Cassia Side Story: Table Manners
The clatter of wooden plates and heavy iron cutlery filled the warm tavern, occasionally punctuated by the sharp crackle of the hearth fire.
Mara took her seat opposite Callis, entirely unbothered by the sheer degeneracy unfolding at the head of her table. The matriarch began carving the roasted venison, the sharp blade slicing effortlessly through the tender meat. She distributed thick, peppered slices alongside steaming portions of winter root vegetables, ladling rich, dark gravy over the plates.
It was a hearty, civilized frontier meal, utterly at odds with the obscene, wet rhythm echoing beneath the table.
Bessa had adjusted her position to survive the ordeal. The sheer girth of the local smith’s handiwork was too massive for the weaver to simply rest her full weight upon. To keep the rigid ironwood from bottoming out painfully against the deepest part of her core, Bessa had placed both of her soft hands flat on the polished oak of the supper table. She locked her elbows, bracing her upper body to control the depth.
With her arms supporting her weight, Bessa established a slow, agonizingly soft rhythm.
She lifted her plush hips just an inch, her thick thighs trembling with the effort. The taut linen of her dress rode up slightly, sticking to her sweat-slicked skin, before she sank carefully back down. The leather harness strapped to Cassia’s hips creaked quietly with every downward press.
Squelch. Pop. Squelch.
The wet, rhythmic sound of the weaver’s flooded pussy working the thick wood was undeniable. It cut right through the polite sounds of dinner—louder than the crackling fire, louder than the clinking forks.
Callis sat perfectly rigid.
True to his word, his eyes were locked dead-center on his wooden plate. He chewed his venison with mechanical, Vanguard-drilled precision. But his elite training was working against him. His senses were honed for combat awareness; he couldn't just tune out his surroundings. The rich smell of roasted meat and rosemary was heavily laced with the hot, sweet, undeniable musk of female arousal.
He could hear exactly how saturated the weaver was. Every time Bessa sank down on his sister’s lap, the thick bulge in her lower belly bumped lightly against the edge of the oak table. It created a soft, rhythmic thud that Callis could physically feel vibrating through the heavy wood beneath his forearms.
His breathing was growing shallow. Beneath the table, his heavy wool trousers were suddenly feeling uncomfortably tight.
Cassia, meanwhile, was the absolute picture of Imperial dining etiquette.
The Spymaster sat tall in her heavy chair, her velvet-clad legs spread wide beneath the weaver’s straddle to provide a stable, unyielding base. She held a silver fork in one pale, manicured hand and a delicate iron knife in the other, cutting her venison into perfectly uniform squares with practiced grace.
She lifted a piece to her own mouth, chewing thoughtfully, her sharp eyes studying Bessa over the rim of her goblet. Cassia cataloged every tremor in the weaver’s arms, the heavy, erratic rise and fall of her plush breasts, the sheer desperation bleeding from her flushed face.
Cassia cut a second piece of meat, dragging it slowly through the rich gravy. She didn't eat this one. She simply raised the silver fork, holding the dripping piece of venison near Bessa’s cheek.
"Pause, Bessa," Cassia commanded softly.
Bessa froze instantly. She locked her arms, holding herself hovering right on the thickest part of the wooden shaft. Her breath hitched, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple.
"Open," Cassia instructed.
Bessa didn't hesitate. Her hands remained planted firmly on the table as she turned her head and parted her trembling lips. She took the meat directly from the high-born lady's fork. A drop of dark gravy escaped, trailing down the weaver's chin. Cassia reached out with her bare thumb, catching the drop and slowly wiping it away, letting her thumb brush agonizingly over Bessa's bottom lip.
"Good girl," Cassia purred, setting the fork down to dab her own fingers with a monogrammed silk napkin. "The Matriarch has prepared an excellent roast. You must keep your strength up. We have barely scratched the surface of your accounts."
Bessa chewed frantically, swallowing the heavy meat before letting out a stuttering, breathy moan. Unable to hold her own weight any longer, her arms buckled slightly. She pushed her hips back down, her incredibly fat, swollen lips mashing visibly against Cassia's velvet thighs through the soaked linen.
"Yes, my Lady," Bessa whispered, her voice a desperate, ragged thing. "Thank you."
Callis’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. He gripped his iron fork like it was a combat knife. The vibrating thud against the table edge returned, slightly faster now as Bessa chased the friction she had been denied while chewing.
Callis was a man who thrived on claiming territory, and listening to a plush, seasoned woman whimpering in gratitude while bouncing on his sister’s lap was a profound test of his obedience. Slowly, involuntarily, his left hand slipped off the table, dropping down toward his lap to adjust the painful, surging ache in his trousers.
Mara noticed his white-knuckled grip before his hand even cleared the edge of the wood.
The tavern matriarch leaned casually over her plate, chewing a thick piece of venison. She didn't raise her voice. She simply pointed her own heavy iron fork directly at Callis's chest across the table.
"Swallow your food, Lord Vale," Mara instructed, her tone carrying that low, undeniable rumble of absolute household authority. "And keep your hands above the table."
Callis froze, his left hand hovering dangerously close to his thigh.
Mara took a slow, deliberate sip from her clay mug of ale, her dark eyes pinning him to his chair. "If I see you adjusting your trousers while the Spymaster is conducting her business, you will be eating breakfast in the stables with the draft horses."
Callis swallowed the lump of venison whole. It scraped dryly down his throat.
He didn't dare look up at Mara, and he certainly didn't look to his left, where the thick, wet bulge was actively pressing into the linen fabric and grinding against the table edge. He brought his left hand immediately back to the surface of the oak, wrapping both hands tightly around his wooden plate.
"Yes, Matriarch," Callis rasped, his voice tight with suppressed, agonizing frustration.
Cassia let out a soft, delighted hum. She reached for her silver wine goblet, taking a long, elegant sip.
Then, the Spymaster shifted her tactics. She reached her free hand around Bessa’s waist, dragging her pale fingers lightly over the heavy curve of the weaver’s hip. Without a word of warning, Cassia gripped the plush flesh firmly and pulled downward, forcing Bessa an inch deeper onto the ironwood shaft than her locked arms had been allowing.
Bessa gasped loudly, her elbows buckling completely under the sudden downward force. Her soft belly pressed flush against the edge of the table. The massive bulge of the harness became starkly prominent beneath her dress, the rigid wood bottoming out so deeply Bessa had to bite her own lip to keep from screaming.
The wet, slapping sound of Bessa's saturated entrance hitting Cassia's leather harness echoed through the dining room.
Callis squeezed his eyes shut, his chest heaving with a harsh, ragged breath.
"This territory truly is a marvel," Cassia mused conversationally, addressing the table at large as she let Bessa slowly rise back up, only to pull her ruthlessly back down again. Squelch. Clap.
Cassia speared a roasted root vegetable, her aristocratic composure completely unruffled by the trembling, sweating woman impaled on her lap.
"I spent years trying to teach you proper table manners in the Capital, Callis," Cassia noted, a wickedly satisfied smirk playing on her lips as she watched her brother struggle to breathe while keeping his eyes strictly averted. "Who knew all it took was the right management structure to keep you perfectly in line?"