The cold came first, inching in over her consciousness like barbs sprouting out of the floor and air to seep into her skin. Thoughts came next, simple at first.

What happened? Why?

Her eyes flickered open to reveal the blurry white of snow and the grey of the road beneath it. Slowly, her glassy stare registered the wreckage around her too.

She came to slowly. Recognising the deathly shiver running through her body. She must’ve been lying in the road for some time, snow piling around her garments. She’d die here if she didn’t move.

Her wits didn’t return easily, but eventually her body did what it was told. Sitting up, she wondered why her body felt so strange, and her mind finally offered the first of many precious answers. It wasn’t her body, it was her disguise. She travelled in another body, her disguise, to avoid attention, both the overt, political kinds, and the mundane kind. Her real body was more striking.

Dimly, she glanced again at the splintered wreckage. This had once been a wagon. Hers. Her guards lay dead in the road, their blood frozen upon the ground. The bodies of the horses weren’t present. They must’ve bolted when the wagon met its fate.

Tyfiyah must’ve survived due to some covert protection spell that eluded her memory at this time. While it’d kept her from being maimed by whatever hit her transport, it clearly hadn’t protected her enough.

Spells. That’s right, she was a Magi. Her disguise was one of many spells she weaved.

Before she could put the rest of her story together, she noticed a large man standing at the periphery of her vision. She had scarcely heard him approach, despite his size. Looking up at him, she saw he was an orcblood. Under his hood, thin tusks clear on an otherwise handsome face cut lightly with an old scar. He was clad in tundra leathers and plate with a steelbow around his torso.

Part of his armour was in the style of the Northern Clans, but other parts–like the plates–looked more sophisticated. City-forged, or perhaps even dwarf-make. He must have been an emerald huntsman, or storied ranger. Someone who knew the wilds. The clans were traditional, perhaps even regressive, but folk of good honour. This man was no bandit.

In her delirium, her mind made an odd connection. He resembled the sort of rugged, heroic lovers of her steamy romantic fiction. The sort that exaggerated the clans’ plain-spoken understanding of love and sexuality into some kind of thrilling, erotic adventure filled with finely sculpted, hulking men of simple virtue, who thought nothing of taking it upon themselves to sexually awaken timid southern noblewomen with an animalistic lust, rewriting the civilised woman’s understanding of pleasure.

Any words she might’ve imparted in greeting were lost in the gaudiness of the intrusive thought.

“Your transport?” he asked coolly, nodding to the wreckage.

She turned to stare at the wreckage again. “Yes. We were bid for Væringardt.” She surprised herself with her second answer. His question seemed to have shaken information from her half-frozen mind.

“You’re in a bad way,” he grumbled. “Are you hurt?”

She felt bruises and aches up and down, but no cuts. She was still in one piece, just freezing. “Not badly, sir,” she explained. She pushed down her amorous thoughts. This man was a capable and attentive woodsman. As much as she’d enjoyed the fetishized depiction of his the sterotypes his countrymen inspired in two-copper bawdy novels she read, it was a harmful and inelegant way to illustrate a people. She was ashamed it was the first thing that occurred to her. It was disgraceful proof of her often indecent mind.

The man sniffed the air and made a circuit of the wreckage. “Your wagon was hit from the underside. See?” he asked, pointing to where the beams lay singed in the snow. Tyfiyah had no idea what he meant. “Arcanics, miss,” he explained. “Sigil-work. The sort the Magi circles weave.”

Tyfiyah blinked. The wagon had been charmed proof against certain dangers, but if a circle had conspired on her death, those protections wouldn’t be worth much. If other wizards were her enemies, it must have been why she was travelling, not teleporting. Væringardt was not a city of her kin, nor Magi of the traditional sort. Those who translocated into the city’s bounds could easily be tracked, or worse, misdirected by the magics of Northern hedge mages and druids.

The man approached her with a sigh as her dull mind whirred. In a single movement, he hoisted her up and onto his shoulder, making her squeak. “Your assailants are clever, but less than prudent. They haven’t checked their trap yet, but they will soon enough. We mustn’t linger.”

Somehow, being carried away by the large huntsman seemed entirely agreeable. She stared, still stunned at the wreckage as she was carried into the treeline.

---

Tyfiyah’s wits returned to her much faster after she’d been sat bundled in the huntsman’s cloak before a campfire, a league or so from the road. She remembered now her mentor’s warning, the one that had her avoiding teleportation in the first place. The Clans kept their traditions, but the city-dwelling Northmen were more worldly. They knew of Haqari arcanics and magical arts besides, and they were ill-pleased by the events of the last war.

If you long for adventure, child, for Deva’s sake visit the mountains. See the coast. Even tour the dynasties over the sea. Why in hells do you wish to see the war-torn city of those northern wildmen? They bear us no love, and their cabals plot our doom as they seethe under Haqari dominion. For a thousand reasons, you would be a prize to capture by their dissident magicians. You must reconsider.

Do you think so little of me? She’d quipped, in a fit of contrarianism. I can outwit a few understudy dabblers in the land of snow.

It was unlike her to argue with her mentor, but she’d hated to feel caged at the academy, and her annual tours of the province kasbahs and palaces. She was no ornate doll, she was a woman now, and the first Magi of her class. She would meet no more mediocre sons of wealthy merchants, no more clueless princes – so many of which barely matched her height, let alone her worth. She would find her own adventures and exploits free of fumbling, ill-matched romance.

Sitting in the snow, consumed in the heady musk of the Northmen’s cloak, her adventurous notions seemed far less appealing.

Someone had tried to kill her, and when that someone didn’t find her body with the remains of her wagon, they would come looking for her. Prowling through the woods, as if she were a common game hen.

If they had gone to the trouble of setting an arcanic trap for her wagon, it followed that they were redirecting teleportation too. It’d be only too easy to summon a spell to spirit herself back home, only to find herself redirected into the grip of an enchanted cage enspelled by her assailants. Nothing short of a circle set by high Magi she could trust would get her out of here now, and they would not be hidden under the ancient stones of this frigid forest.

Her best bet was to assume the identity of the disguise she wore. The huntsman appeared upstanding enough, but she’d rather not shed her illusion to make herself any more interesting. She would play the role of a merchant’s daughter, important enough for her own enchanted carriage, but hopefully not enough for the huntsman to betray to whatever assassins sought her, and so sully his honour.

The man came to sit beside her and passed her a bowl of stew, populated with what looked like cuts of thawed venison and turnip. It was to be expected of a true man of the wild to produce a hot, filling meal on short notice. She accepted the food gladly.

“I am Mors,” he explained. “I mean no ill-will,” he added in broken Haqari, Tyfiyah’s native tongue. He must’ve inferred her culture from her dark skin.

She inclined her head with curiosity. “You speak the tongue of the sultans?” she asked. His blank look answered her question. “I know trade-speak well enough, sir,” she added. “I may not have seemed it in my daze at the roadside, but I am a learned woman. My name is Tyfiyah.”

With his hood down, she could see the man, Mors, properly. Close-cropped, rugged dark hair adorned a hawkish face and piercing eyes. Stubble ran across his hard jaw. He looked younger than his confidence may’ve suggested. With his large, muscular frame and sharp features he made quite an impression. She could see where her favourite Haqari novelists had gotten their inspiration.

He made an affirmative grunt. “You were bound for Væringardt? I too am bound for the city. You will accompany me.”

“I would vastly appreciate it sir,” she gushed. While the northern city was a foreign place, and a danger of its own, she had allies there who awaited her. The city was Haqari-occupied afterall. From there, she could regroup. “I’ll see you’re well rewarded for your honour,” she promised the huntsman.

“What interest do Magi have in you?” he asked curtly. Tyfiyah recoiled a little. While upstanding in their actions, the people of the North, particularly those of the Clans, were known for speaking clearly, sometimes to the point of rudeness.

She collected herself to speak around the truth. “I do not know, sir. Perhaps the trap was not intended for me.”

“Unlikely,” he growled. He observed her carefully, but avoided an outright accusatory tone. “You have no dealings with the circles? No enemies who take to spellbooks?”

In her distress, Tyfiyah felt her expression falter. “My father may’ve dealt with them in the past, but I do not know of any enemies within the circles. That I can swear to you.”

Mors studied her carefully, before nodding. “We mustn’t linger. Take your meal, then we will use the river and be on our way. You have had quite the morning, but we mustn’t waste the day.”

“Of course, sir,” she replied. Turning to her food.

She was again glad for her disguise, which rendered her blissfully plain. Though this huntsman knew nothing of her, he was a man, seemingly not much older than her. He doubtless had passions, well-matured and nowhere near withered with age. A hot-blooded buck in his sexual prime. While he’d treated the unassuming woman she appeared to be quite clinically, she had no guarantee he would be as upstanding faced with her true form.

Tyfiyah knew few enough men who didn’t feel the need to voice their opinion of her body, and none beyond her family who didn’t treat themselves to long, indulgent stares at it. In her disguise, she’d brought her eyes closer together, dropped her to an inconspicuous height, thinned her thighs light, and best of all flattened her chest almost entirely.

The disguise was one she took to often. It’d given her a new life, free from lingering, lecherous gazes from men she’d never wish to speak to, eyes locked to her form for as long as she was within sight. Free from demeaning comments which quickly turned spiteful when she didn’t respond to them with enough gratitude. And free from anything so supposedly irresistible about her physicality which led scum to grope at her.

There were days when she could still feel the press of rough, unfamiliar hands against her body, the slapping or squeezing. Unwelcome memories that reignited the mortification she’d felt at the time, and summoned a rush of tears to her eyes. A sharp and unforgettable dehumanisation, like a scar beneath the skin that ached long after the cut.

When she walked as a normal girl, without her curves, she was nothing to the people around her. At most, she was a figure in the way of the bustling crowds. An unimportant silhouette, lost in the crush of the bazaar. This was how she’d been able to run errands or take long journeys on her own, defy her classmates, and feel like she had a right to be in the world with a scrap of dignity.

Only in private could she love her body. The trouble was everyone else seemed to love it just as much. To aspire to knowledgeable pursuits as a woman was difficult enough, let alone one with an exquisitely well-developed chest and bottom.

Unable to determine the extent of the young gentleman’s honour, it was best to keep them to herself.

---

Tyfiyah soon realised she’d misunderstood Mors when he’d explained they were to use the river.

“It’s cold,” he grunted as he shrugged out of his jerkin to reveal his huge arms and the thickly-corded muscle of his chest. “But you’ll find you get used to it.”

Tyfiyah flushed red in the chill. His stomach was as flat and hard as the naughty illustrations of beautiful men she kept hidden in her bedchamber. “I-I think I should rather wait until the city.”

“We are leagues away,” he said simply. “Your Magi will try to track you. The running water will confound their attempts.”

He spoke truly. To be beyond a body of running water foiled many attempts at low-level divinations, but to bathe in it frustrated certain more direct spells. She might not have expected a clansman to know as much, though given they’d fought the Haqari bitterly in living memory it was no wonder the tricks of foiling arcanics had been passed down. She reconsidered herself.

The huntsman clearly had no qualms about his own nudity, why on Earth would she, with the modest body of her disguise. She didn’t look forward to the cold, but there was something thrilling about stepping into the water with her dashing protector. Not least with the hotblooded memory of so many raucous plotlines that’s once kept her awake half the night.

Stepping out of his trousers Tyfiyah was greeted with the sight of his manhood. He was fantastically endowed with a shaft as thick at her wrist and a remarkable length. The thrill in her cheeks spread across her whole form, warming her through as her loins stirred.

“You are as if you have not seen a man before,” he observed with his beautifully gravelled voice.

In truth, Tyfiyah hadn't known men could look like this. She'd always assumed a body like this was the stuff of fantasy.

With no interest in the boys around her at the academy, she’d preferred to distance herself from them altogether. In her fastidiously personal sexual journey, her novels had revolved around men of particular endowments. She’d even anonymously purchased toys modelling such outstanding appendages, and lost her hymen to them. With no men of note to thrill her, she’d instead engrossed herself in men of fiction, swiftly consuming herself of a dark fascination for over-developed gentlemen.

Her culture was a sexually liberal one, celebrating all manner of dizzying perversions, this, perhaps motivated the churlish brazenness with which Haqari men and boys felt the need to approach her, but it also fuelled her sexual awakening–such as it was–in the privacy of her bedchambers.

What she knew of real men was redefined by Mors. His magnificent cock–even limp–was all she’d fantasised of. To see it attached to a man of such muscular definition, shoulder-span, and height rendered her faint.

“You may stare in the water,” the huntsman stated, snapping her out of her reverie.

She reached to remove her clothes with a certain renewed enthusiasm, quickly peeling off her travelling attire to reveal the bare, bony form of her disguise. They placed their supplies in a wood hollow and kicked leaves over them to keep it all hidden from passing animals and she promptly followed him to the river, enjoying the sight of his behind and strong back.

He waded into the water without complaint, but she gasped once she’d been submerged up to the knee. “Sweet Devas, it’s freezing!” she gasped.

“Of course it’s cold, girl. Be brave now.”

She took another step and practically squealed, frozen in place. When he urged her again, she only shook her head. This was intolerable.

When he approached she thought he might be coming to convince her, but he merely scooped her up off her feet sending another deep shock of feeling through her body. She felt the unmistakable sensation of the entrance to her womb prickling at his touch. The thrill was soon replaced with the dread of what he was poised to do.

“Nononono!” she cried as he waded into the centre of the river and dropped her into the frigid water.

She’d never experienced anything remotely like it. It was like being struck by lightning. Her whole body rebelled as she twisted to find her feet and stand, heaving lungfuls of air.

“Apologies,” Mors chuckled. “But it merely had to be done.”

“You bloody bastard,” she breathed, an appalled smile rising to her mouth. Her eyes soon returned to his loins where she saw him hardening, a glorious sight that practically caught her breath.

“I suppose you are not used to it, given the deserts and savannah you might know,” he said.

Tyfiyah knew little of her home’s natural geography, being a thoroughly bookish hermit, forever indoors, but she could certainly attest to her nation’s habitual heat. She was not at all well used to the cold of the North.

He approached to run a hand over her thin arm sending fireworks through her blood. “Look at you, you’re pimpled like a goose,” he purred. His hands were rough. Working hands that’d climbed trees, fired ironbows, and wrestled bears – she assumed.

Her disguise’s petite frame brought her to the height of Mors’ chest, which made his hardening cock impossible to ignore in close proximity. Almost erect as it was, its scent assailed her despite the breeze of the open air. She felt her nethers twitch. Was this how men were supposed to make women feel?

“I have been too long on the trail, girl,” he breathed, almost panting as his shaft raised to point at her. “I would like to take you as a man takes a woman. Will you have me, when we lay camp tonight?”

Her lip quivered more uncontrollably than it ever had in her life. “Y-yes, of course.” She fought with the urge to reach out and feel his length. It was what a woman would do in the erotica she was obsessed with. Why shouldn’t she, if he was to take her tonight? Yet her damnable nerve left her in hesitation.

Just then smoke billowed up from the water, and the scent of magic interrupted her thoughts. Mors stepped away quickly as horror dawned on her.

In her haste, she’d forgotten that divination wasn’t the only magic running water peeled away. The esoteric magic of her longditudinal disguise was susceptible to it too. Given that she’d never bathed in running water before, she’d never been introduced to the principle first-hand. Damn her thoughtlessness!

She reached to the weave to shore up the spell, but it was far too late. Coloured smoke rose around her as her body morphed back into its true state. Her skin darkened, and her legs plumped and grew longer. Her pampered hair reappeared as her round, pretty face returned.

Her hand rose to catch her massive breasts as they ballooned into shape, covering wide, dark areola and thick nipples as her other hand jumped between her thickening thighs.

At her true height, she came to his collar, stood on wide hips that left an alluring gap between her shapely legs and made for a huge, pert, heart-shaped bottom, which she had been told on too many occasions was a sensational sight.

Her unacceptably large breasts were also a common conversation topic for her observers. Even the most elite Janissaries felt the need to draw their eyes to them while stood at attention.

She kept her breasts magically weightless with a charm–which had mercifully gone unaffected by the water–which eased the discomfort of carrying them about, an effect which made them far rounder. A cost she was willing to pay.

In the privacy of her own bedroom, she was very proud of them, but when she was required to appear publically in her own likeness, she insisted upon favouring heavier, obscuring clothing that made her look quite the prude.

She had truly never intended to show her naked body to a man for as long as she lived. Yet here she stood in complete undress, bathing with a man of quite similarly arresting proportions.

She watched Mors’ features deepen into a frown as gears turned in his mind. She needed to explain herself fast. He was her only ally in the world right now, and it had just become clear that she had lied to him. She could not lose his favour. “A thousand apologies, sir. I have deceived you. I travel in disguise, for I am of the Magi, and do not wish to draw attention. I swear that all else I have told you is true.”

Mors didn’t respond. Predictably, his eyes ran a circuit of her form, lingering over her sizeable bosoms. Even she could attest they were impossible to ignore. What little his erection had faltered in surprise at her transformation was recouped by the sight of her, as his length stood fully engorged, twitching now as he took her in.

Brazenly, men had felt the need to explain to her the things they would do, should they ever find themselves alone with her. Whilst those concepts had awakened exquisite disgust in her in the past, the thought of Mors doing the same suddenly felt like an afterthought next to her survival.

She cursed herself for once again entertaining such a dark thought. Mors was a man of the Clans. His sexual informality did not preclude indecency. He would not wrestle a buxom scholar into the mud and take her roughly with his oversized girth. It was far, far below him, surely.

Mors eyes appeared to unfocus as he went still, silencing whatever foolish words she might’ve attempted to fill the silence. She was no expert with body language, but even she could tell a certain tension had crept into his body, tightening his muscles and tensing his knees.

Unable to follow his train of thought, she could only wait wide-eyed for his response, shivering in the wind.

Then he moved with an urgency she couldn’t have imagined, the water yielding with ease against his powerful legs. He closed the distance between them before she could utter a sound and had her bundled into his grip before she knew what was happening.

Her weight was different in her true form, though Mors didn’t seem to notice, vaulting out of the water and onto the bank where Tyfiyah was dropped into the underbrush of a shrub, landing on hands and knees, submerged in soft rivergrass.

Before her wits returned, Mors was on top of her, his huge, chiselled body pulsing with warmth against her back. He pressed down on her, pushing her breasts to the grass as his thick member slid up between her legs across her clitoris and against her tummy. It almost reached her bellybutton.

It was just like one of her stories, perhaps too much. Wetness sprang between her legs as his girthy hot shaft pressed hard against her pussy, warming her skin. Her body was readying itself for mating, sensing an eligible father claiming her.

So this was it. Her first time with a man. An overexcited wildman engorged like a horse rutting out a few days’ sexual frustration, stretching out her inexperienced pussy in a ditch for goodness knows how long he wished. Her rising excitement belied the shame she ought to’ve felt.

“Be gentle,” she pled in a weak voice, and his hand swiftly moved to cover her mouth, cutting off any further requests. Her mind went fuzzy with arousal from his firm hand.

Upsettingly, the rough treatment excited her as much as it scared her, both terrifically arresting instincts overwhelming her in tandem. But when Mors didn’t act on the compromising position he had her in, she hesitated. What in hells was he doing?

His twitching member kept bumping into her clit, enough that she couldn’t help releasing a moan she’d been holding in against his fingers. Mors other hand shot to snake around her, clutching hard at her breast, squeezing the flesh of her bosom and sending another pang of arousal reverberating through her as she instinctively raised her round rump into his pelvis. She pressed her eyes shut with the shame.

“Quiet,” he urged ever so lightly into her ear. His breath tingled her neck.

At last, Tyfiyah realised what had happened and felt like a common dolt. She heard the sound of footsteps approach them. Mors was hiding her in the river grasses.

“Cannot be far,” she heard one man say.

They came stomping through the woods like horses with none of Mors’ grace.

“In disguise-” she heard. “Or if not, she’ll stick right out.”

“With tits that big and skin that dark? I’d say so,” agreed another.

Her heart faltered in Mors' grip. Mors was clutching her like an animal that needed calming. Given her carnal state, it didn’t feel undeserved. If he surrendered her, it would mean her doom. None of the high-sexed noble wanderers of her books would betray a damsel in distress, but then this wasn’t some stupid sex novella, this was the cutthroat world of desperate, depraved, despicable men.

As if on cue a voice added. “I would sell my wife just to put my hands on a pair like that.”

Tyfiyah frowned, she’d heard far worse, but she felt Mors' grip loosened on her breast, as if embarrassed, perhaps only now registering the indecency of their positions. She worked hard to fight back the tides of confused arousal that flooded her usually sharp mind, his hand cradling her bosom making it no easier.

Spells whirred around her head as she planned how she would ambush her pursuers should they come too close, shooing away her indecent thoughts, but she couldn’t forget the incredible warmth of Mors' body pressed against her, as she lay shivering.

There was one scalding hot appendage that was especially difficult to ignore. His incredible shaft continued to twitch against her vulva, extraordinarily stiff with thick muscle to the point it felt as if it were supporting some of her weight.

Compared to the heroines of her novels, Tyfiyah had found herself to be more sexually sensitive, capable of bringing herself to orgasm quite easily a great many times during her evenings and lazy mornings, curled up in the warm, satin sheets of her bedroom, which was precisely why her huntsman’s throbbing penis pressed hard against the petals of her sex, pulsing against her clit with his heartbeat, was having such a pronounced effect on her.

Whether it was the thick scent of his manhood, the press of his warm, sculped body, the adrenaline of danger, or his sheer size, she realised with horror that she was not winning her battle with arousal. Rather, she was inching closer and closer to climax, working hard to stay quiet with one of Mors' meaty hands clasped tightly over her mouth and the other possessively clutching one of her mammaries.

Again, her hips moved back into him against her will, dragging the contours of his penis over her clit. It was all she needed to slip over the edge.

Her orgasm swept over her like a wave, bringing out a choked squeal behind his hand. Again, Mors' hand closed hard around her breast to discourage her noise, and she redoubled her efforts at silence as his huge, strong hand squishing her bosom extended her climax. She lost control of her legs, which spasmed with her pleasure, though Mors held her still with his tight grip, hugging her closely, inadvertently thrusting his huge penis into her stomach, and again dragging it against her sex. He did not loosen his grip anywhere, least of all her breast, as her orgasm continued to wrack her.

When she was finished shuddering in his iron grip, she was sure to find her balance again quickly, desperate embarrassment insisting that she do everything in her power to pretend nothing at all had happened.

“They are gone,” he rumbled, pulling his penis out from under her, and standing, before lifting her to her feet with startling strength where she found her hands, knees and breasts wet with mud in the cold air.

“I must apologise for being forthright with you as we bathed. I became aroused and invited the same of you. Had these men been trackers of any regard, they would have scented our loins. I have behaved as a depraved oaf.”

At first, she was taken aback by his abruptly over-formalised tone. She might not have expected such eloquence given the simplicity of his language earlier. Before he knew she was of the Magi circles.

“It is nothing of the sort, Sir,” she insisted. “The fault is mine, for my girlish oversensitivity.”

Mors appeared unsurprised by her admission. His own nose must’ve been well aware of her arousal for the minutes they had hid. “Yes, you are quite lubricated,” he observed sternly. Tyfiyah felt another rush of embarrassment, suddenly terribly aware of the wetness coating her thighs “I believe I exacerbated matters by mounting you,” he continued. “Though it was necessary to keep you obscured.”

“Yes, well,” she began hotly, unable to meet his smouldering gaze. She was at a loss how he could speak so clinically about such matters. She’d thought herself naïve, though she was beginning to suspect Mors’ sagelike detachment held an innocence of its own. “As you say,” she mumbled. “Your actions were quite practical.”

“Of course,” he agreed, his eyes shifting away to the shore a little quickly. Tyfiyah was no master of reading people, but she suspected Mors had investment in the insistence that he was every bit the gentleman, incapable of taking advantage of women.

Naturally, she’d wanted to believe the best of him, though her experience with men had taught her such trust was not wise. Having known him for little over an hour, she continued to reserve judgement, though her reservations were slipping rapidly.

He made no attempt to cover himself, overdeveloped erection pointed rigidly up at her, and tipped with a drop of precum which she pretended not to notice. She did her best to try to follow his lead, standing as she normally would, with her huge breasts and wet pussy entirely unguarded, though her hands itched to cover them. It took a lot out of her to pretend public nudity came naturally to her.

“We were lucky these fools did not find our belongings. We may not meet such fortune again,” he said.

She nodded with a carefully constructed sober expression, her thick eyebrows locked in a judicious frown. Internally, she was fighting back thoughts of his big strong hands gripping her waist, bottom, and breasts.

“We must re-dress at once,” he recommended, offering her a hand to steady her as she navigated the uneven ground. “You must be ill-acquainted with the chill.”

She took his hand readily, though as a young woman in fine constitution, and an adventurer in her own right, a little mud underfoot was well within her powers to overcome. “Thank you, Sir.” He was treating her like a highborn noble all of a sudden, which she most certainly was, and she couldn’t help but play along. “Certainly, I can ill expect the warmth of your physique to sustain me for the journey,” she joked, hoping to win back a sliver of his informality.

He didn’t dignify her quip with a response, as he helped her to the shore, but placed his large hand over the small of her back, just above the plump, round shape of her bottom, to help ease her climb up out of the riverbed.

Her poised expression faltered with the contact, though she was mercifully facing away. His warm hand was almost large enough to span her waist, leaving a lasting impression of warmth against her core.

She did not intimately understand the needs of men, but from what she had heard, she imagined the full sight of her generous, alluring behind framing her nethers atop thick thighs, combined with the backs of her huge swaying bosoms must have been challenging to ignore as she climbed.

She allowed herself a smirk as she composed herself at the top, turning back with the most innocent of expressions to offer the experienced huntsman her own hand, as if to present herself as just as much the supportive presence as he.

She was satisfied to recognise the shadow of discomposure in his features, no doubt allowing himself his own moment of exasperation while her back was turned. With her body being just as much a provocative sight from the front, the impression of sexual tension was obvious in his face before he reclaimed a veneer of stoic indifference.

To her surprise, he took her hand, and put some weight into it, which she held strong as she pulled him up the bank. Though alluring, Tyfiyah’s body was athletic, and strong as any hardy traveller’s. She took care not to draw her eye to his swaying manhood as he climbed the escarpment, though it was more than clear in her periphery.

It felt powerful to treat him like a comrade for just a moment. Perhaps she forgot her shyness in the obliqueness of the cold, but she held her elegant posture with pride in that moment, thinking nothing of pushing her great chest forwards with her hips arched.

“My old attire will not fit me as I am now,” she announced to him, waiting just long enough for him to think she meant to say she would remain naked before adding, “but I am able to improvise.”

Weaving a succession of small spells, Tyfiyah cleaned her body of the dirt of the riverbank, perfectly exfoliating and moisturising her rich brown skin in the process, before drawing upon her magical wardrobe, where her various essentials were stored in a stabilised pocket dimension.

With a snap of her fingers, fabrics peeled out of nothingness to wrap around her nude form. First, two finely spun woollen underlayers, then a set of cold weather travelling clothes under her white Magi’s robe, which she’d transmogrified into a thickly furred winter travelling cloak.

The fine adventuring attire was a stark contrast to her prior undress, but was provocative in its own right. The outfit she’d chosen was a step more daring than anything she usually wore. While her clothes left not a spot of skin bare below the chin, her blouse and breeches were tight around her form, drawing attention to her curves and emphasising her bosoms and bottom. She’d even left her cloak open at the front to ensure the silhouette of her shapely breasts were unmistakable, not to mention the slight impression of her nipples. Being as thick as her thumbs, not even four layers could completely obfuscate them.

All her clothes were tailored bespoke for her unique figure. Accommodating for her huge breasts as normal clothing habitually did with the spread of one’s hips or shoulders, so that the material was not forced to crush her chest and drape airily around her midsection. To do this, the fabric was curved around them with meticulous accuracy, providing healthy pockets of space for them.

Her garments were tailored by the same company that had learned to serve her mother, and so were well prepared to accommodate her unique requests. With the consideration made, her clothes fit beautifully, though such careful consideration of her curves often had a rather alluring effect, which Tyfiyah usually compensated by adopting baggier outerwear.

This particular outfit was styled for an audacious, promiscuous adventuring woman, whose mind was just as sharp as her body was irresistible. The form-fitting garments were as warm and practical as any she’d commissioned, though she’d requested this outfit exclusively for her own enjoyment. Like a costume for her sheltered little inner-life, where the strikingly attractive woman she saw in the mirror could celebrate her body in a dashing getup. The clothes usually brought a small, sad smile on her lips, as she’d wondered if the ensemble would ever be seen on her by another soul.

Today, those doubts were banished.

When Mors took her in, the faintest frown crept over his brow. She looked up at him with expectant innocence, as if these were the clothes she’d always intended to wear, and there was nothing at all special about them. “Something wrong, sir?” she inquired innocently.

Mors circled her. She did her best to maintain composure as he assessed her apparel, sweeping around her with his great rod swaying between his legs. He picked at the material at her side, no doubt disapproving of its apparent thinness. “How many layers is this?”

“Four sir,” she insisted, as if she were answering for herself in front of a teacher. “Five with the cloak, which is quite special in of itself. They are light, yet finely woven. The best that money can buy.”

“You are quite warm?” he murmured, still suspicious. “Waterproofed? Windproofed?”

She nodded brightly. “The cloak is proof against all manner of inconveniences, and my travelling clothes are well suited for them as well. I am well prepared.” Something about being questioned about her well-being by her towering, nude protector put a special thrill in her that none of the lascivious princes of her novels had. It was a certain submissive delight of being carefully critiqued by a stern, yet paternally nurturing figure.

Mors stole a skeptical glance at her figure as if to answer: and yet your bosoms are entirely outlined, though he didn’t say as much, instead muttering, “It will serve. You will be warmer still when we get moving.”

Her eyes betrayed her when his great manhood twitched as he assessed her body. The pink engorged head of his shaft was pointed right at her lips, still crested with a bead of precum. He truly had been without the care of a woman in some time.

Involuntarily, her mouth opened a little as an intrusive thought of putting that big cockhead into her mouth and suckling upon the stream of seed crossed her mind. The vulgarity of the notion widened her eyes and closed her lips quickly.

The next thing she knew Mors’ huge hand was grasping her arm with intent and her gaze snapped to his stony eyes, she looked up to him full of a momentary rush of irrational guilt. She felt her nethers flex in anticipation under his glare.

“You will use no more magic,” he grunted with total finality. Unable to wash the docile look from her face, thick eyebrows raised and lip beginning to quiver, she nodded quickly as she fought for control of her composure. “These trackers will be eager for a scent of it.”

“Of course, sir,” she stated with more confidence than she felt. “You needn’t startle me so, to say as much.”

“Mmh,” he grunted, letting her go. “It is of some significant importance that you remember.”

“I shall,” she croaked in a smaller voice, finding it impossible to maintain eye contact with the steely gaze of his verdant green eyes.

She suddenly felt so small in the face of his conviction for her safety, as if his rigid sense of honour shamed her by association. The urge to offer a wholly unnecessary apology rose strongly in her, forming its shape on her mouth before she managed to fight it back. Her rational mind held her strong.

Through it all, she couldn’t ignore the great looming impression of his manhood, pointed almost accusingly at her. This man of great principle and sensibility had been affected with arousal for her over-developed body, and was no doubt frustrated for it.

In her state of muddled arousal, she felt herself begin to reach out to the huge shaft, as if to rub its giant length in some act of capitulatulation, but she managed to restrain herself, masking the movement by turning away and walking a few paces as her feelings threatened to overwhelm.

Her logical mind regrouped against the haze of desire to pick out the tree where their supplies had been stashed, and she quickly went to retrieve them.

He appeared to be smelling the breeze when she returned with his gear. This time she was able to keep her eyes off his body.

“Thank you,” He mumbled, returning to the present and beginning to step into his breeches before he hesitated with passing embarrassment. Tyfiyah recognised his dilemma the same time he did. Despite sporting a generous codpiece, his trousers could not house his erection. He needed to be soft to redress.

Tyfiyah felt paralysed with embarrassment of her own as her thumping heart begged for the obvious solution.

“I-” he began, his façade almost faltering. “I have become overstimulated. I must refocus,” he explained before dropping his clothes and heading back into the river, where he knelt in the frigid waters, eyes firmly closed.

He did not lose his hardness quickly. Tyfiyah was struck with the tenacity of his loins, refusing to surrender vigour in the face of a fertile female though submerged in near-freezing waters.

All the lusty men of her novels were quite desperate to chase their release inside the women they fell for. Frantic, even. These men of fiction dragged their quarry to bed and tore off their clothes to plunge inside them. All well and good in novels, but informed by desires that were all too real. Given that her own lust was challenging enough to contend with, she couldn’t imagine the needs hot-headed, burly men must endure, not least the northern wildmen who spent cold nights in a cruel forest, as far from the pleasures of the flesh as one could get.

She was wracked with sympathy as she imagined his discomfort. As his penis continued to remain erect, she was transfixed by it. She rubbed her legs together, unable to banish the image of Mors dreading his great manhood out of the icy steam to instead plunge it into her hot, aching, velvety depths, stretching the entrance open wide with his impressive girth to thrust deep into her womb, and rut to his heart’s content before releasing his passion somewhere more hospitable over and over again.

As the moments stretched on, Tyfiyah’s poetic mind ran away with itself.

He was larger than any of her own unrealistically proportioned toys, but he was still a man, and it was a man’s natural duty to his people to continue their legacy by making children. There wasn’t a thing wrong with his desires for her. As a fertile woman in his gentle, protective company, it was her own natural duty to spread her legs wide for him, welcoming the satisfaction of his innocent needs whenever they occurred to him, accepting the powerful thrusts of the large, dominant male who had saved her, tightening her loins around his huge shaft so that he could drain his overabundance of seed in the only place meant for it. Milking the great ram as only a well-proportioned woman like her could.

Her salacious daydreams were interrupted by the realisation that she had agreed to this inquest prior, in the river before her disguise had failed. He had already asked her to lay with him at camp, and so she would. she would give him all of herself to use as he wished, for as long as was required.

Just then, Mors burst out of the water, his great loins finally flaccid yet no smaller. After dressing briskly, he came striding over as if nothing had happened.

“Come, I will ferry you across the waters.”

Before Tyfiyah could say anything, she was being hoisted up into his huge arms, drawing a yelp of surprise. With her arms around his neck, her breasts were pushed together and facing up toward his face, partly pressing against his firm chest.

Held firm against the warmth of his bulk, with her tightly fitted bosoms not far from his face, she felt close to the confused intimacy he’d shared with her in the reeds.

At first, the shock and thrill of arousal was enough to squeeze her eyes shut, and surrendered to his grip, but upon remembering herself she tried to negotiate a more stoic stare, watching the far riverbank as if she were well used to massive, extraordinarily hung men dragging her around the wilderness, and there was nothing at all to be astonished about in it.

Mercifully, the charm that negated the weight of her breasts gave support to the soft orbs to prevent unnecessary jiggling. She avoided eye contact as she was placed back on her feet at the other end.

“Thank you, ser,” she stated neutrally.

---

Their quest through the trees felt far more professional than their incident at the river.

Ranging over hill and cliff-face was every bit the adventure, punctuated by the grasping of hands with her rugged chaperone as he pulled her up inclines and the occasional exchange of guidance.

By afternoon, they had entered quite uneven terrain, with more than a few climbs. Being unable to press close against the walls due to her protruding bust proved a challenge, but one that her modest strength could compensate for.

Mors stood below in the event she would fall, though with determination she never did. She was grinning as she scaled the latest escarpment.

“You would have done well enough without me,” he observed.

She was flattered by the praise despite knowing it was almost certainly an affectation Mors wouldn’t give a fellow clansman.

“Just so, ser. Though without such fine company,” she smiled from above.

Mors scaled the rocks in a fraction the time, rounding the edge as if hopping over a fence. His gruff exterior and lack of response seemed to all but confirm her theory. Taking initiative and eager with confidence, she led the way atop the cliff.

“Tell me, do you often rescue comely maidens in your travels?”

He followed close, perhaps anxious that she would put a foot wrong. She enjoyed his looming supervision.

“I have been party to forays into the business of compromised women in the past, though you are the first Haqari wizardess I have found in such regard,” he mumbled. “Brace the wall, where you can.”

She was about to make another witty remark when the sound of rocks tumbling stopped her short.

Mors reached to grab her waist with one hand as another closed hard over one of her great breasts, heaving in surprise. Clutching her to him, he shielded her beneath the mass of his hard muscle, pressing her body close to him.

Rocks tumbled over into the drop to their side, ultimately too widely to have hit them, but heavy enough to have made injury if they had.

Surrounded by the Mors’ scent, made heavier by the rough travel, while being entombed in the expanse of his protective form overwhelmed her. The unmistakable impression of his huge, thick member felt hot against her thigh, perhaps half-hardened from watching her climb.

When he released her, blinking, she was all out of sorts.

“Are you well?” he asked briskly, despite checking her over himself. She may’ve nodded because he went on. “I should not have reached for your chest.”

“That is the least of our worries,” she gasped.

“I was improper.”

“It certainly proved an effective way of getting a hold of me,” she smirked.

“You mock me,” he grumbled.

Tyfiyah had not been mocking him. Objectively her breasts were pronounced enough to make them inevitable points of purchase to anyone who needed to support her torso. If anything, she’d been glad to identify a practical application for her oversized breasts.

In her naïvete, she'd once though herself sculped by the devas, perfectly innocent of how such an expression of fertility could appeal to men.

She didn’t want her shyness to define her, least of all in any sexual context. Her body didn’t define her, and she loved it besides. She summoned whatever confidence she could.

“I have very large breasts, Ser Karrik,” she reminded him. “It shouldn’t surprise you that they happen to come into contact with things around me. If I were to suffer a fainting fit every time they brushed against a colleague, I would get nothing done.”

“I failed in my duty as a gentleman,” Mors stated. “It will not happen again.”

Tyfiyah felt a flush of frustration.

“It was a moment of instinct. You took initiative and your masculine mind recognised where it wanted to make contact most. Supporting my chest and my waist, you orientated me and protected me. The nature of my figure does not make that a shameful act,” she explained hotly. “Your grip did not even squeeze my bosom uncomfortably. In fact- well, you were upstanding given the circumstance I mean.”

Afraid of tripping over her words further, she silenced herself. She had allowed her subconscious to intrude upon her point. In truth, the large hands of a muscular, good-hearted man squeezing her huge breasts firmly had served as a cornerstone of her sexual fantasies. While pleasuring herself, her own hands could not encompass them like a Wildman’s could.

They continued their journey under a new pall of awkwardness.

---

It was dusk when they reached a hilltop Mors deemed appropriate for making camp.

Tyfiyah’s body was alive with excitement, but she was determined not to let it show as the two of them set about assembling a campsite.

She had fantasized about losing her virginity for years. Usually, a trusted friend reimagined to be greatly more endowed, sometimes a gruff stranger. Sometimes even a noble clansman of the North.

She’d broken her hymen, but taking a real man was completely different. The knowledge that she was mere moments away from having her maidenhead wrenched away from her by an overdeveloped, sex-starved man of the wilds put a tremble in her fingers.

They took their rations and lit a fire once it became too dark to spot the smoke.

When Mors left to fetch water, she summoned her courage. With all the evidence of the campsite, she felt it had become appropriate to break his rule about spells.

She laid out a charm that would keep her warm in the chill air and dismissed her clothes.

The immaculate deep bronze skin of her huge breasts sprang into the air out of the constraint of their bounds, and her breath quickened.

It felt slightly easier to be naked in the wild when magic protected her from the chill wind. With lust filling her mind, her tender nipples had hardened without the cold.

It took a lot out of her, as a girl of lifelong shyness, to pretend the Clans’ casual understanding of sex was entirely agreeable to her to the point of half-minded participation.

She would surprise him on his return, showing precious initiative. She may have been demure and submissive, but she didn’t want to seem like a useless mouse. She had a fire in her too. Just because Mors was bigger than her, didn’t mean there wasn’t power in her lust too.

She lay on her bedroll on her side, to exaggerate the size of her thighs, her pussy sitting above a perfect gap, and subtly let her breasts push together.

She kept fretting over her exact presentation as the moments slipped by while she waited, hoping to look as enticing as she could. She was no expert at making herself look sexy, having devoted much of her time and energy to achieving the opposite. With only her own impressions of herself in the mirror for guidance, she wasn’t exactly sure how a man saw her. Luckily, her natural proportions ought to have been able to do much of the work.

Mors didn’t keep her waiting long. Noticing her, he seemed to react as if sensing danger. His gaze hunted her curves with an urgency, and he almost dropped his waterskin.

“What are you doing?” he growled, working to resolve his composure.

Tyfiyah had been rehearsing her routine, and did a passable job of keeping her poise. “Waiting for you,” she stated with an expectant raise of her eyebrows.

His eyes looked severe, then he hesitated. For a moment, she was pleased to have disarmed him so completely, until his hesitation grew concerning.

He entered the camp, tearing his eyes away from her body. In the light of the fire, she could recognise the outline of his hardening shaft in his trousers clearly. “I cannot,” he stated firmly.

The icy rejection cut through her heart. “What?” she asked, suddenly full of vulnerability.

Meeting her gaze again, she could tell he was hurt too, though her own pain felt far more pressing.

“You are a Magi. When I deliver you into safety, my conduct with you will be called into question. They will fear I defiled you. Their divinations will determine if I took you for my pleasure.”

She was left stunned. “Then why present yourself to the Magi in Væringardt at all?”

“I will see you safely shepherded through the city.”

“Oh please,” she gasped.

“They will question how you ranged the woods so quickly,” he stated. “They will question what became of you. Their spells will out the truth they seek. I will state my involvement in this affair truthfully. If I don’t, divination will lead them to me, and I will appear guilty by my omissions.”

“That is ridiculous,” she concluded. Her frustration powered her conviction, as her rational mind recognized the truth in Mors' words.

The Haqari were a conquering army in these lands, and were suspicious of Northern peoples, none more so than the men of the clans, whose vaunted sexual virility stoked a white-hot anxiety into the hearts of the patriarchal figures of Haqar.

This, combined with the pronounced concerns around the purity of Magi bloodlines, and Tyfiyah’s unique position as a highly sought bride amount the bachelors of the circles, made good kindling for a scandal.

“I have said my peace,” he growled, turning away.

“Then I will fellate you,” she snapped, as her pretty face assumed a scowl, scarcely aware of how she would even attempt it. It would take opening her mouth all the way, and with the bulbous mushroom of his tip cramming her mouth she could hardly stroke his shaft with her lips.

“That will cause much the same upset.”

“Then my bosoms,” she suggested hotly. That at least would be easy to imagine, though she was sure the art of it eluded her. None of the amorous heroines of her novels had been half as endowed as she, but some of the more racy depictions she’d spotted in more scandalous erotica put the general idea into her mind.

With her breasts and Mors' manhood, they had ideal bodies for the act.

Mors sat on a nearby rock across the campfire from her, his body rigid. He had assumed an entirely new expression she couldn’t categorise, like he was in shock. He made a noise like he was trying to begin a sentence.

“I hope you can understand that I have not come to this conclusion easily.”

Tyfiyah tried to mask the wave of relief rippling through her chest, watching Mors stare at the floor like it had insulted him, almost paralyzed by his convictions.

She could only imagine the willpower it must have taken to refuse a woman of her proportions after Mors had gone without the pleasures of the flesh for so long. If their roles had been reversed, and it had been her honour at risk for making love with a man like Mors, she would not have been able to refuse him – even if she were to assume she cared for such things as much as Mors did.

A long silence descended over them, and Tyfiyah considered seriously whether she had the nerve to cross the campsite and initiate things herself. Her breathing was heavy as her lust refused to dissipate, heat from between her legs seeping through all her being.

She told herself it was her respect for Mors' honour that kept her from taking the leap, and not her frail nerve.

---

The remaining journey was tense, though the two of them remained polite with one another.

They saw no sign of their pursuers and made it to the city without serious incident.

With the heat of the moment gone, Tyfiyah was quietly upset with Mors. His overcaution hadn’t only robbed them of a night of pleasure, it may have poisoned the growing chemistry between them.

He had extinguished the spark that would light the flammable tension that had suffused between them.

With absolute certainty, Tyfiyah had already decided she would not allow this diplomatic contrivance to steal her chance to explore her sexuality with Mors.

The city guards, many of them Northmen themselves, thought nothing at all of Tyfiyah’s escort, though the tower that served as Væringardt’s bastion for the Magi circles, proved a very different experience.

As Mors had expected, the tower’s hierarchs were shocked by Mors' appearance, and did insist on certain tests to determine whether anything had occurred between the two of them.

Despite Tyfiyah’s incensed objections, Mors was treated like a criminal. He remained stone-faced and compliant throughout the ordeal. If the Magi had gotten their way, the two of them would have been stripped naked, separately, and their bodies exposed to any and every divination they had access to that might have led to a spurious conclusion.

Upon being found innocent, Mors was offered no apology, merely being dismissed from the tower.

Tyfiyah ignored the orders of her superiors in order to see him off.

Mors had not waited for her, already partway down the street. She rushed to grab his wrist, once again consumed by the strange, unfamiliar certainty of what she was doing.

“Where are you going?” she asked, desperation likely present in her wide eyes.

She could tell that Mors was seriously considering telling her nothing, as he searched her face with a dull gaze. Her heart fluttered as if on fire as the foremost desire of her life to day hung suspended in uncertainty.

“I will be staying at the Green Lord Inn in the eastern quarter,” he murmured.

With that he easily pulled her arm from her grip, and strode along his way, leaving Tyfiyah breathless in his wake.

She remained standing there for some time, frozen by the weight of feeling, and by the quandary of how she could best make her next move.