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The Apprentice’s Amazons (TG Story) - Chapter 1
🕑 Added 2025-09-17 01:43:57 +0000 UTCThe Apprentice’s Amazons (TG Story)
Korr and Dane were the north’s proudest brutes and barbarian warriors — cockswinging, scarred, stronger than any man alive. But when a witch who bent men’s wills with a whisper rose against them, their only hope was a filthy, forbidden ritual. They burned up their manhood, trading cock and pride for raw power, and rose again as towering Amazons: busty, muscled, dripping with strength the witch could not touch. They crushed her with their new bodies… but victory came at a price.
Day by day, their power seeped away — not into nothing, but into their apprentice, Leif. As he grew taller, harder, more manly with every sunrise, they shrank: muscles softening, voices sweetening, their proud dominance withering into need. By the end, the Iron Wolves of the north weren’t warriors at all, but hot, submissive women — blushing, breathless, and bound to the apprentice who had become the man they could never be again.
By the end, Korr and Dane weren’t warlords or Amazons anymore — just soft, needy women, too weak to even swing a sword. And Leif, the boy they once mocked as “soup-boy,” had become the man they now clung to, the one they called master… and eventually, their husband.
Link for the PDF File: https://drive.google.com/file/d/18EemA7ba-Z1Cjc6uPQago3rNJSF5OZxL/view?usp=drive_link
Part 1
The tavern of Frostmere Keep was alive that night, though to Leif it felt like the whole world had shrunk to its smoke-thick walls. The only sounds that could be heard were drunken song and the clatter of mugs, voices booming and breaking like waves against the timbered roof. The air reeked of sweat, smoke, and sour ale.
At the center of it all sat Korr and Dane.
Leif thought of them as forces of nature rather than men. Korr, dark and brooding, his chest bare and matted with hair, each scar etched across it like a rune carved by the gods. He sat with a keg balanced on one thick arm, muscles swelling as he tipped it to his lips. The crowd roared when he drained it in a single pull, foam streaming down his beard.
Beside him was Dane, as bright and thunderous as Korr was grim. His golden mane caught the firelight, his laughter shaking the rafters above. He seized two hecklers by the scruff, lifting them off their feet with one massive arm until they flailed helplessly. He dropped them back down, flexing until his veins corded thick across his shoulders, and the crowd erupted again.
Leif sat between them, smaller by leagues, nursing a single mug of ale. He drank slowly, trying to look as though he belonged, but in truth he felt like a pup crouched between wolves. He could not stop watching the ripple of their muscles, the ease with which they commanded the room without even trying. Every scar Korr bore seemed to tell a story Leif had never heard, every booming laugh from Dane reminded him that men followed not just their swords, but their presence.
The tavern adored them. Women leaned closer, drawn like moths to the fire. Men pounded the tables, chanting their names.
Leif sat silent, cheeks warm, heart thudding. He wanted to be like them. He wanted to carry himself with that same unshakable certainty, to have scars to prove his worth. But for now, he was only Leif, a boy among legends.
I had heard the names Korr and Dane long before I ever saw them with my own eyes. In Frostmere, their stories were told the way old men tell of storms, or avalanches, or gods walking the earth.
Korr, the Iron Mountain — the man who stood alone against a dozen raiders at the Red Ford, his axe breaking bones until the river ran black. They said he did not yield an inch, not even when his shield was shattered and his ribs were broken. His scars proved it: pale streaks running across the hairy breadth of his chest like lightning carved into stone.
And Dane, the Golden Storm — who laughed in the face of giants and charged into battle bare-chested with nothing but a spear. They said his roar alone sent men fleeing, and that his laughter carried over fields of blood louder than war-drums. He still laughed the same way now, shaking the rafters as if the world itself were his to mock.
I grew up with those tales. To me, they were not men but myths, bigger than the mountains around Frostmere. I used to sit by the fire and imagine what it would be like to see them with my own eyes — and now, impossibly, I trained beneath them.
Their apprentice.
It still felt strange to think of it. To rise each morning at Korr’s bark, to feel Dane’s hand shove me into the mud when my stance faltered, to eat at their fire. I had thought becoming their apprentice would make me into a man overnight. Yet sitting there, with my skinny arms and unscarred face, I felt no closer to them than I had as a boy listening to their stories.
They were legends. And I was Leif.
I sometimes laugh at how absurd it was, the way I came to stand at their side. Men bled for the chance to follow Korr and Dane. Whole warbands would duel for the honor of marching behind them. And me? I became their apprentice because I spilled soup on Dane’s boots.
I was smaller then — not that I’m much bigger now — just a skinny lad in Frostmere’s hall. My job was simple: run errands, fetch mugs, carry pots of stew for men three times my size. That night, the Iron Wolves had returned from some bloody campaign, and the hall was swelling with warriors and song.
Dane made his entrance like a thunderclap. He shoved the doors wide and strode into the hall bare-chested, hair wild, beard gleaming with frost. His laughter hit me before his shadow did, booming through the rafters like he owned the place. And in a way, he did.
I remember staring like every other boy, so distracted I tripped over my own feet. The pot of stew went flying, splashing all over his boots and dripping down his legs.
The hall went silent. So silent I could hear the stew hissing as it hit the firepit. Men stared, jaws slack, waiting to see me flayed alive.
Dane looked down, slow, his golden brows arched. His voice rolled out like distant thunder:
“Did this pup just piss stew on me?”
My mouth went dry. I stammered, tried to kneel, but my legs shook so hard I nearly toppled again. Before I could squeak out an apology, Dane bent, caught me by the collar, and hauled me into the air. His fist could’ve crushed my skull like an egg.
Instead, he threw his head back and roared with laughter. Not a cruel laugh, but one that shook the entire hall until even the rafters seemed to join in.
“Look at him!” he bellowed, holding me up like a prize catch. “Clumsy, soft-cheeked, scrawny as a twig — and bold enough to scald me with soup! By the gods, I like him. He’ll do.”
The hall erupted, half in laughter, half in disbelief.
Korr sat in the shadows, as he always did. He leaned forward then, his face lit by the fire, scars catching the glow. His eyes were dark as embers, and when he spoke, the hall went still again.
“Then he’s yours to break.”
And just like that, my fate was sealed. No ceremony, no choice. One moment I was a boy cleaning stew off the floor, the next I was sworn to the two greatest warriors the north had ever seen.
Sometimes I think they keep me around just for their amusement — the “soup boy,” their little jester in training, a scrawny lad to laugh at when the nights grow dull. Every time Dane cuffs me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth, every time Korr growls at me for tripping over my own blade, I wonder if that’s all I am to them: a fool plucked from the floor of Frostmere’s hall.
But then there are moments — small ones, easy to miss — when I think it might be something else. When Korr corrects my stance for the third time in a row, silent and patient, like he believes one day I’ll hold my ground as he does. When Dane throws me into the mud and then offers a hand, grinning, telling me I’m tougher than I look. When they call me to sit at their fire, even if I’ve earned no place there, and pass me meat from the spit before the rest.
Other times… other times I wonder if they see something I don’t. Some flicker of iron I can’t feel in myself yet. Some spark they’re waiting to fan into flame. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll always just be the soup boy in their eyes. But sometimes, when I catch them watching me in that measuring way, I almost dare to hope they see a warrior.
And sitting there between ’em, gods, it’s hard not to feel like some twig of a boy. My arms? Thin as kindling. I can swing a blade, sure, but next to them? I look like I’m holding sticks while they’re hefting trees.
Dane’s arms are just… ridiculous. Every time he lifts his mug or slams a man onto the table, his biceps bulge up like whole damn boulders, veins crawling across ’em like roots. Korr’s no better — forearms thick as butchered hams, hairy and scarred, like he’s been carved out of stone and left to bake in the sun.
And those chests. Mine’s flat, smooth, no hair, no scars — nothing. Just skin. Theirs? Gods, you could land a feast on Dane’s pecs alone. Broad slabs of muscle that rise and fall with every booming laugh, golden hair curling across them, catching the firelight like he was born to glow. Korr’s chest is darker, hair thick and coarse, scars slashing across him like someone took a knife to a map. Both of ’em look like walking walls.
Then there’s their stomachs — I don’t even know where to start. My belly’s just… there. Firm, maybe, but nothing to brag about. Theirs? Ridges. Deep, cut-up abs, like bricks stacked under their skin. Every time they shift, the firelight catches the grooves, and it looks like their guts are carved out of stone.
And me? Smooth-faced, no beard, no scars, no nothing. I look like I should still be running errands in the hall instead of drinking beside two living war-gods.
And here’s the truth of it: yeah, it eats at me. Makes me feel small. But hells if I don’t sit there staring anyway, caught between envy and awe. Half the time I’m cursing myself for not measuring up, the other half I’m just… wondering if I’ll ever get close.
Dane slammed his mug down, foam spraying across the table.
“Ha! You should’ve seen the bastard’s face when my spear went clean through his chest. Thought he was a giant, but he squealed like a hog with its balls in a snare!”
The crowd roared, pounding the tables.
Korr snorted, voice low and gravelly. “Aye, and if I hadn’t held the shield wall, you’d have been flattened before you got close. Man forgets his head’s only good for laughing.”
“Bah!” Dane waved him off, grinning wide. “Your wall was full o’ holes. I just filled one o’ them with my spear, that’s all!”
More laughter. Someone shouted, “Tell us of the Red Ford!”
Korr leaned forward, scars shifting across his chest in the firelight. His eyes narrowed, voice carrying like a growl through the smoke.
“Red Ford… aye. Twelve men came at me, shields high, axes low. Thought they had me cornered. I broke the first one’s jaw with my shield. Took his axe. Snapped it on the second. The rest? They bled into the river till the water ran dark as pitch.”
The tavern erupted again, men slamming mugs together, women sighing at the edge of the firelight. Dane threw back his head and bellowed.
“Bah, he leaves out the best part! Korr was so covered in blood, one o’ the lads swore he’d grown another beard. Tried to wash it off and near drowned the river clean!”
The laughter shook the beams. Leif sat in the middle of it, small and silent, heart thudding. He’d heard these stories before — but hearing them from their own mouths, seeing the way the fire made their muscles swell as they told them, was something else entirely.
Korr caught him staring and smirked, scarred lip curling. “What’re you gawking at, pup? You’ll have your own tale one day… if you don’t trip over your own boots first.”
Dane clapped Leif on the back so hard it rattled his teeth. “Aye, give him time! We’ll make a man of him yet. Maybe even a better one than us — if he don’t spill stew on his foes first!”
The hall howled with laughter again, and Leif flushed hot, sinking deeper into his seat.
The hall was still laughing at Dane’s stew joke when Leif ducked his head, cheeks burning, trying to shrink into the bench. He wished the floorboards would swallow him whole.
Korr caught the look, one eyebrow lifting. He leaned back, muscles shifting like stone, and said loud enough for half the hall to hear:
“Careful, Dane. Keep mocking the pup and he’ll show you up again.”
Dane barked a laugh. “Show me up? This wisp of a lad?”
Korr smirked, scarred lip curling. “Aye. Tell ’em, boy. Or shall I?”
Leif’s throat went dry. He tried to shake his head, but Dane was already grinning wide, slamming a fist to the table.
“Ha! You mean the day he near brained me with that practice spear? Aye, I remember. Thought I’d teach him a lesson, knocked him flat on his arse. He comes up wild-eyed, flailing like a drunk bear, and — crack! Right across my jaw.”
He rubbed the spot as if it still ached, though the hall knew he was only playing. The crowd burst into laughter again.
Korr rumbled, voice low but steady. “Didn’t drop the spear, either. Most lads would’ve run crying to their mothers. Not him. Stood his ground.”
Dane nodded, wagging a finger at Leif, his grin wide as the moon. “Aye, and that’s why we keep him. Skinny, clumsy, soft-faced — but stubborn as a mule. Can’t beat that out of him. Might even be the making of him.”
A few men chuckled, some even raised their mugs toward Leif. He sat frozen, heat crawling up his neck, torn between shame and a tiny spark of pride.
Korr leaned in close enough that only he could hear. His voice was a growl, but softer than usual.
“Hold onto that, pup. Stubborn keeps men alive.”
Dane noticed the way Leif hunched in the corner of the bench, clutching his mug like it might shield him. He slammed a hand down, making the table quake.
“Oi! Pup! What’re you doing skulking back there? You’re ours, aren’t you? Then sit with us, not like some whimpering stable boy.”
The men around them cheered at that, banging their mugs in rhythm. Korr jerked his chin toward the gap between them, his scarred chest rising and falling like a mountain shifting.
“You heard him. Come. If you’re our apprentice, then you sit with men, not behind them.”
Leif froze, heart hammering. Every eye in the tavern seemed to find him at once. Slowly, awkwardly, he rose and stepped toward the center. The crowd whistled and jeered good-naturedly, some clapping him on the back as he passed.
He wore the same as his masters — nothing more than rough-cut shorts, laced tight at the waist, and heavy boots caked with dust from the yard. But where Korr and Dane’s near-nakedness flaunted proud slabs of muscle, Leif’s only revealed how unimpressive he truly was. His chest was flat, smooth, his belly taut but without the ridged hardness of their carved abs. His arms were lean, corded with a little wiry strength, but nothing close to the thick, veined biceps bulging on either side of him as he sat down.
The heat of their bodies pressed close, the scent of sweat, smoke, and ale overwhelming. Dane threw an arm across his shoulders, nearly knocking the breath out of him, while Korr grunted and shoved a full mug into his hand.
“There,” Dane bellowed, grinning wide for the crowd. “Now he looks like one of us!”
The tavern roared its approval, mugs clashing, firelight flashing across scarred torsos and shining sweat. Leif tried to grin, tried to look like he belonged, but his face burned hot, his skin prickled, and sitting bare between two living legends, he had never felt smaller.
Dane leaned close, his golden beard brushing Leif’s ear.
“Tell me, pup… do you know what all these lasses want?”
Leif blinked, red climbing his cheeks. “I—I… uh…”
Korr chuckled, low and gravelly. “He’s choking on his own tongue already.”
The women at the edges of the firelight giggled. Dane grinned wider and clapped Leif on the back, nearly spilling his ale.
“Don’t fret, boy. That’s why you’ve got us. We’ll teach you how it’s done.”
Before Leif could stammer another word, Dane stood with a roar, dragging Korr up with him. The tavern hushed, expectant.
“Lesson one!” Dane bellowed, flexing his arms out wide, biceps bulging like great stones. The crowd erupted, women gasping as his chest rose, golden hair curling over his massive pecs.
Korr followed, slower, scarred and broad, rolling his shoulders as he spread his stance. He flexed, abs tightening into ridged slabs, veins standing thick across his forearms. His lip curled in a scarred smirk.
“Stand tall. Show ’em what you’ve got. That’s all it takes.”
The women leaned closer, drawn by firelight gleaming on muscle, by the sheer presence of them. Men whistled and cheered, pounding the tables.
Leif sat there, red as the fire, stammering uselessly.
“I—uh—w-wait, I can’t—”
Dane pointed at him, grin wide as the hall.
“See? He’s got spirit. We’ll hammer the rest into him. One day, he’ll flex and the lasses’ll swoon just the same.”
Korr’s eyes glinted as he sat back down, rumbling low.
“If he doesn’t die of shame first.”
The hall burst into laughter, mugs clashing, women laughing softly behind their hands. And Leif — caught between mortification and a strange flicker of pride — could only bury his face in his mug and pray no one noticed how hard his heart was beating.
Dane bellowed for another mug, but instead of drinking it, he set it on the table and flexed his chest, pecs bunching and rising, then bouncing one after the other. The hall howled. Women gasped, some covering their mouths, others leaning forward with hungry eyes.
Korr stood beside him, slower but no less imposing. He rolled his shoulders, arms bulging like coiled stone, then tightened his core until his abs stood out like slabs of carved rock. The firelight traced every ridge, every scar, until the whole tavern seemed to glow with their bodies alone.
“Go on, then,” Dane boomed, throwing his arms wide. “Who wants to see what real men feel like?”
The answer came in a rush — women spilling forward from the benches, laughing, squealing, half-drunk on ale and desire. One dark-haired girl pressed herself to Dane’s side, hands sliding across his chest as if testing if it were truly flesh and not iron. Another clung to his arm, giggling as her fingers failed to encircle the thickness of it.
Korr smirked as two bold women reached for him. One traced the scars across his abs with trembling fingers, the other pressed her palm against his broad chest, sighing as though the heat of him could melt her. He didn’t laugh like Dane, but he lowered his arms to pull them close, his embrace heavy and possessive, their faces buried against the coarse hair of his chest.
Leif sat frozen, staring as the women pressed and pawed at their masters, their voices rising in eager pleas. “Gods, look at them—” “So strong—” “Let me touch—just once!”
The two warriors obliged without shame, grinning as hands slid across muscle, as lips brushed their shoulders, as the hall roared and clapped in rhythm.
Between them, Leif’s skin burned hotter than the fire, his chest tight. He didn’t know if it was envy, admiration, or something stranger. All he knew was that the gap between his smooth, lean frame and theirs had never felt wider.
Dane roared with laughter as two women clung to his arms, giggling, their fingers sliding across his veined biceps. “Bah! Just two? I can carry half the hall if I wished!”
Before anyone could answer, he bent, scooping one woman up into each arm as if they weighed no more than mugs of ale. He flexed as he lifted them high, their skirts falling as they squealed with delight. His chest swelled, pecs tightening into great slabs that bounced as he shifted, his abs standing out like carved stone under the firelight.
The tavern shook with applause and whistles. The women in his arms clung to him tighter, one kissing his shoulder, the other pawing at his chest, both moaning with laughter as he spun them in a slow circle to show the crowd.
Not to be outdone, Korr smirked through his dark beard. He let the two women at his side climb onto his arms, gripping his shoulders. With a grunt that was more for show than effort, he lifted both at once, arms bulging, cords of muscle standing out like ropes. His torso tightened, abs ridged and proud as the fire cast shadows between each groove.
The women squealed, clinging to him as though afraid to fall, their hands roaming across his scarred chest and hairy pecs. One pressed her face against him, the other tracing his scars like holy marks. Korr only rumbled low, pulling them closer against his body, his smirk carved in iron.
The crowd went wild — men cheering, women calling their names, the rafters shaking with the noise.
And there I sat, Leif, wedged between them, staring as they held women aloft like trophies, their muscles gleaming in the firelight, every scar a story, every flex a reminder that they were more than men — they were legends. My stomach knotted with envy, admiration, and something I didn’t dare name.
Gods, I hated how much it made me ache inside. Sitting there, wedged between them, watching them grin and flex while women pawed at their arms, their chests, their abs. Watching the way the tavern shouted their names like prayers.
And I couldn’t stop thinking: what if that were me?
What if I wasn’t some skinny pup hiding behind their shadows? What if I stood tall as they did, my body stretching up and out, bones thickening, shoulders broad enough to blot out the firelight?
I pictured my chest swelling into great heavy slabs of muscle, pecs round and thick, bouncing with every laugh, every flex. Not flat, boyish skin like mine now — but real muscle, dense and hairy, heavy enough that women would moan just to press their faces into it.
I imagined my belly tightening into deep, cut bricks of abs, each one standing out sharp and solid, slick with sweat under firelight. Women’s fingers tracing every ridge, nails scraping down as they gasped at how hard I was.
And arms — gods, arms like theirs. Biceps bulging like boulders, veins crawling like snakes across the skin, forearms thick as hams, so strong I could lift barrels, men, women — hell, whole tables — with barely a grunt. I’d flex and the whole tavern would roar, begging me to show more.
And I thought of what hung between their legs — swinging heavy, proud, like another mark of their manhood. I thought of mine swelling to match, thick and long, jutting out with the same effortless confidence. The kind of cock women whispered about, the kind they’d fight each other to ride. What would it be like, standing there naked but for boots and pride, with my cock hanging huge, the whole tavern staring, lasses drooling, begging to touch, to taste, to worship?
My face burned hotter than the fire just imagining it. Women pressing their palms to my chest, moaning into my abs, kissing down my body until they reached that throbbing proof of manhood. Me grinning like Dane, smirking like Korr, knowing I wasn’t a boy anymore but a goddamn man — a legend, carved in flesh, cock, and muscle.
Gods, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The way they flexed, the way women pawed at them like starving wolves, it twisted something in my gut until I could barely sit still. Envy, yes — but more than that. I wanted it. Wanted it so bad my skin prickled.
I pictured myself there, not the skinny lad I was, but taller, broader, shoulders stretching wide enough to block the firelight. My chest would swell into thick, heavy slabs of pecs, bouncing with every laugh, every flex. My stomach would ripple into a deep-cut wall of abs, slick with sweat, hard as stone when women pressed their hands to me. My arms would bulge huge and veined, thick as oaks, strong enough to lift two, three women without a grunt.
And gods, the women—oh, I imagined them swarming me. Gasping as their fingers traced down my chest, moaning as they kissed my abs, sliding lower with hungry eyes. Their hands squeezing my thighs, their nails digging in as they fought to get closer.
I imagined the heat between my legs, my cock thick and proud, jutting out like a trophy of manhood. Bigger, heavier, harder than I’d ever dared to dream. Women would drool just to see it, whisper my name as they wrapped trembling fingers around me, beg to feel me inside them. One straddling my lap, grinding down on me, another licking sweat from my chest, another kissing the length of me until I roared.
The tavern would cheer my name, not theirs. Every eye on me. Every woman aching for me. Me, not Korr, not Dane. Me, Leif — the one they’d called soup-boy, weak, skinny, nothing. I’d be the one sitting like a god of flesh and cock, my body worshipped like an altar.
And the thought of it made my skin burn, my breath catch, my cock stir alive in my shorts.
Gods, I could fucking feel it.
My body swelling, cracking, tearing bigger with every breath. Shoulders wide as the hall beams, chest jutting out into two thick slabs of meat, pecs bouncing heavy, begging for hands and mouths. Arms like tree trunks, veins bulging, abs cut into a wall of stone you could rake claws across. Every flex made me feel like a beast that couldn’t be stopped — nothing but muscle, cock, and hunger.
And the women — fuck, they swarmed me. Crawling up my sides, nails dragging down my chest, squealing like they’d been starving and I was the feast. One straddled my hips, grinding down hard, tits smashing against my chest, breath hot and filthy in my ear. Another kissed down my abs, moaning into every groove like the cuts in my stomach were made for her mouth.
And my cock — gods, it was obscene. Heavy, thick, slapping against my thigh with every twitch, swollen so hard it looked ready to split in two. Their eyes went wide, lips wet, some of them gasping, others giggling like drunk sluts. One hit her knees without a word, drooling down her chin as she wrapped her lips around me. Another hiked her skirt up and rubbed herself raw against my thigh, soaking me, whining like a bitch in heat.
They begged. They worshipped. Hands pawing every inch of me, tongues lapping sweat off my chest, teeth biting my arms just to taste me. I grabbed hips like they were nothing, lifting women screaming and slick, dropping them down on my cock, grinding them deep till they howled. One rode me wild, another clawed at my back for her turn, another rubbed her soaked pussy against my abs, smearing herself all over me while she moaned.
The whole world was hot flesh and dripping cunt, voices crying out my name like it was the only word they knew. Nails tore into my skin, teeth sank into my muscles, mouths sucked me raw while others grinded on me, greedy and desperate.
I wasn’t Leif anymore. I was a monster of cock and muscle, dripping sweat, built to fuck, built to conquer. A god made of meat, and they were my worshipers — moaning, gagging, crying, dripping, all for me.
The tavern was gone. No fire, no tables, no song. Just the slap of bodies, the rhythm of fucking, the stench of sweat and pussy filling my lungs. Women begging louder, crying harder, voices breaking as they screamed my name.
And then—
“Oi. Pup.”
The word smacked me out of my head like a slap. The fire, the women, the heat in my guts — gone. All that was left was the stink of ale and smoke, the hall roaring, my face red as embers.
Korr was staring at me. Not laughing like Dane would, not even smirking — just that hard, scarred stare that felt like he could see straight through me.
“You keep dreamin’ about bein’ a big man, don’t you?” he said, voice low but rough enough to cut through the tavern noise. He flexed his arms wide, two women hanging off him like cloaks, giggling, their fingers running over the scars on his chest. His pecs bunched up like stone slabs, abs ridging hard as he pulled them both in close.
“This is what it’s about,” he grunted. “Not just swingin’ steel, not just drinkin’ harder than the rest, not just showin’ off. Bein’ big means your arms are strong enough to hold folk safe. Your chest, your belly — not just muscle for show. Walls. Shields. Somethin’ women can cling to and know nothin’’s gonna touch ’em.”
The lasses melted against him like butter on fire, nuzzling into his chest hair, hands roaming across his muscles like they belonged there. The crowd howled, cheering him on, but his eyes stayed locked on me.
My mouth went dry. I tried to nod, tried not to look like a fool, but my neck burned hot and I knew damn well everyone could see it.
Before I could get a word out, Dane’s booming laugh split the air. He shoved his golden mane back and slapped the table so hard mugs bounced.
“Ha! Listen to Korr growlin’ like some priest! ‘Arms like walls, chest like a shield’—aye, aye, he’s right, pup. But don’t let him fool ya. Being a big man ain’t all about standin’ still and lettin’ folk cling to you!”
The hall roared, already half-drunk on his voice. Dane stood up, women still draped over him, and flexed both arms till his biceps bulged thick and veined. “It’s about makin’ the hall shake when you laugh, makin’ the lasses squeal when you pick ’em up!”
And just to prove it, he grabbed two more women by the waist, stacking them into his arms with the others, until he looked like some wild god of muscle draped in giggling flesh. He bounced his pecs, one then the other, while the women shrieked with laughter and pawed at him.
“See this, Leif?” he bellowed over the noise, grinning wide. “This is what wins hearts! You make yourself so bloody strong, so bloody loud, so bloody big that the world can’t look away! Flex, laugh, drink, fight — and let the women climb you like a tree till they can’t get enough!”
The tavern erupted, mugs slamming, men whistling, women squealing louder as Dane spun in a half-circle, showing off his living trophies.
Dane sprawled back onto the bench, women draped over him like cloaks, their laughter muffled against his chest as they pawed at his pecs. He turned his head toward me, grin wide and shameless.
“Oi, pup. Don’t think you’ll sit red-faced forever. One day, they’ll be crawling all over you the way they do us. You’ll have lasses clawing at your arms, lips wrapped round your chest, riding your thighs till their cunts drip down your legs. You’ll lift ’em up high, slam ’em down on the table, and fuck ’em so hard the rafters quake. That’s what a big man gets — and gods, you’ll get it too.”
The hall erupted in drunken cheers. A woman on Dane’s shoulder squealed and buried her face in his golden beard; another licked sweat from the ridge of his abs like she was proving his words true.
Korr, silent until then, shifted beside him. He pulled the two women at his side closer, his scarred arms curling tight around them. Their hands roamed his body, one tracing the hard line of his abs, the other kissing a pale scar that crossed his hairy chest. He looked at me with that heavy, unblinking stare and spoke low, but filthier than I’d ever heard.
“Aye. Listen to him, Leif. One day, they’ll cling to you like this. Hot and wet, grinding against your cock till you can feel their juice soaking through your boots. They’ll whine for you to take ’em harder, scratch your back till it bleeds, moan your name till the whole damn hall knows you’ve made ’em yours. That’s what it means to be big. Not just to swing steel, but to be the one every cunt in the room is begging for.”
The women in his arms giggled at his filth, their cheeks pressed to his chest hair, one sliding her palm down his abs with a greedy little sigh. The tavern howled, some men pounding the table, others whistling loud enough to pierce the roof beams.
I sat frozen. My face burned hotter than the fire, my cock straining hard against the thin shorts I wore. Their words hammered into me like blows — too raw, too filthy, too close to the very thoughts I’d been drowning in moments before.
Gods, I wanted to believe them. I wanted to see myself bigger, broader, with my chest puffed like theirs, my abs cut deep and slick with sweat, my cock thick and heavy, proud enough to draw women like moths to a flame. I wanted to feel their mouths on me, their fingers digging into my muscles, their wetness soaking me as they begged for more.
But then I looked down at myself — pale, lean, wiry arms that barely filled a sleeve, a chest flat as a plank, skin smooth where theirs was furred and scarred. No women draped across me, no hands clutching, no lips begging. Just me, Leif, sitting awkward and hard-cocked between two living legends who had everything I wanted.
And I wondered — would I ever come close? Or would I always just sit in their shadow, aching for what they had, drowning in the stink of sweat, ale, and lust that would never belong to me?
The tavern was still roaring, women hanging off Dane’s arms while he bounced his chest like it was a damn game. Ale sloshed, men cheered, the whole hall alive. I sat there between them, face hot, heart thudding so loud I swore someone would hear it.
Korr dragged a laughing girl tighter against his chest, smirk tugging at his scarred lip. He glanced at me, eyes heavy, and spoke low through the noise.
“Enjoy it while it lasts, pup. You never know where the girls’ll come from… or what trouble they’ll drag in with ’em.”
To be continued...
