Oswin stood frozen in the middle of Lira's herb-scented hut, heart jackhammering, as his aunt's fingertip traced one last lazy circle around the obscene tent in his loincloth.
Then suddenly without warning she stepped back and clapped her hands together once, and beamed at him with the exact same warm, maternal smile his actual mother had worn that morning.
"Let's bathe you first!"
Oswin blinked. Once. Twice.
"…Huh?"
Lira laughed softly, the sound rich and easy, like she hadn't just been one breath away from palming him through the leather.
"You smell like sleep and morning excitement, my dear nephew. No proper lesson starts when a boy's all sticky and sweaty." She tilted her head, eyes twinkling with mischief that was somehow both filthy and innocent at the same time. "Besides, everyone knows a clean body feels better for… everything."
She turned away before he could formulate a response, hips swaying as she moved toward the back of the hut. There, a large wooden tub which looked more like a shallow trough carved from a single massive log, sat waiting, already half-filled with steaming water. Steam curled up in lazy spirals, carrying the faint scent of crushed herbs and something faintly sweet.
Oswin swallowed hard.
'Okay. Bath. Just a bath. This is normal here. Totally normal. Like helping your nephew wash his back is the tribal equivalent of offering coffee.'
Lira dipped a soft cloth into the water, wrung it out with practiced ease, and turned back to him.
"Come on, sweet boy. Clothes off."
She said it so casually—like she was asking him to pass the salt.
Oswin's hands moved on autopilot. The loincloth hit the packed-earth floor with a soft thud. His erection—painfully obvious now—bobbed free, thick and flushed, pointing straight at her like an accusation.
Lira didn't even pretend not to look. Her gaze dropped, lingered, and a slow, appreciative hum vibrated in her throat.
"Mmm. Your mother wasn't exaggerating. You're definitely growing into a fine man, Oswin."
She stepped closer—close enough that the heat of her body brushed against his naked skin—and began wiping the warm cloth across his shoulders. Slow circles. Gentle pressure. The water trickled down his chest in warm rivulets.
Oswin's breath hitched.
She moved lower, tracing the lines of his collarbone, then his pectorals, then, very deliberately swiping the cloth across one nipple making him jolt.
"Are you sensitive here?" she murmured, voice low and teasing. "That's good to know."
The cloth drifted down his stomach, following the faint trail of dark hair that led straight to—
She stopped just short of his cock, letting the wet fabric brush the sensitive skin of his inner thighs instead. Oswin's hips jerked forward involuntarily.
Lira chuckled again, soft and indulgent.
"Stop moving too much"
She knelt, gods help him, she actually knelt, bringing her face level with his throbbing length. For one heart-stopping second he thought—
But no.
She simply dipped the cloth again, wrung it, and began washing his legs. Long, firm strokes up his calves, behind his knees, along the insides of his thighs. Every pass brought her knuckles or the back of her hand "accidentally" grazing the underside of his shaft. Feather-light and maddening.
Oswin bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted copper.
'This is torture. This is actual, literal blue-balls torture disguised as hygiene.'
Lira rose smoothly, breasts brushing his chest as she stood. She pressed the cloth between his legs from behind now, cupping his balls through the wet fabric in one large, warm hand.
"Just making sure everything's nice and clean," she whispered against his ear. Her breath was hot. "Can't have my favorite nephew walking around all neglected."
She gave the gentlest squeeze—more affectionate than sexual—and let go.
Oswin made a sound that was halfway between a whimper and a growl.
Lira stepped back, satisfied, and draped the cloth over the edge of the tub.
"There. All fresh." She looked him up and down with open pride, like she'd just finished polishing a prized weapon. "Now sit. Let me rinse your hair."
She guided him down onto a low wooden stool beside the tub. He sat with his cock still painfully hard, jutting upward like it had its own agenda, and tried to remember how breathing worked.
Lira stood behind him, poured warm water over his head from a clay pitcher, and began working her fingers through his black hair. Strong, callused fingertips massaged his scalp in slow, soothing circles. It felt… unfairly good.
"You're tense," she observed mildly. "Relax, Oswin. Auntie's got you."
One hand slipped forward, resting lightly on his shoulder while the other kept rinsing. Her breast pressed softly against the back of his head—warm, heavy, impossibly soft.
He could feel her nipple through the thin leather band. Hard. Interested.
She leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
"See? Bathing can be nice too. No rush. We have all day for the rest of your… education."
She straightened, poured one last pitcher of water over him, and stepped around to face him again.
Water dripped from his hair, ran in rivulets down his chest, his abs, his still-aching cock.
Lira's eyes followed every drop.
She licked her lips once—slowly—then smiled that same soft, dangerous smile.
"All clean," she purred. "Now… shall we dry you off properly? Or are you ready to learn what comes after the bath?"
Oswin stared up at her, water beading on his lashes, body thrumming with unspent need.
'This woman is going to kill me.'
'And I'm going to thank her for it.'