Flash Fiction

The Milk Maid

He eyed me today. It wasn't the critical eye of the highborn. It was the look of a man with desires. His glance traveled along my form and finished at my eyes. The edge of his mouth curled before he tore his glare away.

Bread pudding is his favorite dish and a good use day old bread. I will serve it with skirts askew. A scandalous ankle exposed to portray my acceptance. An added smile to heat his noble blood. He will see the shame as mine and the pleasure his. A tryst with no downside, or so he will believe.

I poured the milk over the custard infused bread. It is an art to add enough, and not too much. A skill developed over many years of watching my mother. Her life was spent in the cold kitchen as is mine. As was my grandmother's, and her mother before her. Born to serve those who are born to be served.

I prodded the bread with a wooden spoon, helping the milk soak in. The consistency was perfect, 'happy' my mother would say. She saw smiles in many things. Not I. The world was dark to my eyes. It lost its chance to please me when it took my mother from me. Now, I hate those born between lucky legs. Especially him.

I carried the dutch oven to the hot kitchen, handing it off to one who serves and sweats. We traded smiles, though she knew nothing of what I've done. True freedom lies in the baking.

The room was empty when my lord commanded his desert. His eyes devoured my ankle as I placed the bread pudding before him.

"Sit," the old man said, slapping his lap. I did so with a blush, struggling to hold back my glee. His hands traveled along my skirts as he nodded toward the pudding. I loaded a spoon and giggled as I brought it to his lips. He bit down, bouncing his eyes as if the night he had planned would please me.

"Your mother used to fed me," the lord whispered as I gathered another spoonful.

"She found it pleasing," I whispered back. His touch became bolder. The permission he did not need had been given.

I laughed when his eyes fluttered, and his arms lost their strength. Bubbles of drool formed at his mouth as the poison took over his soul. He tried to say something, but air wasn't traveling well through his mouth.

"You would lie between your own daughter's legs," I said in disgust. Rising, I slapped my father's face as my mother should have.

"I did not know," the lord groaned, his eyes rolling back into his head. Blood gathered at his nostrils as his head fell backward.

"And that is the worst of it. You did not care enough to know." A servant I would be no longer. They hang bastards, and I will not run from it.

I am coming, mother. The thought pleased me.