The first time I noticed Isabella's nightmares, was actually my very first nights in this world. Our small cottage in Millbrook had thin walls, and my makeshift bed was positioned close enough to hers that every restless movement, every whispered word, reached my ears through the darkness.
At first, I dismissed them as ordinary dreams—the kind everyone has when memories resurface unbidden in sleep. But as weeks turned to months, I began to recognize a pattern. The nightmares came with increasing frequency, sometimes multiple times in a single night, leaving Isabella exhausted and hollow-eyed by morning.
I would lie still in my bed, listening to her toss and turn, her breathing growing rapid and shallow. Sometimes she would whimper, other times she would speak in fragmented sentences that made little sense. But there was always fear in her voice—a deep, primal terror that seemed to claw its way up from somewhere dark within her soul.
"Please... no..." She would whisper, her voice barely audible above the creaking of the old wooden floorboards. "I won't... I can't..."
But it was the name that caught my attention most of all. Through her fitful sleep, through her desperate murmuring, one word emerged with chilling consistency:
Neospheres.
The name meant nothing to me initially. It sounded foreign, unfamiliar—like something from a distant land or perhaps from the old stories the village elders sometimes told around the fire. But the way Isabella spoke it, with such visceral fear, made my young heart race with curiosity and concern.
One morning, after a particularly restless night where she had called out the name three times, I decided to investigate. I slipped out of our cottage while Isabella was still sleeping off her exhaustion and made my way through the village streets.
Millbrook was a small place where everyone knew everyone else's business. If this Neospheres person had any connection to our village, surely someone would recognize the name. I started with old Henrik, who ran the blacksmith shop and had lived in Millbrook longer than anyone else.
"Neospheres?" He paused in his hammering, wiping sweat from his brow with a soot-stained rag. "Never heard that name before, lad. Sounds like something from the eastern kingdoms, maybe? Why do you ask?"
I gave him a vague answer about hearing it in a story and moved on to the next person.
By the end of the day, I had spoken to nearly everyone in Millbrook, and the result was always the same: blank stares, shaking heads, and the uncomfortable feeling that I was asking about something that didn't belong in our peaceful little world.
That evening, I sat by our small fireplace, watching Isabella as she prepared our simple dinner. She moved with efficiency, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands trembled slightly as she stirred the pot of stew. Her white hair fell across her face like a curtain, hiding her expression from view.
"Mother," I said carefully, testing the waters. "Do you know someone named Neospheres?"
The wooden spoon clattered to the floor.
Isabella's face went pale, and for a moment, she looked like she might collapse. She gripped the edge of the cooking table, her knuckles white with strain.
"Where did you hear that name?" She asked.
"You... you say it sometimes. In your sleep."
She closed her eyes, and I watched a single tear trace its way down her cheek. When she opened them again, there was something there I had never seen before—a depth of pain and fear that seemed to reach into her very soul.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, but her voice cracked on the words. She bent down to retrieve the spoon, avoiding my gaze.
I knew she was lying. We both knew it.
As the weeks passed, I began to piece together fragments of a story that Isabella had never told me. She had arrived in Millbrook while pregnant of me with a kid Rosaluna, that much I knew. But the details of her past, of where she had come from and why she had chosen our remote village, remained shrouded in mystery.
The nightmares continued, and with them, more pieces of the puzzle. Sometimes she would speak of running, of hiding, of someone who wouldn't stop searching. Other times, she would plead with invisible figures, begging them to leave her alone.
"I did what you asked," she would whisper in her sleep. "I gave you everything. Why won't you let me go?"
But always, always, there was that name: Neospheres.
One night, as I lay listening to her latest nightmare, a terrible thought occurred to me. The timing of her arrival in Millbrook, the fear that seemed to consume her whenever the name was mentioned, the way she had always been evasive about my father—it all pointed to one conclusion.
Neospheres wasn't just someone from her past. He was connected to me, to my very existence. And if my growing suspicions were correct, he might be the reason Isabella had fled to Millbrook in the first place.
That night, I lay awake listening to her restless sleep, and when she began to murmur that name again—Neospheres.
Who the fuck is Neospheres anyway?
Well let's out these thoughts away for now.
I needed to make her relax and forget once more about her nightmares.
I stood by the edge of the bed, watching her stir faintly in the dark, her brow knotted, her breath catching in those shallow, choked little sighs. She didn't sleep well these days.
She was my mum, yes—but more than that, she was a woman first. A woman denied peace, denied touch, denied ease. That simply wouldn't do. I was going to give her release—not just from the dream, but from everything else she carried inside just this moment.
I was a devoted son, after all.
Silently, I climbed up onto the bed, slow and careful so the mattress barely creaked. Her breathing hitched again as she twitched in her sleep, lips parting in an unconscious murmur. The moonlight slipping in through the window painted her in pale strokes—skin glowing, long legs exposed, one knee bent just slightly so her gown rode up along the thigh.
I eased forward until I was nestled at the curve of her legs, crouched between them. She lay on her side, her body turned partially away, but that only made her more accessible. The gown had slid upward just enough to hint at what lay beneath. I gently pinched the hem, lifting it inch by inch, careful not to wake her fully, revealing the soft, pale swell of her ass, the curve of her hip, the warm crevice where her thighs met.
And then… there it was.
Nestled between her legs like a secret flower: her pussy. Lightly furred with white hair, the strands fine and soft, curling lightly, catching the faintest shimmer of light. Not shaven, not waxed—natural. It looked real. Feminine. Honest.
God, it was beautiful.
Her labia were full and neat, the lips gently pressed together, flushed with a dusky pink that peeked through where they met. It was art without pretense. Erotic simply because it existed—because it was her. And despite everything, despite having carried two children into the world, her sex looked untouched, untouched by time. As if it still held secrets no one had ever dared to unlock.
I leaned down, breathing her in—warm, slightly musky, sweet with sleep and the faintest traces of femininity that lingered between her legs. My lips brushed through the fine hairs as I kissed softly against her mound, lips parting slightly to taste her skin. The hair tickled, but it only made it more intimate.
"Mmh…"
A tiny sound. Her thighs tensed faintly. Her brow furrowed again.
That was all the invitation I needed.
I tilted my head and drew my tongue along the soft crease where her lips met, just once, featherlight, like a painter testing the canvas. Her skin was smooth, the warmth of her center radiating up into my face.
"Ahh… nn~"
The moan was almost involuntary. Soft. Unformed. But definitely a sound of pleasure.
I grinned against her, my tongue pressing a little deeper, parting her now with gentle exploration. The inner folds were slick with the warmth of her, still untouched by fingers or cock for what seemed forever, but pulsing faintly with life. I circled the hood of her clit, slow and languid, teasing the sensitive nub hidden within.
Her hips shifted.
I held her leg steady with one hand, resting it over her thigh while the other traced up her outer hip, just barely touching, a slow caress designed to comfort and arouse in equal measure.
She didn't speak—still half-asleep, caught somewhere between dream and waking—but her body was beginning to answer mine. The tension in her hips. The way her foot curled under the blanket. The way her back arched just slightly, ass pushing out with an unconscious invitation.
"Ah… haah… nnh…"
I licked deeper now, savoring the growing wetness inside her. Each pass of my tongue gathered more of her flavor—earthy, feminine, a little salty-sweet and impossibly addictive. I spread her folds gently with my thumbs, exposing her fully to my gaze, my mouth, letting my tongue explore every hidden hollow.
I let out a low groan into her cunt, the vibration making her twitch. Her hand moved now, blindly searching along the sheets, fingers curling, clenching.
Still she didn't wake fully.
But I could feel it—her body opening. Her clit swelling, her thighs trembling ever so faintly. She was falling into it, surrendering without understanding.
I slipped a finger inside her slowly, curling it up toward her G-spot, and her body gave a spasm.
"Nnnh—ah! Nnhhh…"
Her voice broke through like a gasp.
I swiftly pulled back her gown, putting a sliver of distance between us. Isabella's eyes fluttered open, a sleepy confusion clouding them.
"Mommy," I whispered.
"Hmph, yes, baby?" She murmured, her gaze finding mine.
"I want milk," I stated, already crawling towards her, my hand outstretched to her ample breasts.
Isabella sighed, a familiar weariness in the sound. "Sweetie, you're four now, I told you it's over." Just a week ago, she'd laid down the law, claiming I was too old for breast milk. A logical, albeit inconvenient, truth. Up until now, my puppy-dog eyes and lonely expressions had been my secret weapon, her weakness for me unwavering. But this time, I had a master plan brewing.
"Please…" I pleaded, dropping my head, feigning childish vulnerability. "I'm having nightmares about someone called Neospheres, mommy…"
Her eyes widened, a flicker of understanding, then an immediate softening. "Oh, baby, come here," she cooed, reaching out a hand. I wasted no time, closing the gap and letting myself be pulled into her embrace.
"Don't think about it, I'm here for you," she whispered yet I could feel the frantic thumping of her heart, a subtle tremor of unease. Whoever this Neospheres was, even if he was my biological father, I didn't give a shit. I'd make goddamn sure he caused no more problems in the future. Until then, my beautiful mum and sister were my sole priority.
"I'm here for you as well, mommy," I mumbled, my hands finding their familiar resting place on her bountiful breasts.
"Oh my sweet boy," Isabella conceded, her resistance crumbling under my innocent gaze, even though I'd tried to sound serious. It didn't matter.
With a graceful motion, she lowered the strap of her dress, revealing the magnificent bounty I craved. F-cup, large, healthy breasts, brimming with milk—delicious and utterly breathtaking. I'd never seen such a stunning pair of boobs in my life. Immediately, I latched on, drawing in the warm, true milk. It was a damn marvel how she still produced it four years after my birth; I suspected it had something to do with her healing abilities.
My mother's hand gently stroked my head as I drank. "You really love milk, don't you?" She asked amused how hungrily I was drinking.
I nodded, still suckling, before 'accidentally' pulling her nipple between my teeth.
"Aahan~" A surprised moan, involuntary and utterly sensual, escaped her lips as she gripped my white hair tighter.
Damn, even her moans were pure fucking sex.
I was already looking forward to the day I was old enough to do my lovely mother's beautiful body and devour it from every single fucking part.