The south fields stretched out like a sea of green that shouldn't have existed yet.
Three days after the raid, the new drainage ditches were already working, drawing water away from the low ground, and the first rows of spring barley in the rotated third field were pushing up thick and vibrant. I stood on the low ridge beside the reeve, wiping sweat from my brow as the smallfolk worked below. The air carried the rich scent of turned earth, crushed herbs, and early wildflowers. No more stunted stalks struggling in exhausted soil. My half-remembered modern ideas were actually bearing fruit.
"Never seen the barley come in so strong this early," the reeve muttered, scratching his beard. "Your lordship's changes… they're paying off."
I clapped him on the shoulder. "Tell the villagers the tithe on this harvest drops by a tenth. They've earned it."
Word traveled faster than the spring wind. By the time I rode back to the manor, servants were smiling openly instead of offering silent bows. The cook slipped an extra honey cake into my hand. Even the stableboys stood a little straighter when I passed.
Mother was waiting in the bailey, as if she had been watching the road. Baroness Seraphina Vaelor looked every inch the ruler in a deep emerald gown that hugged her curves, her raven hair pinned high with a few silver strands dancing in the breeze. She was issuing crisp orders to the steward about the upcoming harvest festival, but the moment her dark green eyes found me, something warmer flickered in them. Pride. Hunger. She strode forward, hips swaying with confident power, the fabric of her gown straining across her full chest.
"Ethan," she announced loud enough for the gathered household to hear, "the fields are thriving because of you. My strong son. The man Willowmere has needed." She pulled me into a public embrace—brief and proper—yet her body pressed against mine a heartbeat longer than necessary. The soft, warm weight of her breasts molded against my chest. Her breath brushed my ear, hot and scented with rosewater. "Come to the solar after the noon meal," she whispered. "We need… advice on the festival."
She stepped back, once again the perfect Baroness, though a faint flush colored her cheeks.
The noon meal was simple and quick. As soon as it ended, she took me by the wrist and led me into the private solar. The door clicked shut behind us. Heavy tapestries muffled the sounds of the manor. Sunlight streamed through a single window, catching on the swell of her breasts as she turned to face me.
"You've done well," she murmured, her voice dropping into that low, husky tone that made my pulse quicken. "Better than I ever dared hope." She stepped close, no servants watching this time. Her arms slid around my neck, pulling me into a long, lingering embrace. Her full breasts pressed warmly against my chest, nipples already firm through the fabric. Her thick hips rocked once, almost unconsciously, as the heat of her body seeped into me. Her lips grazed the skin just below my ear. "My sweet boy… my strong lord. You make me feel things a mother shouldn't."
I rested my hands on her waist, feeling the flare of her hips and the strength beneath. She smelled of rosewater, warm skin, and the faint, heady musk of arousal. My cock hardened against her belly, thick and insistent. She didn't pull away. Instead, she pressed closer, a soft, needy sound escaping her throat.
We remained like that for several long seconds—her body yielding against mine, breaths quickening—until she finally stepped back with visible reluctance. Her eyes were dark, lips parted. "Later," she whispered, echoing my words from the bath. "After the festival plans are settled. We'll… celebrate properly."
She smoothed her gown and sent me away with a lingering touch on my arm.
I was still half-hard when Aunt Isolde cornered me in the library an hour later.
The room smelled of old parchment, beeswax, and aged leather. Tall shelves lined the walls, and a single candle burned on the reading table. I was reviewing the festival accounts when the door opened and closed softly behind me.
Aunt Isolde filled the doorway like a golden temptation. Her russet gown was cut lower today, the laces loosened enough to reveal the generous curves of her breasts. Golden hair spilled loosely over one shoulder as she crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, her hips rolling.
"Proud of you, nephew," she purred, voice low and throaty. She stopped inches away, close enough for the heat of her body to wash over me. "Such a big, clever boy—making the fields green and the smallfolk smile. Your mother can't stop singing your praises… and neither can I."
Her hand settled on my chest, then slid downward, fingers tracing the lines of my stomach until they brushed the front of my breeches. She cupped the thick bulge openly, giving it a gentle squeeze. My cock jumped in her palm, already leaking. She stroked once, slow and firm, her thumb circling the head through the fabric.
"Feel how hard you are for us," she whispered, lips brushing my ear, her full breasts pressing heavily against my arm. "I've been wet since breakfast just thinking about this thick cock stretching my cunt. Wondering how you'd taste on my tongue while your mother watches." Her grip tightened, stroking again as her thigh slid between mine, letting me feel the warmth between her legs. "We both want it so badly, Ethan. On our knees for you. Submissive and dripping while we beg our lord to use us."
My hands found her wide hips, pulling her closer. The scent of her arousal—sweet and musky—filled the air. Her nipples were hard points against my chest. For a moment, I thought she would drop to her knees right there.
Then she stepped back with a wicked little laugh, leaving my cock throbbing and untouched. "Not yet," she teased, licking her lower lip. "The festival first. Let the tension build until you can't stand it. Then we'll reward our clever boy properly."
She slipped out of the room, hips swaying, leaving me aching with frustration.
Later, in the great hall, the royal decree arrived like a blow.
A hard-eyed messenger in the king's colors handed me the sealed parchment. Double the tithe by midsummer, it demanded, unless we sent "gifts" worthy of the crown—fine wine, cured hams, the best wool, and a chest of silver for the royal coffers. Blackthorn's influence, no doubt.
Mother's expression turned cold and sharp when I read it aloud. Aunt Isolde's jaw tightened. The barony could not afford this—not without starving the smallfolk or emptying the stores.
I didn't hesitate. "We won't pay it," I said quietly once the messenger had left. "Not like this. I'll ride out tomorrow under cover and meet the merchant guild from Rivermark in secret. They've been eager for our wool and barley. We'll strike a private trade deal. Gold in our pockets, goods moved quietly before the tax collectors arrive. The crown gets its minimum. We keep the rest."
Mother studied me for a long moment before nodding once, pride burning bright in her eyes. "Do it. My son is becoming the lord this land deserves."
Aunt's hand brushed my lower back as she passed, a silent promise.
That night I lay in bed, still half-hard from the day's teasing, staring up at the canopy. The fields were thriving. The raid had been repelled. The festival would be a success. And a secret merchant deal was already taking shape in my mind—practical, profitable, the kind of quiet defiance that kept a barony alive.
But every time I closed my eyes, I saw soft curves pressed against me, felt warm breath at my ear, and heard two powerful, experienced women whispering how desperately they wanted to submit to me.
The price of progress was steep.
And I was more than willing to pay it.