Take Lydia's deal

"I will do it," you say.

You expect some sort of reaction. Lydia stares at you for a few seconds and then tosses you an apron.

"Put it on and start cleaning the dishes from dinner." She returns to her food on the stove as she continues talking. "When you're done with that, sweep and mop. And then sift the flour for bugs. And when you're done with that..."

She pauses to taste the stew from her wooden cooking spoon.

"MMmm, more salt."

Somehow, dividing one person's work between two does little to ease the load. Lydia is either stirring things on the stove, checking things in he wood-fired oven, or ladeling portions of roasted pheasant, fish stew, and vegetables into bowls. The only respite you get from your own chores is when she lifts a tray covered with steaming dishes out to serve them to customers. Each time she leaves the kitchen with her breasts bouncing and her hips swaying and returns with the same tired look on her face.

You have lived a life of service in the abbey. This is not hard work. Or it wouldn't be hard work, if you weren't already exhausted from your journey. You are ready to collapse by the time Lydia walks back with the last dirtied bowls and cups.

"Wash those," she says, tossing them into the soapy water of the wash tub. She unties the apron from her waist and hangs it from a peg beside the stove. "When you're finished, dump the water in the garden and fill the tub again from the well. I'll be waiting in the back."

You wash up and dump the heavy tub full of wash water into the garden behind the inn. Refilling it takes longer as you have to vigorously work the well's pump to keep the water flowing. You're drenched in sweat and aching with effort by the time you've dragged a fresh tub of water back into the kitchen. You just want to go to sleep and try to forget about everything that has happened today. Unfortunately, you have promised one final chore to Lydia.

"Um, the tub is ready," you call out to her.

The door opens to the back room and Lydia emerges. She holds her long skirt bunched up past her knees, exposing her tenderized feet and her well-formed legs. Though she looks almost as tired as you feel, there is a certain grace to the way she walks over to you, balances a hand on your shoulder, and steps into the tub. You have positioned a stool beside it so she can sit down and leave her feet soaking in the water.

"Ohhhhh, that feels nice," she groans. "Massage them for me."

You get down on your knees beside the tub and lift one of Lydia's feet out of the water. You work your fingers between her soapy toes and under her arches. You knead the tops of her feet as well, eliciting another groan of pleasure. You look up at her as you cradle her foot in your hands and can't help but notice that she has spread her knees a bit and allowed her skirt to ride up onto her lap. Her hand pulls the hem slowly higher, exposing her thighs as she spreads her knees even wider. You say nothing and continue to focus on her foot, working your thumbs from just below her toes all the way to her ankles.

You look up again and make brief eye contact with Lydia. Your gaze drift down again and you see under the skirt. In that dim space between her creamy thighs you can see the blond fur of her sex and the faintest pink hint of her peach.

"Do the other foot," says Lydia, lifting it from the water and wiggling her toes.

You let her foot slide back into the tub and cradle the other one. You begin the same process of cleaning and massaging her foot, your gaze drifting again and again to the shape of her womanhood visible beneath her skirt.

"Do you see something interesting?" Lydia's question gives you that hot thrill of a girl caught stealing sweets from a candy box.

"N-no," you say quickly. "Do you, um, prefer it hard or soft? I can press harder."

"I prefer it hard, always." Lydia chuckles, apparently taking pleasure from your discomfort.

You begin to squeeze her foot more tightly in your grasp and work your thumbs roughly into her arch. Despite your best efforts, even though you know you're being watched by Lydia, you continue to steal sidelong glances between her shapely thighs. You can almost smell her womanly arousal over the scent of the soap. She leans down, her huge breasts straining the fabric of her peasant top. Her plump nipples strain beneath the fabric and the upper edge of her wide, tan areolas are visible.

"That feels really nice," she murmurs almost into your ear, "almost as good as sex. Almost. Do you know what I want you to do now?"

She lifts her foot and pushes it towards your face. She wiggles her toes again.

"Suck them," she says. "Suck my toes for me."

That definitely wasn't part of the deal. Then again, you look up into her eyes and after all the uncertainty, all the chaos you have experienced, there is something deeply attractive of about her domineering tone. Her smile is so smug and superior. You want to obey her.

Lydia's toes flex impatiently.