The keep's smithy was particularly hot today. The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel was a stark contrast to the sharp, desperate cry I heard from the storage shed. Inside, a young guard was bent over a barrel, his leathers around his ankles, being taken hard by the blacksmith's apprentice. The smithy's grip on the guard's hips was iron, each thrust punctuated by a grunt and the slick sound of a sweat-slicked cock plunging into a willing ass. The guard's face was a mask of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, his own thick cock dripping onto the straw below. It wasn't a scene of love, but one of raw, mutual need—a quick, powerful release found in the heat and grime. A reminder that the most potent magic often isn't cast with a wand, but with the body itself.