The chamber smelled of leather and sweat. Ragnarath, a mountain of corded muscle and noble bearing, stood with his back to the door, peeling his tunic over his head. The tapestry of scars across his broad shoulders told silent tales of glory. Veritas, his maid, froze in the doorway, a pile of linens forgotten in her arms. Her gaze locked onto the powerful curve of his ass, barely contained by his rough-spun trousers.

He turned, and her breath hitched. A thatch of dark hair led down to the formidable bulge straining his laces. "Veritas," he rumbled, no surprise in his voice, only a low heat.

She dropped the linens. "My lord," she whispered, her voice already thick. She crossed the room, her fingers trembling as she went to her knees before him. The scent of him—pure, primal male—made her head swim. Her own panties were instantly drenched, her cunt throbbing with a desperate, slick pulse.

With shaking hands, she unlaced his trousers. His massive cock sprang free, thick and heavy, a veined pillar of flesh that made her mouth water. The head was a ruddy, swollen crown, already beading with pre-cum. It wasn't just long; the girth was obscene, a challenge she ached to conquer.

"No teasing," Ragnarath commanded, his hand tangling in her hair. "Take it all."

Veritas opened her mouth, her lips stretching painfully wide as she engulfed the head. Salty pre-cum hit her tongue. She pushed forward, her throat conv