#centaur world

The sun bore down on the fields with a lazy, golden heat, thick and drowsy in the high noon air. The garden was alive with the buzz of insects and the rustle of wind through corn stalks, but you were barely aware of anything outside the soil beneath your knees and the sweat dampening your shirt.

Your hands moved through the earth, dirt under your nails as you weeded around the squash vines, bending low, arse high—trying to ignore the prickling awareness at the back of your neck.

You weren’t alone.

He’d been watching you since you arrived that morning. You could feel him, every time you bent over, every time you stretched and your shirt rode up to expose the curve of your back. Every time you shifted your weight on your knees and your thighs squeezed together, you knew he was there.

Christos.

The minotaur was a massive presence on the farm, both in size and silence. A towering, broad-shouldered beast of a man, all muscle and sweat and deep, gravel-thick breathing. You’d barely exchanged more than a few words since arriving last week, but his eyes—dark, amber-ringed and burning—said far more than words ever could.

You hadn't meant to tease. Not really. But you weren't blind either. You’d caught him watching. Yesterday. The day before that. His gaze glued to your body as you worked, slow and heavy like a hand on your skin.

And now?

Now you didn’t dare look over your shoulder. Because if you did, you knew you'd find him there—leaning against the fence post or standing in the shadow of the barn, stroking himself.

Your breath caught.

The garden felt too quiet. Too still. The hairs on your arms lifted.

You shifted—deliberate, slow—and reached to pull another weed. The denim of your overalls tugged tight over your arse as you arched. The silence cracked behind you.

A low grunt.

Oh gods.

You bit your lip.

You still didn’t look back. Couldn’t. But in your mind’s eye you saw him: hand wrapped around that thick, heavy cock, dark and monstrous, stroking it slow, watching you like a starving animal.

You let your weight shift again, thighs spreading slightly as you reached deeper into the garden bed. You felt your breath hitch when you heard it again—another grunt, heavier this time. And then a wet sound—rhythmic. Hard.

Your pulse thudded in your ears.

He's touching himself.

Your core pulsed. You squeezed your thighs together, and you hated how wet you already were. You should have told him to stop. You should have got up, acted innocent, walked away.

But instead…

You stayed on your knees.

Bent over.

Offering him the view.

Your body was trembling, just barely. Not from fear—but anticipation. Heat. You felt slick between your legs, your breath shallow, your heart racing. You had never been watched like this before. Never wanted to be watched like this.

You heard a growl. Deep. Animal. That sound twisted through you like lightning.

And then—

Footsteps. Heavy. Slow.

Your breath caught, and before you could move, he was there.

You could feel the shadow fall over your back. The heat radiating off him. His breath, laboured, panting like a bull ready to charge.

He knelt behind you.

Massive hands planted on the dirt beside your hips. His fingers were thick, rough, stained with earth and work, but the way they trembled… that was for you.

You finally turned your head, heart in your throat.

Christos was devouring you with his eyes.

“I told myself I’d wait,” he rumbled. His voice was low, gravelly. Like thunder. “Told myself you were too sweet for this. Too soft. That I’d scare you off.”

You swallowed, lips parted, eyes wide.

His hand came up, brushing the side of your hip. “But then you come out here… bending over… showing me this tight little arse…” His voice broke into a growl. “And you know I’m watching.”

You nodded, just once. Barely.

His hand curled tighter.

“You been teasing me, girl?”

You breathed, “Maybe.”

He snarled.

And then you felt it—him—pressing hard and hot between your thighs, still clothed but unmistakable. You gasped, your body reacting before your mind caught up, arching into him, seeking more.

“You want it rough?” he breathed into your ear, voice vibrating through your spine. “Want me to take what you’ve been offering all damn week?”

You whimpered. “Yes.”

That was all he needed.

He gripped the back of your overalls and yanked, ripping them open at the seams. You gasped as the denim tore, baring your arse to the warm air—and to him. His breath hitched. You could feel him looking, dragging those eyes down your bare thighs, your soaked knickers.

“So wet already,” he growled, almost reverently. “Look at you…”

He slid one massive finger between your legs, dragging it along the fabric—pressing, circling, teasing.

You cried out, hips jerking.

“You want me to touch you here?” he murmured. “Want these big fingers stretching your little cunt?”

“Please…”

The fabric disappeared—ripped away. And then his fingers were there—bare skin on bare skin—and you moaned, loud and unashamed. He growled, watching you twitch under his touch, watching your slick coat his fingers as he dragged them through your folds, spreading you open.

“Fuck…” he groaned, half to himself. “You were made for this…”

You pushed back against him, needing more.

He gave it.

One thick finger slid into you, slow and relentless. Then another. Stretching you, filling you.

You were gasping, writhing, moaning into the dirt as he worked you open. Worshipful, like he was savouring every sound, every clench of your body.

And all the while, his hips ground against your arse, his cock still trapped behind thick denim, throbbing and impatient.

“Need to fuck you,” he growled. “Need to claim you.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes—please—”

The sound of his belt unbuckling was like a thunderclap.

You braced yourself.

And then—

He filled you in one brutal, delicious thrust.

You screamed, your fingers digging into the soil as he split you open, wide and deep and perfect.

He didn’t move at first—just stayed there, buried to the hilt, panting behind you, his breath hot against your back.

“You feel that?” he growled, hips grinding. “Feel how tight you are around me? How perfect?”

You nodded, tears at the corners of your eyes. “So full…”

“Damn right you are,” he growled. “And I ain’t stopping till I fuck every last moan outta you.”

And gods, he meant it.

He started to move—deep, punishing strokes that rocked your entire body, his hands gripping your hips like he never wanted to let go. You were sobbing his name, crying out with every thrust, lost to the rhythm of it, the heat, the filth of being taken like this in the dirt, bent over and filled by a monster who worshipped every inch of you.

“Look at you,” he growled, leaning over you, voice thick and desperate. “Taking me so good. So fuckin’ good, girl—”

His hand slipped under your belly, found your clit, rubbed you in tight, merciless circles as he fucked you harder. You shattered, body convulsing around him, gasping out a broken moan that made his hips stutter.

And then he roared—low and guttural—and came inside you, thick spurts that made your already full body tremble with aftershock.

You both collapsed forward—him panting over your back, still buried deep, you twitching, boneless, in the soil.

Silence.

Except for the wind. The bees.

And the slow, wet slide of him pulling out of you.

His hand stroked down your back, gentler now. Worshipful. Reverent.

“You alright, little thing?” he murmured.

You nodded weakly, letting out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. I think I’ll like working the garden.”