirk playing on her lips as she watched him struggle to keep his eyes averted. "Hartsgate’s assets are eager... but they choose their auditors carefully."