Nursing Him Pt. 02

It's been sunnier lately, warmer too. There are blossoms on the vines that wrap and cling to the verandah. The pink blooms frame him gorgeously as he plows the earth; a perfectly romantic scene, not unlike a painting. There's new strength in his muscles as he chips away at the ground, his rhythm precise and steady. He looks up at me and smiles. His glistening face is weary but content, his eyes sparkling in the late afternoon sun.

Yes, he's fully recovered from his injury, now. And yet here he remains. It was a short conversation. He asked if I wanted him to go. I said he could stay if he liked. He was glowing but clearly distressed at the notion of becoming a freeloader. "That wouldn't be fair on you, though, would it?" he had said. "If I stay, I want to earn my keep."

And so, I've taken him on as something of a labourer. He tills my soil, waters the shoots, and harvests the spoils, and I continue to provide him with food and board. To tell the complete truth, I would be delighted to just keep him here with me for nothing. I would be perfectly content to let him just sit and look pretty all day while I potter about. Cook and clean for him. Make his bed. Help him wash.

But that wouldn't have been a sound idea, no matter how much pleasure it gave me to picture in my head. I can only grow and sell so much produce on my own in this little clearing. In all honesty, having his capable hands around the place is exactly what I need. In more ways than one.

He finishes one patch and moves to the next. I bring him some water and our hands graze as I pass him the glass.

"You work so hard, baby." I've been calling him that rather comfortably ever since our first venture together, that night we shared his bed.

"I mean, I like to," he replies, wiping his brow. "Can't just study plants all day, right?" He chuckles softly, waves his hand at the work he's done thus far. "Gotta get my hands dirty, too."

He notices the look I'm giving him and blushes, realising his choice of words. His gaze is drifting to my blouse, or down it, rather. I chose a rather low-cut one today. I press my chest out slightly as I take his empty glass. "You've gotten plenty dirty for today, anyhow. So don't be out too much longer in this sun. Come in soon, okay?"

"Okay, I will."

"Good boy."

-----

The barges come down the river twice a week, their low hulls weighed down in the water with all manner of goods, the men aboard singing old songs as they come. I sell them my vegetables, and they provide me with coin and necessities such as firewood, cloth, and lamp oil in return. They then unfasten their vessel from the post and off they go, singing merrily down their river, bound for the village.

I've taught him how to handle the transactions, and he's taken on the task with surprising rigour. He seems a different person as he chatters with the barge men -- much more like a man than a boy. He speaks low, sparingly as he cackles and banters with them. His shoulders ripple as he takes up the crates, setting them down with a laugh. They shove and wrestle, bat each other on the arm as they say their goodbyes. Gruff, curt, stoic.

I watch on and bite my lip, remembering just how soft and high his voice got when I pressed my ass into his crotch. How he shuddered so weakly, apologised so frantically as I cleaned his hot mess up with my mouth. How he nestled into my chest afterwards, sleepy and satisfied.

I'm smiling to myself and my smalls are wet as we trudge back up to the house. Oh, I know what he can get like, when it's just the two of us.

-----

It's Sunday. A day for both of us to rest. We're going to bake together today, him and I.

Everything's going splendidly. The garden is fuller, brighter, and neater than it has ever been, thanks in no small part to his strong hands and botanical prowess. The soil is rich and well-tilled, sifted free of rocks and clumps. Green sprouts are curling up and out of the ground, and the fruit branches are budding over -- soft promises of plentiful future harvests.

Yes, I should feel happy. But right now, all I can focus on is how she's laughing with him, eyeing his chest and arms greedily.

I've never had a problem with her, the miller's daughter. She's a fine young girl, pretty-faced and hardworking, her red cheeks and tight-fitting apron always dusted down with flour. It's only now that she's giggling at his every word and twirling her hair stupidly in his presence that I feel this animosity.

He takes the bags of flour from her and clinks coins into her waiting palm. They share a grin, her eyes yet again dropping to peruse the cut of his torso, so easily defined through his thin white work shirt.

Almost reluctantly he starts back over to me. I fold my arms tightly over my chest, give her a terse smile and walk him back home. I toss hair out of my face, try to relax my shoulders. We're to bake something nice today. That's what we're going to do, despite this sudden bitter feeling.

"She's nice," he says softly as we step inside.

I don't look at him. I reply, "It's good we've got the flour."

-----

I'm teaching him how to make one of his favourites: cinnamon scrolls. I guide him gently through the process, and he's a perfect learner. He tips out the correct amount of flour, sifts it in neatly with the dry ingredients. I help him add the wet ingredients to the bowl and my arms butt awkwardly past him, getting into his space.

I know he can smell my perfume as I come close to him. I know he can see down my blouse, catching an eyeful of my cleavage.

I show him how to knead. I watch his perfect forearms stiffen and release as his sun-browned knuckles work the dough up and into itself, over and over. I think about those same perfect arms being caressed by that stupid girl, and it takes a moment for me to rid my mind of the thought.

"What do we do now?" he asks.

"We roll it out and fill it up. Yes, like that. Good job."

The air is laced with cinnamon as he generously spreads the filling across the flattened dough. I stay nice and close to him as we roll it up, arm to arm. Just to make sure he's doing it right, of course. We slice the finished bundle to pieces, space them out and slot the tray into the oven. I clap the heavy door shut, wash my hands, and meet his gaze. He's leaning patiently against the counter with a soft smile across his lips. Waiting for my next instruction.

I let my hair down with a sigh. "Now, we just have to wait."

"Oh, okay. But is there anything else to do?" As ever, he's eager to help -- endearingly so. His meekly folded hands and attentive face have me blushing, chewing my lip, a familiar warmth blooming between my thighs.

Only now, once we've stopped bustling about, do I realise just how badly I need him. I reply softly, "I suppose we could get started on the glaze."

-----

Making glaze is ever so simple -- just milk and icing sugar. I whip them together and he watches on. I give him a turn mixing. I watch his tongue catch the side of his mouth adorably as he focuses on not spilling anything. I shuffle closer to him, half a step.

Out of nowhere he says something that has me wringing my hands in my apron pocket. "We should bring some scrolls to that miller girl," he muses as he mixes. "It would be nice, I think."

"That's a sweet idea, baby." I manage to keep my voice level. I take the bowl from him gently, set it down on the counter. Take a moment to breathe, just breathe.

"Is everything okay?" he asks softly.

I catch his gaze and don't look away. Lust and jealousy grate together and set sparks flying inside of me. I speak slow, soft, and sultry. "Everything's fine... You just have to give this a taste for me, baby." I dip a thumb in the bowl of glaze, bring it to his mouth rather insistently.

He emits the faintest gasp before taking the invitation in an instant, letting his chin rest into my palm while his hot mouth wraps onto my thumb. He licks it clean and keeps sucking. I pull him into me by his waist, bracing our bodies together, hard. His eyes are shining with sudden want. This is exactly how I need him in this moment: utterly pathetic for me. I feel so damn hungry for him, it's scary.

We break away from each other. My hands catch on the counter edge and I press my back into it, supporting myself. I lick my lips, then rip my blouse down. My tits jump out and I can see him respond, something thick jumping to life in his pants. Good.

I take a spoonful of glaze and spread it across my rack, feeling it drip down cool and sticky over my nipples, pooling in between my breasts and catching in my bellybutton. I grab myself, jiggle immodestly. I pout, "Are you just gonna stare, baby? Mummy's all sweet and sticky for you..."

"Oh, Mummy, that's so..." He's all over me in less than a second, burying his face in my bosom, our hands finding each other and clasping clumsily as he licks and bites and sucks away. He twirls his tongue hard over my nipple and I moan. He's feasting on me exactly how I need him to: he's licking down, down from my tits, into my waistband and back up, lapping up the milky glaze from my skin like it's the only thing he's had to eat in days. I'm both alarmed and delighted by how little he comes up for air.

Even once I'm licked clean he continues to explore me with his mouth. He sucks on me as if I have milk, his eyes wide and bright as he latches on fast to each nipple, one at a time. I stroke his hair and tease, "You like sucking Mummy's titties, baby? You like Mummy feeding you, hmm?"

"Mm-hmm," he whimpers through a mouthful of tit. He breaks away, saliva webbing between his parted lips and my breasts. "God, yes. I love sucking on you, Mummy. I love it so much."

I can feel the rough fabric of his work pants rubbing into my thigh: his hard prick, jutting into me. But I don't want to address that just yet. He needs to taste my body some more -- service me some more. I slide up onto the countertop. I toss my apron off, lift my skirt. Slide off my damp smalls, flick them away, too. The cool stone bites at my bare ass but I don't care. I spread my legs, give him a proper view.

It's the first time he's seen my cunt. She's making a little puddle for him already, soaking, pulsing, yearning. Again, that flour-dusted girl flashes into my mind's eye and almost spoils the moment. Almost. I'm feeling a tad hesitant, but I refuse to lower my skirt.

I'm thrilled to see him taken aback at the sight, his eyes glossing over with newfound lust for me. I spread myself open with two splayed fingers and scarcely raise my voice above a whisper. "Come on, now, baby. I know you've always wanted to eat me."

He drops to his knees, runs his hands along my trembling thighs. "Yes, Mummy. Yes, I have."

"Don't be shy. Get right in there." I grab a handful of his hair and force his face into my crotch, stuffing his mouth and nose into my wet cunt, hard. He splutters, manages to stick his tongue out and eats me tentatively at first, his pupils wide with meek obedience. Two or three licks in, he forgets himself: he ravishes me, utterly addicted to my taste. I can feel his tongue invading my slit, pushing its way in greedily, and the slow, staggered friction is enough to set me shuddering, moaning his name weakly between gulps of air.

"Yes, yes, yes. Fuck Mummy's kitty with your tongue, baby. Tongue-fuck Mummy nice and deep... There you go..." I'm saying such nasty things and praising him and he gets rougher in response. My hands don't leave the back of his head; my grasp holds firm. He pries my thighs apart with his elbows and I can feel him slip in yet deeper, his tongue curling up and into my hole, digging away at me, picking up a savage rhythm. He drops a hand into his pants. Fuck, he's stroking himself to the taste of me. I'm soaking his lips and cheeks with my juices and he looks so lost in his lust for me that I could --

"Oh, fuck!" I squeal, whip my head back, pull him in close as I feel myself go over the edge. I cum in his mouth, squeezing his tongue, forcing him to stay in my churning cunt for but a moment before he dislodges from my embrace. He's licking his lips and panting, whimpering into my spent pussy as he finishes himself off, his breath hitching as he fills his pants with his load.

He mumbles, his breath heavy and desperate on my still-trembling cunt, "Oh, you taste so good, Mummy. You taste so good; it made me cum in my pants..."

"You ate that kitty so good, baby. You made Mummy cum all over your pretty face." I can smell his soaked pants even from up here on the counter. The scent of his cum is making my toes curl, even post-orgasm.

I kiss him and I can taste myself on his lips. I muscle him to the floor, take his pants down. I pin his arms to his sides and slurp up his load. I lick his salty mess up and gulp it down and he's shuddering, whimpering for me. Pretty, pathetic -- perfect.

I want him to stay with me here forever.

The oven dings. Damn, already time to check on the scrolls. He tries to get up, mutters, "We should be careful they don't burn, Mummy--"

I shift my weight, keep him down. Grind my sodden pussy along his thigh, pressing firm and slow. Our mouths meet and lock together.

We stay like this for a little longer.

-----

I did end up taking him back to the flour mill, later in the day. Yes, he did stay a tad overlong chatting with the miller's daughter, even after we had gifted the basket of scrolls to her. But I didn't mind, not as much as I anticipated I would've. And I bid her farewell with less coldness in my smile than last time -- less bitterness.

I feel a stab of shame. Only now I know that I can still have him on his knees, begging to lick and savour my dirtiest parts, do I feel secure. Only now that I know I can reduce him to a whimpering mess, anytime I want, do I feel content.

Feelings both possessive and carnal seeped into my lust for him today. I acknowledge that.

But, for now, I'll do my best to enjoy what we have. To be present. To continue to nurture him like he deserves.

We sit and eat the scrolls by the fireplace, the evening cool and blue outside. He munches away at his baked treat and he looks so happy as he eats, so content, that I feel I could cry. He has a bit of glaze sticking to the corner of his mouth. I rub it away. He catches my hand and licks it from my palm. We both laugh, share a kiss.

His eyes soften, I lean in to him. The fire crackles, woodsmoke blends with cinnamon in the air. We pick up each other's scrolls, cross our arms and feed each other.

I bite down. It's perfectly plush, pillowy, and sweet all the way through.