Chapter 451: Golden Horseshoes

If was the morning of the next day and Sigrid strode through the sunlit pathway toward the training fields.

She held her head high, as befitting a Commander of the Galloping Brigade, and her posture was as proud as ever.

But beneath that composed exterior, Sigrid was absolutely mortified.

"I can’t believe this." She muttered under her breath, her cheeks still carrying a stubborn flush. "Of all days. Of all days."

She was late. Genuinely, unforgivably late.

She was supposed to be teaching the new recruits a critical sword technique, the Spiral Parry, one of the foundational forms that every young centaur needed to master before they could even think of joining the Brigade.

The session had been scheduled for early morning and Sigrid was never late.

She was the first to arrive at every formation, every briefing, every training session. An hour early, at minimum. That was simply who she was.

But today? Today she had slept in.

And it was entirely Luca’s fault.

Her jaw tightened at the thought of his face—that infuriatingly handsome, perpetually smirking face. She could picture it perfectly. She wanted to pinch his cheeks until he begged for mercy.

Because last night...last night had been an ordeal.

After the horseshoe celebration, Sigrid had made a decision. She was going to satisfy Luca, no matter what it took.

Her stubbornness, that relentless centaur pride, simply would not allow her to accept defeat. So she had gone to him in the small guest house he’d been given, and Luca had welcomed her with open arms.

He’d then opened his pants without a word of protest, and Sigrid had gotten to work.

But this time, she had come prepared. She’d spent the afternoon secretly practicing which was mortifying to even think about, but necessary.

She’d taken an old sword hilt, polished it until it gleamed, and practiced every technique she could think of on it.

How to use her tongue. How to vary the pressure. How to coordinate her lips and her hands. It was absurd. It was degrading. It was...

It had worked!

Luca had been audibly impressed. He’d praised her and he’d finished much faster than the night before. Sigrid had been elated. Victory, at last, seemed within her grasp.

But then he’d gotten hard again. And again. And again. She’d made him finish sixty times in half the time it had taken her the previous night, and still his cock stood as rigid and demanding as ever, a tower that simply could not be conquered.

That was when he’d suggested...that.

"Your breasts..."

He’d whispered, his lips brushing her ear and sending shivers cascading down her spine.

"Have you ever considered using them? It’s called a breast job. You wrap them around me, and—"

"Absolutely not, Sir Luca!" She’d said, scandalized. "That is the most shameless, depraved—"

"It would feel incredible."

"I am a Commander—"

"For both of us."

She’d stared at him. He’d stared back, his eyes dark with want.

And Sigrid, damn her stubborn heart, had given in.

So she’d pulled out her massive, pale, heavy breasts and she’d wrapped them around his cock, and for hours she had moved them up and down, left and right, massaging him from every angle.

She’d asked questions she never dreamed she’d utter: "Like this? Is this right? Should I squeeze harder? Slower? Faster?"

And Luca, the bastard, had guided her through every step with infuriating patience.

The part that made her want to bury her face in her hands even now was that she’d actually gotten good at it.

She’d found a rhythm. And when she’d added her mouth as well, working the tip of his cock with her lips while her breasts handled the shaft, Luca had groaned so deeply that she’d felt it vibrate through her entire body.

But his final request had been utterly disgraceful.

"Don’t swallow." He’d told her, his voice strained. "Let it go. Let it cover you."

"What!?" She’d sputtered. "That would get everywhere! My face, my hair, my chest—it would be a disaster!"

"That’s the point."

"It’s unhygienic!"

"It’s beautiful."

And so she had. Over and over. His thick, hot semen splattered across her cheeks, her forehead, her chin, dripped down her neck and pooled between her breasts.

It coated her silver hair in sticky strands. It turned her into a glistening, dripping mess, as if she’d been drenched in some kind of slime.

And the worst part was that she didn’t entirely hate it.

There was something strangely satisfying about being degraded by him and being covered in his scent, his mark. The smell of him was almost like an aphrodisiac, giving her energy, making her want to keep going, to take more, to push herself further.

By the end of the night, she’d made him come one hundred and twenty-seven times.

And he was still awake. Still grinning. Still ready for more.

"I’ve got something to do with Mavis tomorrow." He’d said casually, tucking himself back into his pants. "Get some sleep, Sigrid."

And then he’d walked away.

She’d wanted to chase after him and demand she finish the job. But her body had finally betrayed her.

The combination of working her breasts, her jaw, and being marinated in his scent all night had simply been too much. She’d collapsed onto his bed and fallen asleep on the spot.

When she’d woken up half an hour ago, she’d panicked. Her face, her hair—they should have been a disaster zone.

But to her shock, everything was clean. Her skin was soft. Her hair was brushed and gleaming.

Luca, she’d realized with a confusing mix of gratitude and irritation, must have cleaned her up while she slept.

The considerate bastard...

But he hadn’t woken her up and now she was late.

She had no idea how to face the new recruits and explain that their Commander had slept through their session because a man from another world had been using her breasts as a playground all night.

Sigrid groaned softly and picked up her pace.

But as she approached the training grounds, she heard noise. A lot of noise in fact.

Shouting. Laughing. Crying. A wild burst of overlapping voices that ebbed and flowed like waves against the shore.

It sounded like a festival. A very loud, very frantic, borderline hysterical festival.

"But that’s impossible." Sigrid murmured, her brow furrowing. "I would know if there was a festival. I’m the Commander. Nothing happens in this village without me knowing."

Just as she was beginning to wonder if this was somehow Luca’s doing as he had mentioned something about Mavis, a frantic figure burst onto the path ahead of her.

"Sigrid!"

It was Oslo, one of the senior members of the Galloping Brigade. But Oslo looked nothing like the composed, disciplined warrior Sigrid knew.

Her eyes were wild. Her mane was disheveled. She was galloping toward Sigrid as though pursued by demons.

"Sigrid!" Osla shouted, practically skidding to a halt in front of her. "Sigrid, there you are! Oh thank the ancestors—hold on, just—"

"Osla, what’s going on?" Sigrid demanded, her hand instinctively reaching for the sword at her side. "Is there an invasion? Have the male centaurs returned early? Is everyone—"

"Invasion? What? No!" Osla waved her hand dismissively, then grabbed Sigrid by the shoulders with a grip that was borderline frantic.

"Do you have any horseshoes on you?"

Sigrid blinked. "Horseshoes? Yes. Of course. I have four. But—"

"No, no, no!" Osla said, shaking her head. "Not those horseshoes! The golden ones!"

She reached into a pouch at her waist and pulled out a small coin, pressing it into Sigrid’s palm. It was gold in color or at least gold-painted with a tiny horseshoe design stamped right in the center.

"I need some." Osla said, her voice desperate. "Just a few. I’ll pay you back, I swear on my honor—"

"I...I don’t have any of these." Sigrid admitted, turning the strange coin over in her fingers. "I’ve never even seen them before."

Osla’s face fell. "You should have just said that from the beginning!"

And before Sigrid could ask another question, she was off, sprinting down the path and shouting over her shoulder.

"I have to find someone else! I’m this close to a comeback!"

Sigrid stared after her, utterly baffled.

’Gold horseshoes? What in the world was a golden horseshoe?’

She didn’t have to wait long for more confusion.

Another centuar, one of the younger riders named Fenna came bounding up the path from the opposite direction, her face split by an enormous grin.

"Commander! Commander! I won! I actually wn!"

"Won what?" Sigrid asked, feeling increasingly like she’d stepped into an alternate dimension.

"The race!" Fenna said, practically vibrating with excitement. "Well, I didn’t race. I put my money on Tillia. Everyone said I was stupid—Tillia’s been sick all week, they said, she doesn’t have the stamina—but I just had a feeling, you know?"

She clutched a bulging pouch to her chest.

"And she won! Four to one odds! I got four hundred golden horseshoes!"

"Fenna, wait—"

But Fenna was already dancing away, spinning in a little circle and whooping with joy. "I can get the fancy cooking set! I can get the good one!"

Sigrid pinched the bridge of her nose. One centaur desperate, another ecstatic. Both talking about golden horseshoes and races and bets.

It was like they’d all gone mad.

And then a third centuar appeared, this one one of the mothers, a gentle mare named Caelia whose daughter was one of Nella’s little friends.

"Sigrid!" Caelia called out, her face flushed with happiness. "Oh, you’ll never believe it! I won something truly wonderful!"

"Let me guess. A race?"

"Oh, no. Well, yes, kind of." Caelia patted her coin pouch. "I was smart about it. I spread my bets across several events. But that’s not the important part." She leaned in, her eyes glittering. "I won a private session with the Hero himself."

Sigrid’s stomach dropped. "You won what?"

"A cooking session! I get to bring him to my home and prepare him a meal—just the two of us." Caelia’s smile took on a scary edge. "And I assure you, Commander, by the time I’m done with that meal, he won’t want to leave."

She trotted off with a wave, humming happily to herself, and Sigrid was left standing in the middle of the path, her face slowly turning red for reasons that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

"That...that scoundrel." She hissed.

The closer she got to the training grounds, the more unhinged the scene became.

A centuar sprinted past her weeping about her "life savings."

Another was cackling and tossing coins into the air.

Two young recruits were arguing loudly about interest rates—intrest rates, as if they were bankers rather than warriors.

One of the elders was calmly explaining to a distraught young mare that no, she could not borrow any more money, and yes, she would have to sell her "extra sword" to cover her losses.

By the time Sigrid finally crested the hill overlooking the training grounds, her mind was so thoroughly boggled that she could do nothing but stop and stare.

"Wha...What in the name of the ancestors...?"