Interlude: The Matrons’ Share
As Callis retreated from the edge of the pool, the cavern dissolved into a chorus of unrestrained, scandalous laughter.
The sheer absurdity of the moment—the strict, terrifying head of the weavers’ guild openly tasting a boy young enough to be her own son—shattered whatever lingering propriety remained in the hot springs. These were seasoned matrons. Women who spent their days managing ledgers, scolding apprentices, and raising children exactly Callis’s age. Yet, under the influence of the imported wine and the suffocating steam, they giggled like schoolgirls discovering a forbidden secret.
The sound bounced off the damp stone walls, sharp and giddy, entirely at odds with their mature, commanding bodies. Water sloshed over the turquoise tiles as the women shifted closer to one another, completely invigorated by the display.
Sarah crossed her arms, her dark eyes flashing toward the silver tray as she pouted. "It hardly seems fair, Mara," Sarah complained, her voice carrying over the lapping water. "Corin gets to taste the boy, and I was only permitted to look at him. He moved down the line entirely too fast."
Maeve swirled the dark wine in her goblet, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "I tasted his finger, which was sweet enough, but I feel incredibly shortchanged. I provision the sugar for the hearth, do I not?"
Gemma shifted against the submerged stone bench, displacing a wave of water that washed up against the coping. "If he tastes like the deep woods, I want my share. We all keep the tavern stocked. We should all get a taste of the guard dog."
Callis froze near the fruit trays.
His mind processed the complaints not as lewd teasing, but as a direct failure of his assigned duties. He was here to serve. If the matrons felt neglected, he had failed Mara’s test. Beneath the paralyzing mortification, his pride as a survivor demanded he complete the task flawlessly. He was choosing this obedience.
He set the silver pitcher down onto the side table, the metal ringing softly against the wood. He turned around, his bare feet gripping the wet clay tiles, and walked straight back toward the edge of the pool.
"My deepest apologies, ladies," Callis rasped. His voice shook with the physical strain of his arousal, but his aristocratic enunciation remained crisp and flawless. "I did not intend to neglect my responsibilities."
He stepped right to the edge of the coping where Sarah sat. He planted his feet against the slick clay, bent his knees slightly to bring his hips down to her level, and presented himself.
Sarah’s eyes widened, a delighted, wicked thrill crossing her flushed face. She leaned forward, the water surging against her collarbone as she moved, but before she could close the final inch, Mara’s voice cut through the humid air.
"Wait."
Sarah froze. The entire pool went quiet.
At the shallow end, Mara raised a single, wet finger. Her dark eyes remained locked on Callis, reading the defiant, shivering pride beneath his submission. She let the silence stretch for one agonizing second, ensuring the heavy weight of the rules remained perfectly intact.
"You are offering yourself, Callis," Mara observed smoothly. "I did not order this."
"I failed to serve them equally, Mara," Callis choked out, his gaze holding steady despite the burning in his cheeks. "I am choosing to correct the oversight."
Mara’s smile deepened, slow and utterly triumphant. She lowered her hand. "Very well. You may continue, if you choose."
Given the explicit permission, Sarah didn't hesitate. She lunged forward, displacing a wave of turquoise water that washed across Callis’s bare feet. She grabbed the sides of his hips, pulling the soaked, transparent linen directly to her mouth. She sucked the fabric hard, her tongue swirling over his blunt tip through the weave.
Callis locked his joints. His hands remained rigidly at his sides, his fingernails biting into his palms to keep from touching her as she milked the slick moisture right through the cloth.
"Oh, Corin wasn't lying," Sarah whimpered, pulling back with a wet pop. She licked her lips, her eyes hooded. "Pure frontier heat."
Callis drew a jagged breath, his chest heaving, and side-stepped through the shallow runoff to stand in front of Maeve.
The sugar merchant's wife didn't bother setting her silver goblet down; she just dropped it into the shallow water with a splash. She reached out, dragging her wet nails down his sweating stomach before grabbing the knot of the loincloth to anchor him. She buried her face in his groin, parting her wide lips to take the damp linen inside. She sucked with a demanding, rhythmic pressure, groaning into the fabric as the sharp, salty musk of his sweat hit her tongue—a stark contrast to her sugary trade.
Callis’s knees trembled. The fabric pulled tight against his root, the friction sending spikes of blinding pleasure up his spine, but he kept his hands perfectly still at his sides.
He stepped away as she released him, moving dutifully to the marble slab where Widow Vance reclined.
"I was wondering if you were going to make me beg, sweet boy," the widow purred. She propped herself up on her elbows, her weight shifting against the stone.
Callis stepped close, bracketing her resting arm with his shins. She didn't just suck; she opened her mouth wide and took the entire tented peak of the cloth inside, scraping her teeth lightly against his rigid ridge through the wet linen. Callis let out a hoarse, fractured whine, his hips jerking forward a fraction of an inch before he forced his muscles to lock.
Gemma was next. The dairyman's wife waded through the waist-deep water, the ripples splashing loudly against the tiles. "My turn," she demanded. She gripped his thighs, her thumbs pressing into his corded muscles, and pressed her open mouth directly against the soaking wet bulge. She drank him in, drawing the salty pre-come and sweat through the linen with a deep, hungry slurp.
As Callis finally stepped back from Gemma, his chest heaving and his muscles violently tense, he turned toward the shallow steps.
Mina was sitting there, her wire-rimmed glasses completely fogged over. She sat paralyzed, the water lapping gently at her collarbone. She had watched the respectable, commanding women of the district systematically passing his groin down the line like a communal delicacy. But Callis noticed where her gaze had ultimately settled. She wasn't staring at the jutting peak of his shaft. Her wide brown eyes were fixed firmly on the sagging underside of the loincloth, where the sheer weight of his balls rested against the linen.
The fabric there was completely saturated, soaked through not with clear fluid, but with thick, unbroken frontier sweat.
Callis glanced over his shoulder. The matrons were laughing together, distracted by Gemma's flushed reaction and pouring more wine. Taking advantage of the momentary lapse in their attention, Callis stepped down into the shallow water. He intentionally turned his back to the main pool, using the broad span of his scarred back to completely block Mina from the older women's line of sight.
He stood directly over her, bending his knees in a deep, agonizingly slow squat. He lowered his hips until the saturated underside of his loincloth hovered a mere inch from her lips.
"You didn't get your share, Mina," Callis murmured, his voice a dark, private vibration meant only for her.
Mina let out a soft, frantic squeak. Up close, the heat radiating from his groin was staggering. The scent was purely primal—a suffocating musk of unwashed sweat and thick, masculine heat baked into the damp linen. It was a filthy, utterly unrefined smell, and it made the water slosh frantically against the tiles as her chest heaved.
She couldn't resist. Trembling violently, Mina leaned forward. She parted her lips and took the rounded underside of the loincloth completely into her mouth.
Callis gritted his teeth, a fresh jolt of electricity hitting his spine. Mina didn't suck the tip like the seasoned widows; she dragged her tongue directly over the fabric covering his aching balls. She sucked the super-sweaty, musky linen with a desperate, clumsy eagerness, drinking in the pure, unfiltered taste of his labor. The sheer contrast between her sheltered, academic demeanor and the lewd, filthy reality of her mouth working over his sweaty balls was incredibly potent.
Callis let her taste him for a few agonizing seconds, allowing the young scholar to fully indulge in his scent, before he finally straightened his legs to pull the fabric from her lips.
Mina sat back against the submerged steps, completely flushed, a thread of saliva shining on her chin as she stared up at him with unmasked, absolute worship.
Callis finished his circuit, his entire body flushed a deep, violent crimson from the steam and the relentless stimulation. The white loincloth was entirely soaked, clinging to him like a second skin, stained dark with his own leaking arousal.
He retreated slowly to the shallow end of the pool, turning to face Mara and Yselle. He stood dripping on the wet clay tiles, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven pulls. He had not touched a single one of them with his hands. He had maintained absolute, perfect obedience, offering himself up to their hunger without ever breaking the rules.
Mara lounged against the submerged bench, a profoundly victorious smile resting on her lips. She looked at the panting, leaking, utterly devoted young man standing before her, measuring the sheer volume of his restraint.
"You apologize beautifully, Callis," Mara praised, her dark eyes flashing in the humid air. "You served them exactly as a good boy should."