Dawn broke gray and damp, the kind of spring morning in Eldoria that promised rain and thin soup for supper. I was already out in the far corner of our three-strip field before the village cocks crowed, knee-deep in last year's stubble. No one was watching. Good. The last thing I needed was some nosy reeve or jealous neighbor asking why the Thornwood boy was planting in neat, measured rows instead of the usual chaotic scatter.
Crop rotation. Three fields, three crops, one left fallow. Simple knowledge from my old world—barley here this year, peas and beans next to restore the soil, then wheat, then rest. I'd read about it in half-forgotten history books back when I was just a horny teenager dreaming of MILFs instead of medieval agriculture. Here, it could mean the difference between scraping by and having real leverage. I worked quickly, scattering the extra pea seed I'd hoarded from last autumn's market trades and patting the cold earth down with my boot. If this worked, we'd have surplus grain by harvest. Enough to pay debts, buy silence, or feed my family without begging for the baron's scraps.
By the time I wiped the dirt from my hands and trudged back to the longhouse, it smelled of fresh bread and woodsmoke. Mother stood at the hearth, sleeves rolled up, arms glistening with sweat. The thin linen of her shift clung to the generous swell of her breasts, the deep valley between them flushed pink from the heat. Every bend and stretch made her powerful thighs flex beneath her skirt, the fabric riding high enough to hint at the strong curve where her ass met her leg. I drank in the sight like a man dying of thirst, my cock giving a slow, familiar twitch beneath my breeches.
She caught me looking. Her green eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth twitched—half warning, half something warmer. "You've been out early. Planning to single-handedly feed the village?"
"Something like that," I said, forcing a grin. I didn't explain. Not yet. Knowledge like this could get a man branded a witch or a fool if it spread too far.
The morning passed in the usual rhythm of chores. Lila and Nora helped Mother with the wash while Mira sat quietly on the bench, her bruises faded to ugly yellow but her eyes still hollow. She kept glancing at the door as if expecting Garrick to kick it in at any moment. I caught Nora's shy gaze lingering on me more than once, her soft cheeks coloring when I nodded at her. Lila scowled at the laundry, muttering loudly about "useless men" so everyone could hear.
Then the useless man himself arrived.
The door banged open without warning. Garrick filled the frame, sober for once but reeking of stale ale and barely contained rage. His eyes locked onto Mother immediately, crawling greedily over her breasts, her hips, and the way her ass filled out the back of her skirt as she turned to face him.
"Elara," he growled, voice thick. "We need to talk. In private."
Mother planted her feet firmly, arms crossed beneath her chest in that way that lifted and pressed her heavy breasts together until the laces looked ready to snap. "Anything you have to say, you say in front of my son and your own wife."
Garrick's lip curled. He stepped inside anyway, boots tracking mud across the floor. "Fine. My debts are due to the miller by midsummer. Fifty silver marks. I can't pay." His gaze raked over her again. "But you… you've got that fat strip of land your fool husband left you. And that strong boy of yours working it. Help me, sister-in-law. A little 'family favor.' Or I start spreading the truth about how lonely you've been these nineteen years. How maybe that boy Elias isn't even my brother's blood. How maybe you've been warming other beds while pretending to be the perfect widow. The village loves a good whore story. Those three suitors sniffing around you? They'll scatter like rabbits once the rumors start flying."
The words landed like a slap. Mira made a small, broken sound. Lila's fists clenched around the laundry paddle. Nora looked ready to cry.
Rage surged hot and sharp in my chest, but I kept my expression calm. This was the war I fought every day—protect them, claim them, without burning everything down too soon. Garrick wasn't just threatening my mother; he was threatening the fragile peace that kept us alive in this brutal world.
Mother's voice remained cold steel. "You'd ruin your own nieces' reputations with lies just to save your hide?"
"Better ruined than starving," Garrick sneered. His eyes dropped once more, lingering on the way her breasts rose with each angry breath. "Or you could be smart. Come under my roof. All of you. I'll keep the girls safe… and you'll keep me warm at night. Those fat tits and that fat ass of yours were made for a real man, not some dead drunk or a whelp still wet behind the ears."
I stepped forward before I could stop myself. "You'll get your silver, Uncle. But not from her bed. And if one whisper of your filth leaves your mouth, I'll make sure the reeve hears all about the tithe sacks that keep disappearing from the village granary. I've been keeping count."
Garrick laughed, but it sounded forced. He backed toward the door, eyes promising violence. "You've got until the next full moon, boy. After that, the whole barony hears how Elara Thornwood spreads her legs for coin and comfort." The door slammed shut behind him.
Silence crashed down. Mother exhaled slowly, the fight draining from her shoulders for a moment. She looked at me—really looked—and for a heartbeat the strong, commanding woman I loved seemed to crack. Vulnerability flickered in those green eyes, mixed with something hotter that made my blood run thick.
"Elias…" she began, but I shook my head.
"I'll handle it. The fields are doing better than last year. We'll have grain to sell or trade. No one touches you. Or Mira. Or the girls."
Mira rose, wiping her eyes. "I… I should go back. Before he comes looking for me."
"No," I said quickly. "Stay. At least tonight. The loft is warm. We'll bar the door."
She hesitated, then nodded. The rest of the day passed in tense quiet. I worked the fields again, secretly checking my new plantings while my mind turned over every possible way to turn those extra peas into silver before the full moon. Mother and the girls kept busy, but I noticed the lingering glances—Mother's hand brushing my arm a little too long when she passed me bread, Lila's fiery eyes softening with reluctant respect, and Nora's shy blush whenever I smiled at her.
Night fell thick and moonless. The longhouse grew quiet. I lay on my pallet, staring at the rafters, my cock half-hard from the memory of Mother's cleavage in the firelight and the way Mira's exhausted body had trembled earlier. Sleep refused to come.
Then came the soft creak of the loft ladder.
Mira descended in nothing but her thin shift, barefoot, a flickering candle stub in her hand. The bruises still shadowed her arms and collarbone, but the rest of her—Gods, the rest of her—was pure Thornwood blood. Thirty-six years old, lush and ripe like Mother: full breasts swaying gently with each careful step, wide hips rolling, thick thighs brushing together under the hem. Her dark hair spilled loose down her back, and her eyes were red from crying once again.
"Elias," she whispered, voice cracking. "I… I can't sleep up there. Every sound makes me think it's him coming for me. Can I… just sit with you for a minute?"
I sat up, heart pounding. "Of course, Aunt Mira."
She sank down beside me on the pallet, closer than necessary. The candle went out. In the darkness, her scent enveloped me—lavender soap from the wash, faint sweat, and that warm, womanly musk that made my cock stiffen instantly. She leaned into me, trembling, and suddenly her body pressed fully against my side. Those soft, heavy breasts crushed warmly against my chest through the thin linen. Her thick thigh slid over mine, seeking comfort, and I felt the unmistakable heat of her core, damp and needy, as she buried her face in my neck.
"I'm so tired," she breathed against my skin, her voice small and submissive in a way that sent fire straight to my groin. "Of being strong. Of pretending. You… you protected us last night. The way you stood up to him… no one's ever done that for me. Not even my own husband."
Her hand found my chest, fingers tracing the muscle there with far from innocent intent. I wrapped an arm around her, my palm settling on the generous curve of her ass—round, soft, and powerful. She didn't pull away. Instead, she pressed even closer, a soft, broken sob escaping as her hips shifted, grinding once against my thigh as if her body was acting on its own.
I held her tighter, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling every inch of that experienced, aching body molding against mine. My cock throbbed painfully against her leg, but I didn't push for more. Not yet. This was comfort. This was the first real taste of what I craved—her gentle surrender, her trust, her warmth.
"Sleep here tonight," I murmured into her hair. "You're safe with me. All of you are."
She nodded against my neck, her body relaxing into mine. Her breasts pillowed heavier against me as her thigh slid higher. The heat between her legs soaked through the linen, a silent promise of how wet and ready she was beneath the fear.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the fire inside me roared even louder.
Garrick's threats loomed. The suitors circled. The full moon crept closer.
But right now, with my aunt's voluptuous body pressed trustingly against me, crying softly while her hips unconsciously rocked for comfort, I knew one thing for certain.
I would protect them.
I would claim them.
And when the time came, I would satisfy every last ache those strong, broken MILFs carried—starting with the woman trembling in my arms.
**End of Chapter 3**