The great hall smelled of fresh bread, woodsmoke, and the faint metallic tang of last night's rain still clinging to the stone walls. Servants moved like shadows—quiet and efficient, heads bowed whenever Mother passed. I walked between her and Aunt Isolde, fighting to keep my gaze on the flagstones instead of the hypnotic sway of their hips.
Mother had changed into a practical riding kirtle of dark green wool that clung to her figure with almost indecent precision. Every step made her full breasts shift beneath the bodice, the laces straining just enough to hint at their weight and softness. The skirt hugged the generous curve of her ass and the powerful lines of her thighs.
Aunt Isolde had switched to a simpler russet tunic and skirt that did little to conceal her even more voluptuous build. Her golden hair was braided back, though a few loose strands clung to the light sheen of sweat along her neck. Her breasts were heavy and full, bouncing subtly with every stride, while her thighs looked strong enough to make any man grateful for the existence of skirts.
"Walk with purpose, Ethan," Mother said, her voice crisp and commanding as we stepped out into the bailey. Morning sunlight warmed the cobblestones. "The smallfolk watch their lord closely. If you appear uncertain, they will feel it."
She had fully slipped into her role as Baroness now—no soft "my sweet boy," only the steel that had kept Willowmere alive for five years without a man by her side. Servants straightened at her words. A stableboy fumbled his pitchfork and hastily retrieved it. She noticed everything, corrected everything, and did so without ever raising her voice. It was incredibly attractive. The same woman who had leaned over my bed this morning with clear hunger in her eyes was now a commanding queen in riding boots, issuing orders that made grown men move faster.
We toured the estate on foot first—the inner bailey, the granaries, the kitchen gardens. I kept quiet for the first part, letting Ethan's original memories fill in the gaps while my modern mind recoiled at the glaring inefficiencies. Half the fields still followed the outdated two-field system: one planted, one left fallow, year after year. Signs of soil exhaustion were plain to see. The well near the lower village was shallow and muddy; dysentery likely claimed several smallfolk every summer.
By the time we reached the stables, I could no longer hold back.
"Mother," I said, keeping my tone respectful yet firm, "we need to change how we manage the fields. Three-field rotation—one for winter wheat, one for spring barley or oats, and one left fallow, rotating each year. It could increase our yield by twenty or even thirty percent by next harvest. The lower well is also costing us. If we dig it deeper, line it with stone, and add a proper cover, clean water would mean fewer sick days during planting season."
Mother stopped mid-stride. She turned to me slowly, one elegant eyebrow arched, arms crossed beneath her impressive breasts. The motion lifted them higher, and I forced my eyes back to her face. Sharp intelligence gleamed in her green eyes—no immediate dismissal, only careful calculation. "You've been reading those old scrolls in the library again," she said, though there was no mockery in her tone. "The steward tried something similar three years ago and nearly lost the barley crop to rot."
"That was because he didn't drain the low ground first," I replied, drawing on half-remembered farming videos and basic knowledge from my old life. "We can terrace the wet patch near the river bend and add a drainage ditch. It's simple and cheap. Offer the villagers a reduced tithe this year in exchange for the labor."
Aunt Isolde let out a low whistle, leaning against a nearby stall door. "Listen to him, Sera. Our quiet little scholar is starting to sound like a man who expects to be obeyed." She gave me that knowing smile again, the one that made my cock twitch inside my breeches.
Mother studied me for a long moment, her lips parting slightly. Then she gave a single, decisive nod. "We'll test it on the south fields first. Tell the reeve. If it succeeds, we expand." She offered no open praise, but the way her gaze lingered on my face—then drifted briefly lower—said everything. Pride, mixed with something far hotter.
Aunt Isolde clapped me on the shoulder, her hand lingering as her fingers squeezed the muscle there. "Come on, nephew. Let's check on the horses. I want to see if that big black gelding is still throwing shoes like a drunkard."
The stables were dimmer and warmer, heavy with the scent of hay, leather, and horse sweat. Aunt Isolde went straight to the big black gelding's stall and swung the gate open with practiced ease. She bent at the waist to run her hands down his foreleg, inspecting the hoof. The movement was far from innocent. Her thick ass pushed back toward me, the wool skirt stretching tight across her wide, plush cheeks. I could clearly see the outline of her undergarments and the way the fabric clung to the cleft between her powerful thighs. Her heavy breasts hung forward, swaying gently as she worked, her nipples faintly visible through the thin tunic.
"Hand me the pick, Ethan," she said without straightening. Her voice had dropped, now low and husky.
I stepped closer—dangerously close—and reached past her for the hoof pick on the wall. My hips brushed against her ass for a brief second. Soft. Warm. Yielding. Her scent hit me hard: clean sweat, lavender soap, and a deeper, muskier note that made my mouth water. My cock hardened instantly, straining against the front of my breeches.
She didn't pull away. If anything, she arched her back a little more, letting the contact linger. "Careful, nephew," she murmured, her voice low enough for only me to hear. "You're not the only one who's grown since last summer."
I stepped back before I did something reckless, heart pounding. She straightened slowly, turning toward me with the pick in hand. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes dark with desire. Her breasts brushed against my arm as she passed—deliberate, teasing. The kind of touch that could pass for accidental in any other family.
We finished the rest of the tour in charged silence, the air between us crackling. Mother rejoined us near the kennels, and the three of us walked back toward the solar together. I could feel their eyes on me the entire way—Mother's commanding gaze laced with something softer and hungrier, Aunt Isolde's openly appreciative.
Later, after the midday meal, I slipped away to the upper gallery overlooking the solar. The door was slightly ajar. I hadn't meant to eavesdrop—alright, I absolutely had—but their voices carried clearly.
"…has changed overnight," Mother was saying, low and thoughtful. I could picture her pacing, her full breasts rising and falling with each step. "The way he spoke about the fields… so confident. Like a man who knows exactly what he wants."
Aunt Isolde's laugh came out throaty and warm. "Did you see how he filled those breeches this morning? He's not the boy we tucked into bed five years ago, Sera. He's… big. Everywhere."
A pause. Then Mother's voice again, quieter this time, almost hesitant. "I've wondered… what kind of girls he's been with in the village. Whether any of them could truly satisfy him. He needs a woman who knows what she's doing. Not some giggling milkmaid."
"Or two," Aunt Isolde purred. "Just imagine it, sister. Those strong hands on your hips… that thick cock stretching you open after so many dry years. He'd start gentle, wouldn't he? Then you'd teach him exactly how a real woman likes to be fucked—on her knees, begging so sweetly, while still giving orders to the servants the next morning."
Mother's breath caught audibly. "Isolde…"
"I'm only saying what we've both been thinking since he turned twenty. Look at him. He belongs to us. And the way he looks at us now… he knows."
My mind reeled. They weren't merely noticing me. They had been fantasizing—about my cock, about me claiming them. Two powerful, experienced women—rulers of the manor by day—whispering in private about how it would feel to have me buried deep inside their needy, dripping bodies.
I pressed my back against the cool stone wall, breathing hard, my cock aching painfully. Down in the courtyard, the clatter of hooves announced an arrival. The tax collector had come early.
I straightened my tunic, adjusted myself as best I could, and headed downstairs to meet him. The barony's problems wouldn't wait for my arousal to fade.
But later… later I would remember every single word they'd said.
And I would make sure they never had to wonder again.