Chapter 12: Volume 1- [ - 12 ]
Her hand froze. Her eyes darted downward — involuntary, a reflex she could not control — to where my cock floated beneath the water’s surface, visible through the clear mineral water, massive and heavy against my thigh, the crimson head resting on the copper bottom like a plum dropped in a well.
’I — he wants me to — that thing. He wants me to touch that thing. With my hands. This foolish, ridiculous—’
"If it is too much trouble," I added, letting a note of quiet sadness enter my voice, "I understand. I should not have asked. It is only that I cannot reach properly, and you are the only one here, and I thought — but never mind. I am sorry for asking."
’No — no, do not apologize. If I refuse, he might become suspicious. He might think I am ungrateful. He might take the key back. I need to humor this fool. I need to—’
"No, no, it is fine, Young Master." Her voice had gone tight, controlled, the voice of a woman telling herself that this was a transaction, a cost of doing business. "I will wash you."
I released her wrist. She came around to the front of the tub, soap in hand, and began to work on my chest, my arms, my stomach — keeping her movements brisk and professional, her eyes carefully averted from the thing floating in the water like a pale sea creature. Her internal voice was a steady stream of self-reassurance: ’This is fine. This is normal. Women wash their lords. This is what servants do. Just do not look at it. Do not think about it—’
I took her hand. Gently, without force, I guided it beneath the water and placed it directly on my cock.
She flinched. Her fingers twitched against the shaft as though she had touched something hot, and a small, strangled sound escaped her throat.
"Clean it," I said. My voice was soft, almost shy. "With the soap. It — well, it gets difficult to reach properly, and I cannot—"
"Young Master, I really do not think this is—"
"Please, Martha." I let the vulnerability seep through — not the performed vulnerability I used for manipulation, but something closer to genuine embarrassment, the awkwardness of a young man asking for something he found humiliating. "It is just cleaning. You have cared for me like a mother would. I am not — I would not ask anyone else."
’Mother. He said mother again. This child. This poor, pathetic, lonely child. Fine. FINE. It is just a cock. A very large, very thick, very — stop. STOP. Wash it and be done.’
She exhaled through her nose. Took the soap. And beneath the water’s surface, began to rub it against my cock.
The sensation was immediate and warm — her work-roughened fingers sliding over the soap-slick skin, handling the shaft with the detached efficiency of someone scrubbing a particularly thick candlestick. But I could feel the hesitation in her touch, the way her fingers lingered a fraction longer than necessary on the head, the way her thumb traced the ridge of the crown almost curiously before catching herself.
She moved to the balls — lathering them with the same clinical attention, her palm cupping their weight, her fingers rolling them apart gently — and then her hand returned to the shaft, wrapping around it as best she could given the girth.
’First time I have held — no. Stop. Do not think about it. Just wash. But it is so thick. My fingers will not close around it. Gerrat was — Gerrat was half this size. Maybe less than half. Is this what nobility breeds? Or is this boy some kind of — and the head, that color, so dark, like ripe fruit, and the skin is so smooth despite the—’
I could feel her fingers enjoying it. The exploration disguised as washing, the way her strokes had slowed from brisk to almost languorous, her palm pressing along the underside, her thumb circling the fat head with a tenderness that had nothing to do with cleaning and everything to do with curiosity.
"Aunt," I murmured, and the word landed on her like a weight. "Please clean it properly. It — it smells, and I cannot—"
’Smells? He is worried about — gods, he is actually embarrassed. This foolish boy, with his enormous — and he is worried about smell. As if I would care about — wait. Why do I not care? Why am I still holding it? Why has my washing become—’
She stiffened, realizing her hand had stopped moving entirely and was simply gripping me, her fingers wrapped around the shaft, her thumb idly tracing the throbbing vein along the underside. She cleared her throat and resumed stroking — faster now, more deliberately, the soap providing a slick friction that sent warm pulses through my core.
I leaned back and let her work.
Half an hour passed. Martha’s arm tired — I could feel the tremor in her grip, the slight unevenness in her rhythm. Her breath came in shallow pulls. Her face had flushed, whether from the steam or from something else, and her eyes had grown glassy and unfocused in a way that had nothing to do with heat.
’My hand is aching. This thing will not — why will it not finish? What is wrong with him? Is this a curse? Some kind of noble affliction? My wrist is cramping and his cock just keeps — it keeps getting harder. How is that possible? It was already—’
"Tighten your fist," I said.
She obeyed. Her fingers clenched around the shaft, the grip compressing the engorged flesh, her knuckles whitening beneath the water. She stroked harder — faster — her arm pumping with the desperate rhythm of a woman who wanted this over, wanted her hand free, wanted to stop thinking about the heat of it against her palm and the way the head flared and pulsed in her grip—
I came.
It hit without warning — or rather, without any warning I chose to give. The climax ripped through me like a wave breaking, and my cock pulsed in her fist, once, twice, and then thick white ropes erupted from the crimson head with enough force to clear the water’s surface entirely.
The first strand struck Martha directly across the face — a thick, heavy stripe that ran from her left cheekbone to the corner of her mouth, hot and viscous, clinging to her skin like paste. The second caught her on the chin and dripped in a long, slow string toward her collar. The third, weaker but no less present, splashed across her hand still gripping my shaft beneath the water, clouding the clear mineral bath with milky white.
She stared.
Her mouth worked. Her eyes, wide and round, blinked once, twice, as if trying to process what had just happened through sheer repetition. A bead of cum slid from her cheek to her jaw and hung there, trembling, before dropping onto her apron with a soft ’plip.’
"What — what is this?" she whispered, and her voice had gone flat with shock, the maternal warmth stripped away entirely, leaving only the baffled outrage of a woman who had been splattered with something she had not agreed to be splattered with.
I laughed. Not cruelly — warmly, easily, the laugh of a young man who found the whole situation delightfully innocent.
"It feels very great," I said, as though that were an answer. "Thank you, Martha. That was exactly what I needed."