A bowl of soup delivered by Beavertail's Cook, and bed for breakfast

"Wakey wakey, Little Miss Witch," you hear.

Your frown sets before your eyes are open. You turn over toward the voice and take a hissing inbreath, your lips framing themselves for a snarling complaint, and OH.

You blink your eyes open, your mouth watering at a strong whiff of vanilla-cinnamon-caramel-apple scent.

"Cook?" you say.

"Breakfast in bed, Miss Applebum," Cook says. "Sit up a little. There's a girl."

The first spoonful of savory broth dispels Cook's dessert-scented personal glamour. You're hungry, and after Cook feeds you the first three spoons full, you lift the bowl and drink deeply, swallowing warmth and strength. And love? a tiny, doubtful thought asks.

"Miss Woodbine was in for kitchen service and told me you were still sleeping, so I made so bold as to bring you a little restorative," Cook says.

"Thank you, Cook, " you say, in unfeigned appreciation.

"I did catch you and Tess tiptoeing out of the House's special guest place," Cook says.

You cultivate a completely blank expression.

Cook continues in a matter-of-fact way. "From Tess's account, you both had quite the scare. Warden Burl's in, giving the wards a complete renewal. No harm done, as it appears, though have a care, dearies, if no one knows you're in there, we might not know if something went wrong for a very long time. That's one chamber in Beavertail that Master Jeremy doesn't check every day."

And if anything really bad happens, it's your own damned fault, because, well, of course it would have been.

Cook's aura is actually rather impressive. "Cook, were you once an instructor?" you ask. "A teaching witch?"

"Hush, dear, that would be telling tales out of school," she says. "Did you like your soup? All gone. Are you still hungry?"

"I'm..." you start. The wafting cloud of cinnamon apple tart envelops you again, and you actually do drool a little this time. "...yes. But not for soup."

Cook blots your chin with a napkin from the soup tray.

"Oh, dear, little witch," Cook says. "What a pity that you're in bed. With your dear friend Miss Woodbine off to her courses the rest of the day. And Miss Redmoor, busy busy. And Miss Lectura, Warden has her helping with the wards all day. All alone, dearie. What a pity that you can't get up and tiptoe off to the kitchen and tell old Cook to get up off her kitchen stool and have her take you back to the back pantry. Why, there seems nothing to be done."

Cook leans closer, her warm scent surrounding you.

You swallow a mouthful of spit before you whisper. "No, nothing to be done. Oh. Unless you brought apple tart?"

"I might have done that, I allow," Cook says. "Will Miss Applebum permit me to lay the table?"

"Does that make me the table, Cook?" you say.

"Might do, Miss Fay," Cook says. "Might do."

Things move, if not fast, then steadily. There's a sliding of coverlets, of nightshirt and apron and smock, and Cook's big warm hands stroking the length of your naked body, and little cleansing conjurations, moist swirls of summer showers and zephyrs of afternoon breezes washing, drying, tickling. Cook's great soft form sways and bends as she works round you. You half-notice that Cook is directing all those not with her words, nor a wand, nor her smoothly stroking fingers, but with her breath and the set of her lips. Unusual. Tales out of school perhaps. But with Cook's bed-bathing of you accomplished, her mouthwatering scent calls out your hunger for her body, strong and soft and wise beyond anyone you've known.

"Lay the table, Cook," you say.

"My pleasure, Miss Fay," she says. "I've been told have gotten more than passing good at it."

How many decades of getting good does this? Soft and gentle and you're already half melted inside and if someone touched you with a feather, a strand of hair...

"Ohhhh!" you sigh as Cook slides her fingertips along the whole length of one side, from crown to toe. "Oh!" And then back up the other. Scintillations of tickling, waves of warmth and chill and every one of your Thirteen Openings* tingling.

The softest, lowest little laugh.

"Oooohhh," you say. "Please. Please." You swallow another mouthwatering gulp. "Please fill me."

"My pleasure to serve, Miss Fay."

You growl with hungry desire on the brink of satisfaction.

*Thirteen Openings: eyes, nostrils, ears, mouth, nipples, navel, urethra, vagina, anus.

You have 3 XP.

You have Ambition +2, Bravery -1, Cunning +2, Diligence +0
FRIEND: Morgan, who also owes you a FAVOR.

You're expecting to see Golondrina soon, as your third roommate, and you have cause to confer with Tess, who knows so many secrets and wants you, the one who got away from her back in Minerval.

Roll +DILIGENCE(0) to HAVE SEX with Cook: ⚀⚅ + 0 = 7.

On a 7-9, when you HAVE SEX with someone, choose one and apply STAMINA to HAVE SEX again, or to fend off a CONSEQUENCE.

• You have a pretty good time.
• Your sex has magical or psychic ripple effects. Describe a conspicuous disruptive effect. Gain +1 XP. Next: GET OUT OF TROUBLE.
• Your sex triggers magical backfire. Gain +1 XP and describe a scene where you and your partner(s) suffer the effects of accidentally triggered spells.
• Your sex attracts hostile forces, monsters, or enemies of Boarbristle. Gain +1 XP and describe the lurking threat. Next: GET OUT OF DANGER.
• You have a rocking good time to mutual exhaustion. Gain +1 XP. Take a CONSEQUENCE.