"Come inside. I need to show you something," the Miller had said.
So Tatiana had gone inside. Alone.
Joanna stayed hidden in the milk cart. There was no way she was ever setting foot inside the Mill House again. And Dabney stayed with her. He knew the Miller was a cruel man and suspected he was about to do something cruel to Tatiana. Something that would be unpleasant for a father to watch. Better to sit this one out.
Inside, the close ceilings and the Miller's immaculate housekeeping made the little cottage adjoining the mill one of of the most cosy and homely dwellings in the village. It was hard for the Milkmaid to think of these charming quarters as the place where her girlfriend had known such humiliation, suffering, and sodomy.
She wondered what she was doing there. What was the Miller so keen to show her that he hadn't wanted to prioritise a sex act? Why was she getting this little tour rather than getting seed-blasted on his doorstep?
It was mid-morning and word had already got right round the village that Tatiana was sucking cock today instead of just stroking it. When she'd turned up at the Mulberries' cottage then the trans Mrs Mulberry had already heard the good news. She'd been hyped as fuck to jizz into someone's oral cavity for the first time since her cis wife's libido had dried up.
"This is exactly what I needed to get over the nasty business at the church yesterday!" the old piemaker had said, and then told Tatiana a terrifying story about a skeleton.
Poor Mrs Mulberry! Tatiana expected she did need a nice blowjob from a beautiful teenager after being subjected to such an awful experience at her time of life. A skeleton! The milkmaid wished she'd been able to do something fun and sexy to cheer up the cis Mulberry too, but since that lesbian didn't do sex stuff anymore then Tatiana just resorted to being especially friendly and sweet.
People need different things. Trinity Mulberry had needed to talk through her trauma and get her wrinkly septogenagrian girldick noshed. Delia Mulberry just needed the talking part.
But what did the Miller need?
He seemed excited.
"I need to show you my painting," he said.
That made sense. The Miller always talked a lot about his art. Although he never wanted to show her any before. Previously it had always come up in conversation in a "So here's what I've been up to" way rather than a "You HAVE to see this" way. Tatiana knew that when most people asked her about her amateur studies of comparative linguistics it was only because they were curious about how she spent her limited free time, not because they were curious about the subject. So she spoke about it in particular way. The same way that, until now, the Miller had always spoken to her about art.
"I just think you'll understand it," he said.
Interesting.
Tatiana knew that with recent events her reputation must be changing around the village, but she hadn't expected it to be changing into 'art critic.'
"Joanna Boliger is still in your harem, isn't she?" the Miller checked.
"Absolutely!" Tatiana was very proud of her bitch collection. "My harem currently comprises Jo, Rutt the Minotaur, and... my sibling."
She wasn't sure how, where and when she should be talking about Nikki publicly. What was the etiquette for this? It wasn't like Nikola had transitioned into Nikki. Nikola was... gone and Nikki was a new person. The rules she knew for how to talk and think about trans people provided absolutely no guidance for talking about composite entities created in teleportation accidents.
"I was with Joanna too... a week or so before she was yours."
"Sure." That was a weird way of saying that he extorted her into three unwanted buggerings, but whatever.
The Miller offered her tea. She politely declined. There was still much of her route to cover.
"You and Joanna... do you... do you fuck?"
"Oh yes," said Tatiana enthusiastically. Even though she hadn't fucked her tiny-titty tomboy gf since her transformation into a fairy, that was only because she'd been kept so busy by Rutt's gargantuan pole and Nikki's naughty girldick. Tatty was looking forward to getting some time alone with Jo soon to explore how the physical side of their relationship was gonna work now.
"I fucked her," said the Miller.
"Yeah."
"Three times."
"Yeah." Tatiana was finding this slightly awkward.
"Anally."
"Oh-kay... so about this painting?"
The Miller drew her attention to a wide, flat object that sat on his table. Covered with a red cloth.
"It's been a real challenge. The painting. In the past whenever I've coerced an underage girl into degrading and painful sex it's always been a joy to subsequently capture the moment on canvas..."
The many paintings on his walls spoke to the truth of this. They were mostly on this subject, and all rather jolly.
"...but painting what I did to your girlfriend was a compositional nightmare. You see... I ploughed her besthole differently each time. The first time with a clumsy, over-enthusiastic eagerness. The second time with skill, consideration, and regard for her pleasure. The third time with a sadistic malice, just using my last shot to try and fucking destroy the little slag's ring piece. Hatefuck her browneye so hard and brutal that she'd never shit normal again.
Tatiana could see where this was going from the shape on the table.
"So you painted a triptych."
"Just so. Just so. One image for each shag."
Where was the problem? Tatiana hated to think about how Jo must have felt running this rectal gauntlet, but surely this was a powerful subject for art and a strong concept for how to present it?
"The first buggering, I loved," the Miller explained. "It had been a long time since I'd last manipulated a teenager into spreading her asscheeks for me, and just the sheer thrill of once again penetrating a youthful poo-pussy was divine. The third buggering, I loved. Just going completely fucking wild and taking out all my rage and frustrations on that little whore's bum. Just the best."
Tatty thought she understood. The second assfuck. The one where he'd attempted to pleasure Joanna. The one that would necessarily form the centrepiece of the triptych. He hadn't enjoyed that one as much himself, huh?
"The more I tried to paint this trinity of violations... the more I struggled with my indifferent feelings towards the bonk that the work had to centre. And somewhere along the line, the work stopped being about Joanna and her besthole and became about me. It stopped being about a teenage girl with a dick up her ass, and became about me... about how I felt about what I was doing. About why I was doing it, and why I felt the way I did."
The Miller removed the cloth.
The Milkmaid saw the three paintings. Her hand flew to her mouth. They were incomparable. The most powerful images the peasant girl had ever seen.
Joanna was not visible in any of the three paintings.
The three paintings were three extreme close-ups of the Miller's own face. One sweaty, drooling and panting. One twisted with vindictive lust. And one, in the centre, looking kind of bored.
"What you've done here, Arthur," said the Milkmaid, "is so fucking powerful."
(The Miller's name wasn't Arthur, but so many people thought it was that he let it go)
"What I've done here," he said, "Has forced me to look at myself."
Many hundreds of miles away, in the dining room of the royal palace, something was parting the monarch's pussylips.
The Queen of Forfeiture's snatch was such a frilly mess that the best way to imagine it was to picture a raspberry-flavoured jellyfish losing a wresting match to a strawberry-flavoured jellyfish. So pleated and protruberant were her inner twatflaps that it barely even looked like the bitch had a cooze, so much as someone had just slapped a big austentatateous rosette between her thighs. First prize at the country fair. A trail of ribbons.
Regardless of the baroque complexity of her labial arrangements, the Serpent in her womb never had any trouble finding its way in or out of his nest's front door.
Out it popped, right there and then, as the Queen was talking breakfast with her daughters.
Hastily swallowing her quasi-Renaissance cornflakes, Her Majesty raised the tablecloth, spread her legs wide, and regarded the eldtich abomination that had just partially wiggled out of her foof.
"Is all well, master?" she asked.
Her daughters looked away and tried to concentrate on their own breakfasts. The princesses were never sure what to do when the serpent came out of their mother's cunny. It was always a super-awkward moment. Especially for Misericord, the eldest, who had apprehended that it would one day nest in her.
"It is not," said the Serpent. "One is escaping me. My grip on him loosens. He breaks forth from my coils in sickening liberation."
Shit. Another. That was two this month. And mere days ago, the Worldcoils had been briefly perceived. What the fuck was going on?
"Anyone of consequence?"
"A peasant. A miller. But it is consequential when any that were mine are lost to me."
The Queen considered her passenger's words.
"He took the usual escape route, I suppose?" she asked.
"Indeed," said the Serpent and hissed the word with hatred, "Art."
"I tried to make something that simply presented my wickedness... but in doing so I had to confront it, explore it and work it through," the Miller said.
His willy was between the Milkmaid's titties now. Before this morning she'd never have believed that she'd be making an extra effort to pleasure this evil, ratty little nobody. But he'd been a good boy. He'd created something wonderful and profound. He deserved a nice booby treat.
She held one of her massive tits totally still, clasped his nob between them, and moved the other udder up and down vigorously, wanking him real good. Everything she knew about pace and pressure was a transferable skill from how adept she was at handjobs to how adapt she was becoming at titwanks. Much of this was very familiar. Maybe she should push beyond the familiar? Strive for change.
The three faces in the triptych watched them play.
They watched as the Milkmaid let the Miller take control and put her on her back. He clambered astride her belly and, grabbing her by the nips, placed his pole back in the valley between her paps. She wasn't tittywanking him now. He was tittyfucking her. And she was letting him. And she was trusting him. And they were both fucking loving it.
"I feel like a better man now, freer somehow," the Miller enthused, "Like some sort of... constriction has lifted."
"Hush now, baby," the pretty young farmgirl told the nasty old man, "and smash mommy's tiddies real hard."
