Marta’s stroke stuttered.

Recovered.

"Done," she said, after a moment. Her voice was steady. Her professional voice. The voice that had survived forty years of this family.

"Front," Viktor said.

She moved around him.

The water at her thighs, the underskirt soaked through, her chest above the waterline. She found his eyes — those purple ones, looking at her with the patient, assessing quality that she had decided, professionally, she was not going to interpret — and began to lather the soap against his chest.

His abs.

The muscle under her palms was not what she’d been prepared for. She’d known him as a child — had actually bathed him before, as she’d said — but this was not the body of that child. This was the body of something that had been doing significant physical work with great frequency.

Her hands moved down.

The waterline.

She stopped.

His cock was below the waterline. She could feel its position in the water — the displacement, the specific presence of something large and near her hands — and her palms hovered at his navel.

"Young master," she said, with dignity. "That is not within the scope—"

"You haven’t done my cock," he said.

Her expression.

"Young master. That is absolutely not—"

"Clean it."

She looked at Eliantra.

Eliantra had a hand over her eyes.

"I cannot instruct her on this one," Eliantra said, to the ceiling.

Marta straightened.

"I am sixty-three years old," she said. "I am not going to—"

"Are you really," Viktor said, tilting his head, "going to touch a man’s cock at your age?"

"I was not—"

"Because that would be shameless."

She stopped.

Her hands, which had been moving toward the waterline, reversed.

"No. Of course not. I would not—"

"Turn around."

"...What?"

He was already moving.

His hand, the one not occupied with Rihana’s nipple, found her waist — the soft, age-worn fabric of the underskirt — and turned her. With the same easy, directional certainty he applied to everything.

She turned.

He reached.

The underskirt, bunched up from behind — the hem gathering at his fist, sliding upward over the soft, thick backs of her thighs, the wrinkled, generous curve of her backside rising from the water as the fabric lifted.

"What are you—" She started to turn back.

The soap found her.

Between her cheeks. His hand, with the bar, pressing into the cleft, working down — and she gasped, a sound that had no professional dignity anywhere in it.

"YOUNG MASTER—"

The soap pressed further.

Found her entrance.

"No— you cannot— that is absolutely—"

"Just cleaning," he said.

"That is NOT—"

He pushed it in.

Marta’s voice stopped.

Her hands, which had been reaching backward to push his away, went flat against the tub wall instead.

The soap. Inside her. The specific, cold-warm, lathering intrusion of it in a place that had not received intrusion since — she could not immediately calculate since when. Long. Very long. The specific, forgotten sensitivity of muscles that had stopped expecting sensation, now receiving it with the particular, confused, involuntary response of something re-remembering it exists.

She breathed.

"What," she managed. "Are you doing."

Viktor was behind her.

She could feel him. The water at her thighs, his chest behind her, the specific, undeniable presence of his cock at her lower back — thick, warm, ’hard’ — pressing against the cleft of her ass with the patient certainty of something that had decided on a direction.

"Cleaning my cock," he said.

His voice was warm. Almost fond. The specific warmth of someone enjoying themselves enormously.

"Your vagina is sixty-three years old," he continued. "Sensation’s mostly gone by now, right? No problem for you."

"That is not how that—"

He pressed in.

Marta’s next word dissolved.

Not because she was incapable of producing it. Because his cock — the full, thick, soap-slicked entry of it — had arrived somewhere in her body that had not had a visitor in so long that the response bypassed language entirely and came out as a single, raw, disbelieving sound.

"Hn—"

Deep. Involuntary. Coming from somewhere below the professional voice, below the forty years, below the sensible woman who had been managing this household since before Eliantra arrived in it.

He grabbed her waist.

Both hands. The specific, certain grip of someone who has done this enough times tonight to have a technique.

And slammed.

PAH!

"AAAHH~—"

Marta lurched forward.

Her palms slapped the tub wall. Her breasts — freed from the underskirt which was now somewhere at the bottom of the tub — swung forward with the impact, the full, soft, heavy sway of them pressing against the stone wall, the nipples dragging against the cold surface as she gasped.

Her pussy — which she had professionally assessed as having ’no sensations’ for at least a decade — sent a signal up her spine that her brain received with considerable surprise.

It had sensation.

It had ’plenty’ of sensation.

The soap inside her, the cock filling what space remained, the two combined creating a stretch that her body had absolutely no recent framework for and was now trying very hard to process.

She stared at the stone wall.

"What," she said, to the stone. "Are you."

He leaned forward.

His mouth near her ear.

"Let me clean myself, Grandma."

PAH! PAH!

"AAANGHH~— N-NO~— YOUNG MASTER~— THIS IS~—"

Across the tub, Eliantra had removed her hand from her eyes.

She was staring.

At Marta. At Viktor’s hips. At the specific, comprehensive, ’impossible’ scene of her sixty-three-year-old head of household being fucked from behind in her own bathing tub by her son-in-law while making sounds she had genuinely never expected to hear from that woman.

At Marta’s breasts, swinging against the stone with every thrust.

At Marta’s face — the expression on it, which had started as shock and was now somewhere considerably more complicated and considerably less professional.

Eliantra’s mouth was open.

She closed it.

Opened it again.

"Marta," she said.

PAH! PAH!

"AAAHH~— M-MY LADY~— I~— HNGH~—"

"She cannot hear you," Rihana said pleasantly, from Viktor’s other side.

Eliantra turned.

Rihana was sitting beside her now — had moved at some point while Eliantra’s attention was elsewhere — her thick, warm, bite-marked body settled in the water next to her with the comfortable proximity of a woman who has decided they’re friends.

Her breast was against Eliantra’s arm.

Warm. Soft. ’Present.’

Eliantra looked at it.

Then at Rihana’s face.

Rihana looked back at her.

With the specific, warm, patient expression of a woman who has heard everything Viktor said about this one and is in absolutely no hurry.

"He is very thorough," Rihana said.

"I am aware," Eliantra said.

"He will not hurt her."

"That is not—"

PAH! PAH! PAH!

"AAANGHH~!! YOUNG MASTER~!! WHAT IS~!! HNGH~!! AAAHH~!!"

"—my primary concern," Eliantra finished.

She was looking at Viktor’s back again.

At the nail marks. At the muscle moving under the skin. At Marta’s hands white-knuckled against the stone.

She hugged her arms over her own chest, under the water.

Her own body, beneath the soaked cotton, was doing something she was choosing not to examine.

"Your body," Rihana said, quietly, beside her. Not unkindly. Observationally.

"Don’t," Eliantra said.

"You’re flushed."

"It’s a hot bath."

"Mhm."

PAH! PAH!

"MASTERRR~!!" — Marta, which was a word she had definitely never produced before in this exact configuration.

The water sloshed.

Rihana reached over and gently tucked a strand of wet hair behind Eliantra’s ear.

Eliantra sat very still.

"He’s going to be here for a while," Rihana said.

Her Siren voice, even at conversational volume, carried that quality. The warmth of it. The specific, comfortable certainty.

"I know," Eliantra said.

Her voice came out quieter than she intended.

She looked at the steam.

At her own reflection in the water’s surface, broken by Viktor’s rhythm into fragmented, shivering pieces.

"I know."