The baron's sows arrived at midday—two fat, grunting beasts that doubled the value of our new five acres before the sun even touched the western ridge. I stood in the yard directing Hob and his son on where to pen them while the village watched from a respectful distance. Whispers followed me now—*Thornwood lad turned the raid, turned the land, turned everything.* My name carried weight. My shoulders carried more.
But inside the longhouse the air was thicker than the mud outside.
Mother had barely spoken since the night Mira's broken cries had echoed from my pallet. She moved like the Elara Thornwood the village still feared—back straight, voice commanding as she portioned the new seed grain—but every glance she stole at me burned. Jealousy. Hunger. The memory of my fingers buried in her dripping heat in the barn, the wet slap of Mira riding me two nights ago, the way I had claimed the first of the women she had sheltered for so long.
I felt it every time she passed close enough for her full breasts to brush my arm. Every time her powerful thighs flexed beneath her skirt as she knelt by the hearth. She was breaking, and we both knew it.
By late afternoon the new pen was finished and the longhouse had emptied. Mira and the girls had gone to the north strip with Lila to help mark the new boundary, leaving just the two of us. The big copper tub sat steaming by the hearth again, water hauled and heated in heavy silence. Mother stood beside it, sleeves rolled high, arms glistening with sweat. The thin linen dress clung to her body like a second skin, damp from the steam: massive breasts straining the laces until the deep, sweat-slick valley between them looked ready to spill free, wide hips flaring into the thick, powerful ass and thighs that had haunted every filthy dream since I could remember.
She didn't look at me when she spoke. "You're filthy from the pens. Strip and get in. I'll wash your back."
It wasn't a request.
I shed my tunic and breeches without a word, my cock already half-hard from the sight of her. The water was scalding. I lowered myself in, muscles relaxing even as the tension between us coiled tighter. Mother knelt behind the tub, but this time there was no cloth. Just her bare hands, slick with soap, sliding over my shoulders.
The first touch drew a groan from me. Strong fingers dug into knotted muscle, then softened into slow, deliberate strokes. She leaned forward, her heavy breasts pressing full and warm against my back through the damp linen. I felt the stiff peaks of her nipples drag across my skin, hard as pebbles.
"You've changed everything," she murmured, voice low and rough. "The raid. The grant. The way the village looks at you now. My son… my Elias… standing taller than any man who ever tried to claim me."
Her hands slid lower, thumbs tracing the ridges of my spine, then around my ribs until her palms cupped the sides of my chest. She pressed closer, tits molding heavily against me, the valley of her cleavage trapping a trickle of soapy water that ran down my front like a tease.
"I heard her," she whispered, breath hot against my ear. "Mira. Every moan. Every slap of her thick ass on your thighs while she called you her savior. I stood in the dark and felt… empty. Nineteen years alone, Elias. Nineteen years being the strong one, the widow everyone respects but no one dares touch. And then you… you make her sound like that. Gentle. Safe. Satisfied."
I turned my head. Her green eyes were inches away, dark with loneliness and raw need. The dominating woman who had raised me was cracking wide open.
"Mother…"
"Don't." Her hand slid down my stomach, fingers brushing the head of my cock where it strained above the water. She didn't grip. Just teased—slow, feather-light strokes along the shaft, thumb circling the leaking tip. "You're too young. Too… everything. You think you can handle a woman like me? A real woman? These breasts you stare at every day? This ass that's carried you and buried your father? This pussy that hasn't been properly fucked since before you were born?"
She squeezed once—firm, possessive—then released, letting her heavy breasts drag across my back again as she rocked forward. Her thick thigh pressed against the side of the tub, and I felt the heat of her core even through the water and fabric. Damp. Aching. Soaking.
"I'm lonely," she admitted, voice trembling. "Gods help me, I'm so lonely. Your strength reminds me of what I lost… but better. Harder. The way you protected Mira. The way you look at me like I'm yours to claim. It makes me want to be gentle for you. Submissive. To let you take what no man has earned in nineteen years."
Her hand returned, stroking me slower now, edging me with perfect, experienced rhythm—up, twist, down, thumb pressing the sensitive spot beneath the head until my hips jerked and pre-cum slicked her fingers. She moaned softly, the sound vibrating against my neck.
"But you're still my son," she breathed, even as her hips rocked once, grinding her soaked pussy against the rim of the tub like she couldn't help it. "And I'm terrified of how much I need this. How wet I get just hearing you make another woman scream your name."
I reached back, hand sliding up her thick thigh, under the hem of her dress until my fingers brushed the soaked curls between her legs. She was dripping—hot, slick, lips swollen and open. I stroked her clit once, slow and firm, and she gasped, forehead dropping to my shoulder, breasts crushing harder against me.
"Yes… like that… touch your mother's needy cunt," she whispered, dirty and broken. "Feel how soaked I am for you. But don't… don't put it in. Not yet. I can't… I'm not ready to break completely."
I circled her clit again, two fingers sliding just inside her tight heat, feeling her clench greedily. She rode my hand in tiny, desperate rocks, thick thighs trembling, heavy tits heaving against my back while she edged me with her fist—slow, torturous, never enough to finish.
The tension was unbearable. Steam, soap, the wet sounds of her pussy sucking at my fingers, her broken little moans, the thick scent of her arousal hanging in the air. I was leaking steadily into the water, cock throbbing in her grip, every muscle locked against the need to stand up, bend her over the tub, and finally claim what I had wanted my entire life.
Then the door exploded inward.
Wood splintered. Iron hinges screamed.
Garrick filled the frame, face twisted with drunken rage, three armed thugs behind him—miller's men, clubs and short blades in their fists. His bloodshot eyes locked on Mother, on the way her dress was hiked up my arm, on the steam and the unmistakable scent of sex hanging in the room.
"Elara!" he roared. "Time's up, widow. You're coming with me—right now. The miller's contract is signed. Your boy's little games are over. And if he moves, these lads will gut him like a pig."
Mother's hand froze on my cock. Her body went rigid against my back, the strong woman snapping back into place even as her pussy still fluttered around my fingers.
But her voice, when it came, shook with something new.
Fear.
And beneath it, the breaking point I had been waiting for.
**End of Chapter 10**