The mother came running.

Her hair was disheveled. Brown strands fell across her face. She wore a commoner’s dress — brown skirt, white blouse, a simple apron that had once been clean but was now stained with flour and flower petals.

The skirt clung to her hips. The fabric was thin. The shape of her body was visible beneath it. Her tits were thick. Heavy.

They swayed as she ran, pressing against the blouse, straining the buttons. Her ass was thick too. Wide.

The kind of hips that had carried a child and spread to accommodate it.

The brown skirt swayed across her cheeks with each step, the fabric clinging to the dimples of her lower back.

She reached the child.

"Oh— I’m sorry!"

She looked up at Raven. Her eyes were wide. Her face was flushed from running. Her lips were parted. She took in the dark clothes. The handsome face. The eyes that looked at her with a calm that made her stomach tighten.

She apologized again.

"I’m so sorry. He was not looking. Are you hurt? I am so sorry, sir."

Raven looked at her.

He looked at her face. The flushed cheeks. The red mouth. The eyes that darted away from his gaze and then back. Then he looked lower. The thick tits rising and falling. The narrow waist. The flare of her hips. The brown skirt. The way the fabric clung to the mound of her pussy. The way her thighs pressed together at the top.

He gestured.

His hand moved. A small wave. ’Go. Leave. I am not interested.’

She nodded. She scooped the child into her arms. The boy clung to her neck. She turned.

She walked away.

The brown skirt swayed. The thick ass moved beneath it. The cheeks rolled with each step, heavy and soft, the fabric pulling tight across the right cheek then the left. The sway was natural. Unaware. The walk of a woman who had no idea she was being watched.

Raven sighed.

His eyes tracked her until she turned into an alleyway. Then he looked down. A small handkerchief lay on the dirt. White. Embroidered with a simple flower. The child’s.

He bent.

He picked it up. The fabric was soft. Clean. He looked toward the alleyway. The woman had gone into it. She was walking toward the back of the buildings. Toward a set of stairs.

He followed.

The alley was narrow. The walls were wood and stone. The air smelled of rotting vegetables and piss. He walked without sound. He reached the corner. He looked up.

The woman was at the door of a small apartment. It was above a shop. The sign below said ’Flowers’. She had the child in her arms. She was reaching for the handle.

Raven looked past her.

He looked at the door. Through the door. His eyes saw the heat signatures inside. Four men. One muscular. Two fat. One tall. They were standing in the main room. Their postures were tense. Angry. Waiting.

The woman entered.

She closed the door.

Raven walked to the window.

It was open. The shutters were loose. He stood to the side, unseen in the alley shadow. He looked through the gap.

The woman was inside.

She had just set the child down. The boy was holding her hand. The four men surrounded her. The muscular one had a scar across his face. It ran from his left brow to his right jaw, a white, twisted line. He stepped forward.

The slap was loud.

It cracked against her cheek. Her head snapped sideways. Her body stumbled. The child screamed.

"Mother!"

"Your husband took the loan," the scarred man said. His voice was gravel. He grabbed the front of her blouse. He pulled her close. "He has yet to pay. Where were you? Roaming? Buying grits? You think you can eat while our coin is missing?"

"No—" she gasped. "I don’t— I was just—"

He kicked her butt.

His boot landed between her thick cheeks. The impact drove her forward. She fell to her knees. Her brown skirt rode up. Her white panties were visible. The child cried louder.

"Please—" she sobbed. "Give me time— I will do it— I will pay—"

"Check the pockets," the scarred man said.

The two fat men moved.

They were greasy. Their bellies hung over their belts. Their hands were dirty. They went to the drawers. They pulled them open. They dumped the contents. Copper coins clattered onto the floor. A few silver. A handful of wilted petals.

"Ah," one fat man said. He picked up a coin. "Not enough."

"Please—" the woman crawled forward. Her hands were bleeding. A scratch from the drawer. Her cheek was red. Her hair was wild. "Take it. I will give the rest. Please. Just give me time."

Her blouse was torn.

The slap had ripped the collar. The fabric gaped. Her cleavage was exposed. Milky white. Soft. The skin was unmarked. The flesh was heavy and pressed together by the angle of her crawl. The men looked down.

The scarred man’s hand moved to his crotch.

He adjusted himself. The two fat men looked at each other. Their eyes dropped to the woman’s tits. The tall man shifted his weight. The air in the room changed. The smell of sweat and anger became something else. Something thicker.

"Not enough," the scarred man said again.

The first fat man stepped forward.

He grabbed the woman’s hand. His palm was hot. Greasy. He pulled it toward him. He pressed it against his crotch. The fabric of his pants was rough. The shape beneath was hard. A thick, twitching ridge.

"We will not come tomorrow," he said. His voice was wet. He rubbed her hand against his cock. "Of course, you have to get stuffed for tomorrow too."

"What—?" The woman pulled her hand back. She tried to scramble away. "What are you—?"

The fat man grabbed her.

His fist closed in her hair. He dragged her back. She screamed. The child screamed. The boy ran toward her. "Mother! No! Leave her! Don’t hurt her!"

One of the other men grabbed the child.

He lifted the boy. He covered the boy’s mouth. The child’s eyes were wide and wet and terrified.

The fat man pulled her skirt down.

The brown fabric tore at the waist. The skirt slid down her thick hips. It pooled around her knees. The white panties were exposed. The fabric was simple. Thin. The shape of her pussy was visible through it. The lips pressed against the cotton. The dark patch of hair beneath.

"No—" she cried. "No— stop— my son— he is looking— no—"

They grabbed her ankles.

Two men. One on each leg. They pulled. Her legs spread. She fell onto her back. Her thick ass hit the floor. Her tits shook. The white panties were pulled tight against her cunt. The fabric slipped into the crack of her lips. The outline of her clit was visible. Dark. Swollen.

The fat man leaned over.

He grabbed his own pants. He unzipped. His cock came out. Six inches. Thick. Hairy balls hanging beneath. The shaft was red. The head was dark. It twitched in the air. The smell of him was sour and heavy.

He leaned down.

His tongue came out. He licked her cheek. The wet, flat drag of his tongue moved from her jaw to her temple. He left a trail of saliva. He moaned.

"Oh shit," he said. "Damn. Wouldn’t it be fun to give your son some sex education? What a mother you are."