"Idiot," August breathed, the word a soft puff of air in his tiny room. A wide, triumphant grin split his face. The goddess could mock him all she wanted. He didn't care. He had a spell.
Mimic.
A genuine piece of magic, born from his own mind and a badly written story. He felt a fizzing energy in his blood, a frantic need to do something. Tomorrow, he swore to himself. The entire day would be dedicated to this new power.
He would become a master of the trick.
The sheer mental effort of deciphering the book had left him hollow. His stomach churned with a hunger so intense it was almost painful. The cold, half-eaten chicken leg was a forgotten appetizer. He needed more.
His father's secret stash.
The thick, salty strips of dried jerky he saved for the coldest winter nights. The thought was sacrilege, but the excitement of the day demanded a celebration. This was a special occasion.
He moved with the ingrained silence of someone used to thin walls and light sleepers. Downstairs, the main room was bathed in the pale, cool light of the moon. He found his plate and devoured the remaining food in four huge bites, barely tasting it.
Still not enough.
Tiptoeing to the pantry, he slipped inside. The small, windowless room smelled of dried herbs, dusty flour, and damp earth. His eyes, adjusted to the gloom, found the massive wooden drying rack that dominated the space.
His father, a man who loved traps, had built a hidden compartment into its thick frame. August's fingers traced the familiar lines of the wood, searching for the almost invisible latch.
Just as his nail found the groove, a floorboard creaked upstairs. Softly. Then again, closer. Someone was coming down.
A cold spike of panic shot through him. He couldn't make it back to his room in time. Acting on pure animal instinct, he yanked open the main door of the drying rack—a space big enough for a man to stand in—and squeezed inside.
He pulled the slatted door shut just as the pantry door swung open with a soft sigh of wood against wood. He pressed his face to a thin vertical gap, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
His mother stepped into the pantry.
The moonlight from the kitchen window caught her, filtering through her thin cotton nightgown and rendering it nearly transparent.
As she moved closer, a new scent cut through the dry, dusty air. It was something warmer, more alive. A musky, female scent that was uniquely hers, the intimate smell of her body heat.
She might as well have been naked. Her large, heavy breasts, free of any support, swayed with her gentle steps. Her nipples were dark pink, hard pebbles pushing against the fabric.
Below, a thick, dark shadow marked the bush of hair between her legs. She moved with an easy, unselfconscious grace, a woman entirely alone in her private domain.
She wasn't looking for a midnight snack. She moved to a crate of winter vegetables and knelt. Her hands sorted through them, not randomly, but with a clear purpose.
She chose a carrot.
It was long, thick, and unnaturally straight. She stood up, holding it in her hand like a scepter.
Then, she brought it to her lips. August watched, frozen, as her tongue emerged, wet and pink. She licked the carrot slowly, deliberately, a long, wet drag from its root to its tip, coating the rough, earthy skin in saliva.
Her eyes fluttered closed for a second. She brought the tip to her mouth and began to suck, her cheeks hollowing. She slobbered over it, taking more and more of it into her throat until she gagged softly, a little shudder running through her.
Disgust and confusion warred in August's gut. This was his mother. The woman who kissed his cheek and worried about goblins. He needed to look away, to make a noise, to shatter this impossible scene.
But he was paralyzed, a spectator in a horrifying play. His eyes were glued to the gap in the door.
Hannah pulled the glistening carrot from her mouth and walked to a low, sturdy wooden counter, sitting on its edge. She hiked her nightgown up to her waist, baring herself completely to the moonlight.
Her mound was covered in a thick, unruly bush of black hair. With one hand, she slowly caressed her stomach, her fingers tracing circles before dipping lower. They slipped between her legs, teasing the wet, swollen folds of her pussy.
A soft, breathy moan escaped her lips, a sound of pure, selfish pleasure.
As she touched herself, the air in the small pantry grew thick. The smell of her arousal intensified, a heady mix of salt and a strange, wild sweetness, like honey left too long in the sun. It clung to the back of his throat, overriding the familiar scents of dried rosemary and thyme.
She worked her fingers inside herself, just the tips at first, then deeper. August could hear the wet, squelching sounds from across the small room. After a few moments, she pulled her hand away. She brought her fingers to her face, examining them.
Glistening threads of her sticky juices stretched between her index and middle finger, catching the moonlight like spun silver. She brought them to her mouth and licked them clean, slowly, her tongue laving each finger with deliberate care, tasting every single drop.
"Mmm," she hummed, a deep, satisfied sound from her throat.
Against his will, against every rational thought in his head, a powerful erection strained against the rough fabric of August's trousers. He felt sick, his stomach churning with revulsion at himself, at her.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to burn the image away. It's not her.
It's Anna, he thought, forcing the redhead's mischievous face into his mind.
Anna's hair, Anna's hands, Anna's body. It was a frantic, pathetic lie, a shield of denial against a truth too monstrous to accept.
But he couldn't maintain it. His eyes snapped open again, drawn back to the scene.
Hannah took the carrot again. She spat on it, coating it with a fresh layer of saliva, and guided it to her entrance. The blunt tip pushed against her, teasing.
August could see her glistening pussy contract, her juices flowing freely now, the pungent, sweet smell of her arousal filling the confined space. Her pussy seemed to swallow the vegetable, taking the first few inches with a wet sigh.
She found a rhythm, slow and deep. Her left hand moved to her clit, hidden within its hairy nest, and began to rub in small, insistent circles. She leaned back, resting her weight on her elbows, her legs spreading wider, offering August a direct, horrifying, and intimate view.
The carrot, slimy and wet, slid in and out of her glistening hole. The pace quickened. The soft, wet sounds became louder, a rhythmic, slapping tempo that echoed in the silent pantry.
Faster and faster she went, her breath coming in ragged pants. Then, she stopped abruptly.
She pulled the carrot almost all the way out. With a quick flick of her wrist, she turned it around.
And then, with a sharp cry that was half gasp, half scream, she plunged the thick, girthy end into her pussy.
The sudden, brutal thickness forced a scream of raw ecstasy from her throat. Her whole body went rigid. Her back arched violently off the counter, her muscles quivering.
Her free hand shot to her clit, pinching it hard, adding a sharp sting of pain to the overwhelming pleasure. Her small, somewhat dirty feet were in the air, her toes curling and uncurling spasmodically.
She convulsed, her hips bucking as a torrent of her fluids gushed from her, squirting through the air and landing with a wet splash on the stone floor, mere inches from where August was hiding.
The smell hit him like a physical blow. It was potent, raw, and overwhelmingly intimate. Salty, like the sea, but with a sharp, metallic undertone and that same dark, musky sweetness.
It was the scent of life at its most primal, a smell he had no right to know, and it flooded his senses completely.
His mother's body went limp. She lay there, panting, a sheen of sweat covering her skin. After a long moment, she sat up, pulled the carrot from her depleted body, and began to eat it, crunching down on the vegetable still slick with her juices.
When she was done, she hopped off the counter and grabbed a cleaning cloth from a hook.
August's blood ran cold. She was coming to wipe the floor. She was going to see him. He was trapped.
Mimic! he screamed in the prison of his mind. The door! Make it solid! Close the gap! Do something!
He focused all his will on the slit of light, but nothing happened.
The new skill was silent, useless. He squeezed his eyes shut in a final, desperate act. Lokiera, please, he prayed to the goddess who had called him an idiot. Just this once. A freebie. Please, just don't let her see me.
He heard the cloth swishing on the stone floor. His mother's head was so close he could have reached out and touched her hair. He held his breath until his lungs burned. She wiped the spot clean, her focus entirely on her task. She never once glanced toward the drying rack.
She stood up. August dared to hope he was safe.
She turned back to the counter where she had lain. He assumed she would wipe it down as well. Instead, she bent low, bracing her hands on the wood.
She stuck her tongue out and began to lick the puddle of her juices she had left behind, her tongue slurping greedily until the surface was clean.
Utterly satisfied, she gave the spot a final, cursory wipe with the cloth and headed for the door, a giant, contented smile on her face.
The latch clicked. The pantry was dark and silent again.
August didn't move.
He stood in the suffocating darkness of the rack, his mind a hollow, ringing void. The sharp, metallic tang of her climax still hung heavy in the air, a ghost of her presence mixed with the smell of damp earth and dust.
It was suffocating, a scent he knew he would never be able to forget, no matter how hard he tried. He stayed there for thirty minutes, maybe more, unable to process, unable to think.
When he finally stumbled out and made his way back upstairs, his brain was already at work, building a thick, impenetrable wall around the memory. It was an incident that had never happened.
A nightmare—a sight, a sound, a smell—to be forgotten before the sun rose. He would bury it deep, in a place he could never, ever visit again.