The Greyson raid struck at dusk like a hammer on hot iron.
They arrived with twenty men, three dogs, and that damned dire boar squealing at the lead. We met them at the mill gate with everything we possessed—slingstones, billhooks, and the new sluice-gate trap I had rigged that morning. The river surged at precisely the right moment, sweeping six of them into the millrace before they even reached the wall. The Flour Man's shadow struck twice amid the chaos, leaving two more white-dusted corpses for Red Willem to discover at dawn.
When the last Greyson fled, the yard lay littered with broken spears and blood, yet not a single Blackwater had fallen. We had won.
The family cheered. Marta barked orders to secure the gate and tend the wounded. Elara's eyes found mine across the yard, wide with relief and something fiercer, her full breasts rising and falling beneath her blood-spattered apron.
But Marta did not cheer.
She seized my wrist in an iron grip the instant the last enemy vanished into the trees. "Loft. Now. Strategy."
Her voice was rough, commanding—the same tone she used to run the mill across nine generations. I followed without a word.
The mill loft was a narrow space above the grinding stones, thick with the scent of fresh rye and aged wood. A single lantern swayed from a beam, casting long shadows across sacks of flour. The wheel groaned below us, slow and steady, its vibrations humming through the floorboards.
Marta slammed the trapdoor shut and barred it.
Then she turned on me.
Seventy-three winters old. Yet her body was built like a ripe, powerful goddess who had never ceased being a woman. Her linen shirt was torn at the shoulder from the fight, hanging open enough to reveal the heavy, pendulous weight of her breasts. Caramel nipples—dark, wide, already stiff—pressed against the damp fabric, as if pleading for attention. Her breeches clung to wide hips and a soft, generous ass that shifted with every step she took toward me.
"You," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. "You turned the river itself into a weapon tonight. You stood in front of your mother like she was yours to protect. And you looked at me in that yard as though you already owned me."
She shoved me back against a flour sack. Strong. Dominant. The iron matriarch who had buried husbands and outlived sons.
"I'm your grandmother, boy," she said, eyes blazing. "This is sin. This is wrong. I should slap the hunger from your eyes and send you back to your mother's skirts."
Her hand fisted in my tunic. She yanked me down and crushed her mouth to mine.
The kiss was fierce, demanding—her tongue surging in as if she still believed she could control this. I tasted sweat and rye and thirty years of pent-up frustration.
Then I took over.
I spun us, pinning her against the rough wooden wall. My hands claimed that soft, wide ass—thick and heavy, filling my palms as I squeezed. She gasped into my mouth. The iron drained from her voice in a single broken moan.
"Garrick—"
I dropped to my knees, yanking her breeches down in one swift motion. Her tanned sex was right there, glistening in the lantern light. Light-brown outer lips, darker inner folds already swollen and slick. A thick, unruly medieval bush of dark curls framed it, soaked with her arousal. The scent enveloped me—rich, earthy, the raw musk of a woman who hadn't been properly claimed in decades.
I buried my face between her thick thighs and licked.
Marta's head slammed back against the wall. "Gods—yes!"
I devoured her. My tongue traced through her folds, sucking at her clit, two fingers sliding deep into that dripping, experienced core. She tasted of sin and victory. Her full breasts heaved above me, caramel nipples hard as pebbles. Her generous ass quivered each time she bucked against my face.
She came fast and hard, thighs clamping around my head, a guttural cry tearing from her as her sex clenched and flooded my tongue.
Before she could catch her breath, I stood, freed my cock, and lifted her. At twenty-two, I was strong enough to hold her against the wall. Her legs wrapped around my waist, thick thighs trembling.
"Inside me," she gasped, her voice no longer commanding. "Please, grandson—fill your grandmother's cunt."
I thrust in.
Her sex was tight, hot, and soaking. The thick bush tickled my base as I buried every inch. Marta's eyes rolled back. Her heavy breasts bounced against my chest, caramel nipples dragging across my skin.
"F-fuck… you're so deep," she whimpered, the dominant matriarch melting into pure submissive need. "I'm your grandmother… this is so wrong… but don't you dare stop."
I fucked her hard against the wall. The mill wheel groaned below in rhythm with every slap of my hips against her soft, jiggling ass. Her sex clenched around me as if it had waited thirty years for this.
"Harder," she begged, nails digging into my shoulders. "Claim me. Breed your grandmother's old cunt. I've waited so long for a man who could actually satisfy me—"
I gave her everything. Deep, powerful strokes that made her full breasts bounce and her generous ass ripple. She came again, screaming my name, her core gushing around my cock.
I didn't pull out.
I carried her to a pile of flour sacks, laid her on her back, and drove back in. Her legs spread wide, sex stretched around me, dark inner lips glistening. I sucked one caramel nipple into my mouth while I fucked her, then the other. Her hands tangled in my hair, gentle now, submissive.
"Fill me," she whispered, voice trembling with need. "Give me every drop. I'm yours, Garrick. Your grandmother belongs to you now."
I buried myself to the hilt and came.
Thick ropes of cum flooded her sex, spilling out around my cock and into her thick bush. She shuddered through another orgasm, milking me dry, whispering filthy, broken praise against my neck.
We didn't stop at one round.
I took her twice more in that loft—once with her bent over a sack, generous ass rippling as I fucked her from behind, once with her riding me slow and deep, big breasts swaying, caramel nipples in my mouth while she moaned "I'm your grandmother… but your cock feels so much better than any man I've ever had."
When we finally collapsed, covered in sweat and flour and cum, Marta curled against my chest like she had never been the iron matriarch at all. Her thick body was soft and spent, sex still leaking my seed, heavy breasts pressed to my side.
She kissed my jaw, gentle and trembling.
"I've been craving a real man for thirty years," she whispered. "Tonight you proved every younger fool who ever tried and failed wrong. I'm yours now, grandson. Your grandmother. Your woman. Protect me… and fuck me like this every night and I'll follow you into hell itself."
The mill wheel turned below us, steady and eternal.
Outside, the feud still raged. The Baron's full moon deadline loomed. Red Willem's dire boar was coming.
But in this loft, the first true claim had been made.
Grandmother Marta Blackwater—seventy-three winters old, body still thick and perfect—now belonged to me.
And from the way her fingers traced lazy circles on my chest while her sex dripped my cum onto the flour sacks, she had never been happier.
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**End of Chapter 6**