In the mucky, merry village of Mirthwick—where ale flowed like gossip and every alley hid a tryst—Jack the tinker was a legend. Lean as a whip, with a grin that could charm a nun out of her habit, he mended pots by day and hearts by night. But his purse was emptier than a bard’s promises, and Lila the tavern singer—hips like prophecy, lips like sin—had begun to eye more prosperous flirts.

So when a cloaked peddler with hips like a siren’s swayed into town, Jack was all ears.

“Magic beans, lad,” she purred, her voice a velvet noose. “Plant ‘em, and you’ll rise to riches.”

With a wink that promised more than gold, she traded her beans for his last copper. Jack, ever the fool for a pretty pitch, swaggered home, muttering, “If these don’t sprout a fortune, I’ll eat my own boots.”

That night, under a moon fat with secrets, Jack tossed the beans into his scrappy garden. By dawn, a beanstalk had erupted—a throbbing, veined spectacle that speared the sky, thick as lust and twice as eager. The stalk pulsed with life, its vines writhing like lovers in heat, slick with dew that glistened like forbidden sweat. It swayed slow and suggestive, daring the village to blush.

Mirthwick’s lasses fanned themselves, whispering, “That’s no plant, that’s a promise.”

Jack, trousers tightening, gaped. “Bugger me sideways,” he grinned. “That’s a stalk worth climbing.”

With a roguish wink at the giggling crowd, he spat on his palms and gripped the pulsing vine.

The ascent was a seduction. The stalk thrummed beneath Jack’s hands, each vine curling like a flirt’s fingers. He climbed, muscles taut, the dew slicking his grip.

“Bit wet for a first date, eh?” he joked, breath coming fast.

The beanstalk responded with a low tremble, a lover’s purr.

Halfway up, a bulbous knot blocked his path—glistening, swollen, undeniably intentional.

Jack gave it a pat. “Easy, big fella. I’m not that kind of tinker.”

With a nimble twist, he scaled around it, pressed tight to the heat of the stalk, the air thick with earth and musk. He climbed harder, heart pounding, sweat mingling with sap. By the time he breached the clouds, he was flushed, panting, and half in love with the damn thing.

“You’re a right tease,” he muttered, giving the stalk a fond slap before stepping onto solid ground.

At the top sprawled a castle of gold and excess, with halls vast enough to echo a giant’s groans. Jack crept inside—boots soft on marble, eyes wide at piles of coin that glinted like courtesans’ smiles.

But before he could pocket a piece, a shadow fell.

A giantess—tall as blasphemy, glorious as sin—lounged beside a golden harp the size of a cottage.

Elara, wife to the giant, towered with divine curves and midnight hair. Her lips were a hush of temptation.

“Well, well,” she purred, voice a molten quake. “A little tinker in my strings? You’re a tune worth playing.”

Jack, dwarfed and dazzled, tipped his cap. “Only if you like a fast tempo, milady.”

Her laugh rumbled the floor. She bent low, silk clinging to every impossible curve, and scooped him into her palm.

“Such tiny hands,” she teased, brushing him with a fingertip that sent a tremor through his bones.

But before she could say more, the castle shook.

“Hide, pet,” she whispered, sliding him under her skirts as the giant’s boots thundered closer.

Beneath her silken canopy—more tent than garment—Jack froze. Elara wore no underthings.

What size panties did a giantess wear? he wondered, craning upward. The sight stole his breath: a vast, perfumed expanse of flesh, warm and glistening, folds parting like cathedral doors. Her scent—heady, sweet, and utterly indecent—wrapped around him like a spell.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered, coins clinking in his fists. “That’s a shrine to start a war over.”

“FEE, FIE, FO, FUM!” bellowed the giant—twice Elara’s size, beard like brambles, eyes greedy as a taxman’s. “I smell a thief!”

Elara, unbothered, strummed her harp. Her curves swayed with the rhythm, and the giant’s suspicion softened.

“Just your supper, dear,” she cooed, voice a lullaby soaked in sin.

The brute stomped off, grumbling.

When the hall fell quiet, Elara lifted her skirts, smirking down at Jack still tucked between her thighs.

“Enjoying the view, tinker?” she murmured. “Want his gold? Strum my chords first. Make me sing.”

Jack, still slick from the stalk, grinned. “I’m no bard, but I’ve got nimble fingers.”

She reclined on a chaise the size of a field, parting her legs with slow ceremony. Jack took her dare and began his ascent.

Her thigh was a cliff of warmth; her curls, thick as ropes, tangled around him as he climbed.

“Like bushwhacking through a courtesan’s thicket,” he muttered, hauling himself upward.

He reached her folds—plush, pulsing, and flushed with want. They quivered under his touch, slicking his skin with heat.

“Just my luck,” he said, “a waterfall and a treasure chest all in one.”

He gripped her lips like velvet hills, kneading them with rough reverence.

At the summit loomed her clit—a glistening, hay-bale-sized bean, flushed and throbbing with promise. So this is where the magic ended up, Jack thought, grinning.

He braced his knees and got to work, hands flying. Each stroke was a verse, each tease a chorus.

But when her moan cracked the air—raw, real, and rapturous—Jack faltered, stunned by the power of it, the sheer magnitude of what he’d unleashed. For a breath, even his grin slipped.

Then he chuckled, wiped his brow, and muttered, “Guess I finally found the golden bean.”

“You rogue,” Elara gasped, her voice a thunderclap. Her climax hit like sunrise—hot, wet, and absolute. Jack tumbled backward in a splash of her pleasure, sputtering and triumphant.

“You’re worth more than gold,” she groaned, still quaking.

She tossed him a sack of coins, her smile wicked. “Take your prize, tinker—but I’ll be expecting an encore.”

Jack, drenched and smug, dragged the gold to the edge. The beanstalk waited, vines swaying like jealous lovers. He slid down in a rush, laughter trailing, Elara’s kiss blowing from above.

Back in Mirthwick, the Cock and Bull Tavern roared with light and lust. Lila, velvet-voiced and dangerous, spotted Jack’s bulging sack (of coins, mind) and slinked over.

“You smell like you’ve been swimming in sin,” she purred. “Show me your riches.”

Their kiss cracked like lightning. Her fingers tugged his shirt, his found her laces.

“Climbed a stalk and a goddess, did you?” she teased, straddling him behind a curtain of hair.

“Mind the gold,” he panted. “It’s pokin’ me worse than you are.”

She laughed—wild and wicked. Their climax rattled the room.

With the giant’s fortune, Jack opened a workshop—Jack’s: Where Sparks Fly—a forge of suggestive contraptions and whispering locks. Lila sang bawdy songs to lure in customers, her hips an advertisement in their own right. Mirthwick buzzed with tales of Jack’s beanstalk, each retelling filthier than the last.

In the workshop’s glow, Jack tinkered with a new creation: a sleek, clockwork vibrator, its curves polished to a suggestive sheen.

“This’ll make the lasses sing louder than Lila,” he boasted, winding its gears. The device hummed with promise, its vibrations a cheeky pulse that set the workbench rattling.

One moonlit evening, the cloaked peddler returned, her siren hips swaying as she leaned over Jack’s workbench.

“Clever toy, tinker,” she purred, brushing the vibrator with a spark of magic. “Let’s make it legendary.”

With a whispered incantation, the device glowed, trembling with potential.

“This,” she winked, “will fit like a lover’s promise.”

Jack, eyes wide, clutched the pulsing treasure. “You’re trouble in a cloak, aren’t you?”

The peddler vanished into the night, her laugh lingering like smoke.

The beanstalk still loomed outside Mirthwick, vines beckoning like a courtesan’s fingers. Jack, enchanted vibrator tucked in his belt, eyed the stalk.

“Elara deserves a proper encore,” he muttered, spitting on his palms.

The lasses giggled as he climbed once more.

The ascent was no less lascivious. The stalk’s vines coiled tighter this time, as if jealous of his new toy.