I can hear him snoring peacefully in the spare room. I poke my head in, bandages wadded in my palm. Take his temperature, feel his limp wrist. Check the dressing across his crown: no, it doesn't need changing just yet. I sigh, sit down in the chair by the window. Morning sun filters in, as does birdsong and the herby scent of the kitchen garden.
It was a nasty stumble that he took. He really shouldn't be foraging this far from the village, it isn't safe. I thought I was rid of those hasty folk, but they do crop up from time to time, wandering the outskirts of the county. Never as young as this one though. I see the sun catch on the handsome line of his jaw and I inhale sharply. Never ones this good-looking.
I cough and brush down my apron. God, I'm at least ten years older than him. And I simply plan to care for him until he recovers. Nothing more. I go out into the garden to collect wildflowers in a vase. I place them on the bedside table so that he has something pretty to wake up to.
-----
He mumbles his first words in the evening. Unsurprisingly he cannot recount much from the day before, simply that he was halfway through a day of berry-picking when his foot snared on a root and down he tumbled into the ravine.
He thanks me, profusely, and says he doesn't want to be a nuisance and can be gone as soon as he can walk. I tell him that he can stay longer if he wants to. His soft eyes light up at that and he says that I'm too kind. I feel a warmth wash over me.
He has a precious name, foreign sounding and rather hard to pronounce so I won't try to capture it here. He says he needs to forage for his trade: he is an aspiring botanist. He's also something of a nomad, without any real ties to the neighbouring village bar a vague cousin once removed. He doesn't mention any other connections, nothing of parents, siblings, or friends. No girlfriend, which surprises me. I muse that he is a very handsome young man. He chuckles and fidgets and I watch his pretty lashes flicker before we both look away. I go to get more tea.
-----
I bring him plants from the garden to keep him company while I'm away. He takes time to study them, holding them incredibly close to his face. His lips part subtly and his eyes grow wide as he strips back soft petals with his gentle fingers. Again, I feel warm, a fluttery sensation low in my belly that I'm doing my best to ignore.
Getting up is still an effort for him, so I help him to his feet when he needs the outhouse or to walk in the garden. I can feel his lean yet muscular frame through his shirt as my arm braces his back. He walks in a stagger, two quick steps at a time, and I notice how he tilts himself away to avoid my gaze, to avoid leaning into my bosom. He almost falls over doing this and I pull him back up. He presses against my ribs, nudges into the side of my breast. I tell him that it's okay to lean on me. My voice takes on a soothing note that I can only recall using in my younger years, when I was courting. I say no more as we continue out the door.
-----
He is propped up in bed and I'm leaning against the doorframe. There are stars sparkling outside, night breeze plays in the curtains. I take his finished plate from him; he has licked it clean. He tells me how delicious it was, as he always does. He's smiling pleasantly but there is a certain wistfulness in his face. I sit on the bed. He shuffles over to make space.
What's wrong? I ask.
Oh, nothing. I'm getting stronger by the day, soon I'll be able to leave, get back on with everything. He doesn't sound too thrilled.
There's no rush, dear. You still need your rest.
I just feel like such a burden on you... You've been like a mother to me, oh, you've been so kind! His eyes are getting wet.
You are not a burden. No, no, not at all. I extend my hand hesitantly, rest it upon his. Stroke his trembling palm. He is starting to cry and I want to hold him, even more than I have before these past few days.
I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm crying; it isn't right. Not in front of a lady.
Oh, don't say such things. It's more than okay - please, let it out. I sit closer, pull him into my arms. I feel a stab of shame as my heart quickens from feeling him this close. I let him sob into my chest, and in this moment I want him to stay nestled here with me forever. I'm stroking his hair and soothing him with sweet nothings. Let it out, baby, it's okay. I'm here.
God, I'm calling him 'baby.'
He pulls away and wipes his eyes. He's still holding me and I'm holding him, too, our bodies interlinked. He blinks hard and breaks away from me, but it's too late, I've already taken notice of the distinct stiffness between his legs - it was prodding into me. He has withdrawn and is now hiding it, folding his blanket over himself.
I stroke his hand a while longer. He says he will be okay. He tries again to apologise for crying and I tell him not to be sorry, and to call for me if he needs anything. Taking the candle in its saucer, I bid him goodnight rather hastily, praying that he can't see how much I'm blushing.
-----
Hours pass and I still can't sleep. I'm rolling my hands over my thighs, over the place he stuck so sharply into me. I'm thinking about the times I helped him wash with the basin, steamy water splashing down over his bare shoulders, down his lithe torso and soaking the towel about his waist. I could see something swinging in his towel those times, too, and had to excuse myself before I did something I might regret.
Knowing that he could very well feel the same things for me is making me feral, to put it plainly. I wring my hands, debating whether I should go and check on him. The choice is made for me: I hear his voice crying out in pain. I rush over, crack open the door.
He's crying out in his sleep, shaking too. A nightmare. I rustle him awake, hold his hand. He takes a while to come to, and before he does he whimpers something that makes my knees cave. Mummy, that feels good, Mummy.
He wasn't crying out in fear. He was moaning. My mind and body are buzzing, on high alert. He's awake now, squinting his eyes - recognising me. I take a breath. Time to play dumb. Hey, hey, are you alright?
Oh, um, yes. Yes, I am. He's stuttering, slurring his speech, and his dazed state would be aiding his façade if I didn't know better. He brings his knees up to soften any outline in the sheets that could give him away. I was having a bit of a strange dream, is all.
It sounded like quite a scary one. I play along. I have yet to remove my hand from his. His eyes drift to my waist as I sit down onto the bed, inches from his face. I arch my back, just a touch.
Yeah, but... I'm okay, now. Thank you for waking me. He coughs, rubs his arm. Waiting for me to leave. I stay put.
How about I sit here with you for a while? Will that make you feel better?
He chews his lip, mulls it over. Um, yes. Yes, I would like that. Only it's not too much trouble...
It's fine with me, baby. Once again I'm lacing my voice with soothing femininity. No turning back now. Only, it's a bit chilly in here. I might just have to get in there with you, if that's alright.
His breath hitches, then releases. Okay. He shuffles over tentatively. Only, is there enough room?
I'll manage. God, I'm actually doing this. I slide in next to him and we both barely squeeze in. He's so close, so warm beside me. I can smell the lavender that we picked and crushed today still lingering on his soft skin. I turn away from him. Okay, then, let's get some sleep.
Goodnight.
Goodnight, baby.
-----
We spend less than five minutes in restless silence before I feel him shift in the sheets. I mirror his motion, feigning a yawn as I press my hips back. I hesitate, then push back more. More, more, until I find him. I apply the slightest pressure and am delighted to feel him stay there.
Mm. A muffled sound from him that turns me on in a second. You okay? He mumbles. He sounds half asleep but his lower body is telling me otherwise.
Just need to get comfy. That's all. I whisper as I roll my hips in a little circle. He's getting hard and he tries to retreat slightly. I let myself chase him, ever so subtly keeping the pressure up. Another slow, grinding twirl and I hear him stifle a girlish moan. His noises are so pretty.
Are you okay back there? I tease.
Yes, it just feels nice is all.
What feels nice, baby?
You know what.
No, I don't. I giggle. He's getting wet at his tip and it's soaking into my loose nightclothes. I could moan, but I keep my composure. Tell me, tell me what feels nice.
You do... He's so precious.
What about me? Oh, you mean my ass? I push harder, rolling my hips down and up. I feel him shudder and a whimper escapes his lips before he can stop himself.
Yes, yes, your... Your ass feels good. Oh, God, I'm sorry...
Don't be sorry, baby. Just sit there and take it. I encourage him. His hands travel up my sides and cup my breasts. I let it happen. He kneads them tentatively at first but soon enough he's holding nothing back, rummaging inside my nightshirt, his hands rolling under the silky fabric and pinching me roughly.
Is this okay?
It's so good, baby. You're very good at that.
That makes me happy. He's moving his hips on his own now, so desperate to keep rubbing up against me, pressing hard into my ass, refusing to back down. He's starting to shudder with pleasure, groping me needily.
I can feel his shallow breath on my neck. I push him over the edge. Does Mummy's ass feel good?
Ah, ah... Yes...
Yes what?
Yes Mummy, your... Oh God! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. He's whimpering into my hair, his hips convulsing as I feel something hot and sticky soak through his undergarments, staining my own. His shaft is pulsing through the fabric, riding along the cleft of my ass with every spurt, over and over until he gasps and falls onto his back. Without thinking I clamber on top of him and kiss him wildly, his pretty face, his cool neck, all the while whispering at him how good of a boy he is.
My lips travel tenderly down his chest and abs. I strip his pants back and take his hand gently as I lick him clean. He is drenched in his load; there is plenty to swallow. He keeps on mumbling how sorry he is which only makes me suck him faster. He whines and gasps, starts to writhe about with the overload of stimulation. I shift my weight onto his thighs, hold him down while I savour the last far-flung droplets. My stomach is full of butterflies and his cum as I praise him. Oh, you came so much, baby. You came so much for me.
Yes, I did, Mummy. I couldn't help it... Did you need to as well?
You just have your rest for now, baby. God knows I'll be touching myself over this for weeks to come, but for some reason I just want to keep nurturing him. My own need for pleasure takes a backseat as I cosy up beside him.
I cradle him in my arms. I feel his bare legs, still all in a tremble, clasping around me, his shaft sliding against my thigh, soft and spent. With a delicious lack of urgency, he grinds against me as he drifts off, his words slurring as his eyes slowly flutter shut. Thank you for making me cum, Mummy.
You're welcome, baby.
His breathing becomes slower, steadier as he finally falls asleep. He snuggles into me more, unconsciously finding his way onto my breasts, using them as his pillow. I drop my fingers down between my legs and go slowly, slowly, finishing myself off to the smell of his hair, to the feeling of him pressed against me. To the lingering taste of him, still faint in my watering mouth.
Oh, I could get used to this.
It's been sunnier lately, warmer too. There are blossoms on the vines that wrap and cling to the verandah. The pink blooms frame him gorgeously as he plows the earth; a perfectly romantic scene, not unlike a painting. There's new strength in his muscles as he chips away at the ground, his rhythm precise and steady. He looks up at me and smiles. His glistening face is weary but content, his eyes sparkling in the late afternoon sun.
Yes, he's fully recovered from his injury, now. And yet here he remains. It was a short conversation. He asked if I wanted him to go. I said he could stay if he liked. He was glowing but clearly distressed at the notion of becoming a freeloader. "That wouldn't be fair on you, though, would it?" he had said. "If I stay, I want to earn my keep."
And so, I've taken him on as something of a labourer. He tills my soil, waters the shoots, and harvests the spoils, and I continue to provide him with food and board. To tell the complete truth, I would be delighted to just keep him here with me for nothing. I would be perfectly content to let him just sit and look pretty all day while I potter about. Cook and clean for him. Make his bed. Help him wash.
But that wouldn't have been a sound idea, no matter how much pleasure it gave me to picture in my head. I can only grow and sell so much produce on my own in this little clearing. In all honesty, having his capable hands around the place is exactly what I need. In more ways than one.
He finishes one patch and moves to the next. I bring him some water and our hands graze as I pass him the glass.
"You work so hard, baby." I've been calling him that rather comfortably ever since our first venture together, that night we shared his bed.
"I mean, I like to," he replies, wiping his brow. "Can't just study plants all day, right?" He chuckles softly, waves his hand at the work he's done thus far. "Gotta get my hands dirty, too."
He notices the look I'm giving him and blushes, realising his choice of words. His gaze is drifting to my blouse, or down it, rather. I chose a rather low-cut one today. I press my chest out slightly as I take his empty glass. "You've gotten plenty dirty for today, anyhow. So don't be out too much longer in this sun. Come in soon, okay?"
"Okay, I will."
"Good boy."
-----
The barges come down the river twice a week, their low hulls weighed down in the water with all manner of goods, the men aboard singing old songs as they come. I sell them my vegetables, and they provide me with coin and necessities such as firewood, cloth, and lamp oil in return. They then unfasten their vessel from the post and off they go, singing merrily down their river, bound for the village.
I've taught him how to handle the transactions, and he's taken on the task with surprising rigour. He seems a different person as he chatters with the barge men -- much more like a man than a boy. He speaks low, sparingly as he cackles and banters with them. His shoulders ripple as he takes up the crates, setting them down with a laugh. They shove and wrestle, bat each other on the arm as they say their goodbyes. Gruff, curt, stoic.
I watch on and bite my lip, remembering just how soft and high his voice got when I pressed my ass into his crotch. How he shuddered so weakly, apologised so frantically as I cleaned his hot mess up with my mouth. How he nestled into my chest afterwards, sleepy and satisfied.
I'm smiling to myself and my smalls are wet as we trudge back up to the house. Oh, I know what he can get like, when it's just the two of us.
-----
It's Sunday. A day for both of us to rest. We're going to bake together today, him and I.
Everything's going splendidly. The garden is fuller, brighter, and neater than it has ever been, thanks in no small part to his strong hands and botanical prowess. The soil is rich and well-tilled, sifted free of rocks and clumps. Green sprouts are curling up and out of the ground, and the fruit branches are budding over -- soft promises of plentiful future harvests.
Yes, I should feel happy. But right now, all I can focus on is how she's laughing with him, eyeing his chest and arms greedily.
I've never had a problem with her, the miller's daughter. She's a fine young girl, pretty-faced and hardworking, her red cheeks and tight-fitting apron always dusted down with flour. It's only now that she's giggling at his every word and twirling her hair stupidly in his presence that I feel this animosity.
He takes the bags of flour from her and clinks coins into her waiting palm. They share a grin, her eyes yet again dropping to peruse the cut of his torso, so easily defined through his thin white work shirt.
Almost reluctantly he starts back over to me. I fold my arms tightly over my chest, give her a terse smile and walk him back home. I toss hair out of my face, try to relax my shoulders. We're to bake something nice today. That's what we're going to do, despite this sudden bitter feeling.
"She's nice," he says softly as we step inside.
I don't look at him. I reply, "It's good we've got the flour."
-----
I'm teaching him how to make one of his favourites: cinnamon scrolls. I guide him gently through the process, and he's a perfect learner. He tips out the correct amount of flour, sifts it in neatly with the dry ingredients. I help him add the wet ingredients to the bowl and my arms butt awkwardly past him, getting into his space.
I know he can smell my perfume as I come close to him. I know he can see down my blouse, catching an eyeful of my cleavage.
I show him how to knead. I watch his perfect forearms stiffen and release as his sun-browned knuckles work the dough up and into itself, over and over. I think about those same perfect arms being caressed by that stupid girl, and it takes a moment for me to rid my mind of the thought.
"What do we do now?" he asks.
"We roll it out and fill it up. Yes, like that. Good job."
The air is laced with cinnamon as he generously spreads the filling across the flattened dough. I stay nice and close to him as we roll it up, arm to arm. Just to make sure he's doing it right, of course. We slice the finished bundle to pieces, space them out and slot the tray into the oven. I clap the heavy door shut, wash my hands, and meet his gaze. He's leaning patiently against the counter with a soft smile across his lips. Waiting for my next instruction.
I let my hair down with a sigh. "Now, we just have to wait."
"Oh, okay. But is there anything else to do?" As ever, he's eager to help -- endearingly so. His meekly folded hands and attentive face have me blushing, chewing my lip, a familiar warmth blooming between my thighs.
Only now, once we've stopped bustling about, do I realise just how badly I need him. I reply softly, "I suppose we could get started on the glaze."
-----
Making glaze is ever so simple -- just milk and icing sugar. I whip them together and he watches on. I give him a turn mixing. I watch his tongue catch the side of his mouth adorably as he focuses on not spilling anything. I shuffle closer to him, half a step.
Out of nowhere he says something that has me wringing my hands in my apron pocket. "We should bring some scrolls to that miller girl," he muses as he mixes. "It would be nice, I think."
"That's a sweet idea, baby." I manage to keep my voice level. I take the bowl from him gently, set it down on the counter. Take a moment to breathe, just breathe.
"Is everything okay?" he asks softly.
I catch his gaze and don't look away. Lust and jealousy grate together and set sparks flying inside of me. I speak slow, soft, and sultry. "Everything's fine... You just have to give this a taste for me, baby." I dip a thumb in the bowl of glaze, bring it to his mouth rather insistently.
He emits the faintest gasp before taking the invitation in an instant, letting his chin rest into my palm while his hot mouth wraps onto my thumb. He licks it clean and keeps sucking. I pull him into me by his waist, bracing our bodies together, hard. His eyes are shining with sudden want. This is exactly how I need him in this moment: utterly pathetic for me. I feel so damn hungry for him, it's scary.
We break away from each other. My hands catch on the counter edge and I press my back into it, supporting myself. I lick my lips, then rip my blouse down. My tits jump out and I can see him respond, something thick jumping to life in his pants. Good.
I take a spoonful of glaze and spread it across my rack, feeling it drip down cool and sticky over my nipples, pooling in between my breasts and catching in my bellybutton. I grab myself, jiggle immodestly. I pout, "Are you just gonna stare, baby? Mummy's all sweet and sticky for you..."
"Oh, Mummy, that's so..." He's all over me in less than a second, burying his face in my bosom, our hands finding each other and clasping clumsily as he licks and bites and sucks away. He twirls his tongue hard over my nipple and I moan. He's feasting on me exactly how I need him to: he's licking down, down from my tits, into my waistband and back up, lapping up the milky glaze from my skin like it's the only thing he's had to eat in days. I'm both alarmed and delighted by how little he comes up for air.
Even once I'm licked clean he continues to explore me with his mouth. He sucks on me as if I have milk, his eyes wide and bright as he latches on fast to each nipple, one at a time. I stroke his hair and tease, "You like sucking Mummy's titties, baby? You like Mummy feeding you, hmm?"
"Mm-hmm," he whimpers through a mouthful of tit. He breaks away, saliva webbing between his parted lips and my breasts. "God, yes. I love sucking on you, Mummy. I love it so much."
I can feel the rough fabric of his work pants rubbing into my thigh: his hard prick, jutting into me. But I don't want to address that just yet. He needs to taste my body some more -- service me some more. I slide up onto the countertop. I toss my apron off, lift my skirt. Slide off my damp smalls, flick them away, too. The cool stone bites at my bare ass but I don't care. I spread my legs, give him a proper view.
It's the first time he's seen my cunt. She's making a little puddle for him already, soaking, pulsing, yearning. Again, that flour-dusted girl flashes into my mind's eye and almost spoils the moment. Almost. I'm feeling a tad hesitant, but I refuse to lower my skirt.
I'm thrilled to see him taken aback at the sight, his eyes glossing over with newfound lust for me. I spread myself open with two splayed fingers and scarcely raise my voice above a whisper. "Come on, now, baby. I know you've always wanted to eat me."
He drops to his knees, runs his hands along my trembling thighs. "Yes, Mummy. Yes, I have."
"Don't be shy. Get right in there." I grab a handful of his hair and force his face into my crotch, stuffing his mouth and nose into my wet cunt, hard. He splutters, manages to stick his tongue out and eats me tentatively at first, his pupils wide with meek obedience. Two or three licks in, he forgets himself: he ravishes me, utterly addicted to my taste. I can feel his tongue invading my slit, pushing its way in greedily, and the slow, staggered friction is enough to set me shuddering, moaning his name weakly between gulps of air.
"Yes, yes, yes. Fuck Mummy's kitty with your tongue, baby. Tongue-fuck Mummy nice and deep... There you go..." I'm saying such nasty things and praising him and he gets rougher in response. My hands don't leave the back of his head; my grasp holds firm. He pries my thighs apart with his elbows and I can feel him slip in yet deeper, his tongue curling up and into my hole, digging away at me, picking up a savage rhythm. He drops a hand into his pants. Fuck, he's stroking himself to the taste of me. I'm soaking his lips and cheeks with my juices and he looks so lost in his lust for me that I could --
"Oh, fuck!" I squeal, whip my head back, pull him in close as I feel myself go over the edge. I cum in his mouth, squeezing his tongue, forcing him to stay in my churning cunt for but a moment before he dislodges from my embrace. He's licking his lips and panting, whimpering into my spent pussy as he finishes himself off, his breath hitching as he fills his pants with his load.
He mumbles, his breath heavy and desperate on my still-trembling cunt, "Oh, you taste so good, Mummy. You taste so good; it made me cum in my pants..."
"You ate that kitty so good, baby. You made Mummy cum all over your pretty face." I can smell his soaked pants even from up here on the counter. The scent of his cum is making my toes curl, even post-orgasm.
I kiss him and I can taste myself on his lips. I muscle him to the floor, take his pants down. I pin his arms to his sides and slurp up his load. I lick his salty mess up and gulp it down and he's shuddering, whimpering for me. Pretty, pathetic -- perfect.
I want him to stay with me here forever.
The oven dings. Damn, already time to check on the scrolls. He tries to get up, mutters, "We should be careful they don't burn, Mummy--"
I shift my weight, keep him down. Grind my sodden pussy along his thigh, pressing firm and slow. Our mouths meet and lock together.
We stay like this for a little longer.
-----
I did end up taking him back to the flour mill, later in the day. Yes, he did stay a tad overlong chatting with the miller's daughter, even after we had gifted the basket of scrolls to her. But I didn't mind, not as much as I anticipated I would've. And I bid her farewell with less coldness in my smile than last time -- less bitterness.
I feel a stab of shame. Only now I know that I can still have him on his knees, begging to lick and savour my dirtiest parts, do I feel secure. Only now that I know I can reduce him to a whimpering mess, anytime I want, do I feel content.
Feelings both possessive and carnal seeped into my lust for him today. I acknowledge that.
But, for now, I'll do my best to enjoy what we have. To be present. To continue to nurture him like he deserves.
We sit and eat the scrolls by the fireplace, the evening cool and blue outside. He munches away at his baked treat and he looks so happy as he eats, so content, that I feel I could cry. He has a bit of glaze sticking to the corner of his mouth. I rub it away. He catches my hand and licks it from my palm. We both laugh, share a kiss.
His eyes soften, I lean in to him. The fire crackles, woodsmoke blends with cinnamon in the air. We pick up each other's scrolls, cross our arms and feed each other.
I bite down. It's perfectly plush, pillowy, and sweet all the way through.