The bus wheezed to a stop at the mouth of Qingxi Village, tires crunching on gravel baked gold by the late-summer sun. Chen Mu stepped down with nothing but a faded canvas duffel and the faint scent of city smoke still clinging to his collar. Twenty-eight years old, lean from years of odd jobs in the provincial capital, he looked like any other young man returning to the mountains—except for the calm in his dark eyes that said he had already buried the past.
The dirt path wound between terraced rice fields shimmering like green glass. Dragonflies hovered over lotus ponds. In the distance, smoke curled from thatched roofs, and the air carried wet earth, wild osmanthus, and something sweeter he couldn't yet name.
His mother, Lin Xiu, was waiting under the old camphor tree at the entrance to their courtyard. Forty-five now, widowed for fifteen years, she had kept her beauty the way mountain women do—slowly, stubbornly. The faded blue work shirt stretched across heavy breasts that swayed when she hurried forward; her hips filled the loose cotton pants in a way that made the fabric cling to the generous curve of her ass. Sunlight caught the fine sheen of sweat along her collarbones.
"Little Mu…" Her voice cracked. She cupped his face, thumbs brushing the stubble he hadn't bothered to shave. "You've gotten thin."
"I'm home, Ma." He let her hug him, breathing in the familiar scent of sunlight and soap on her skin. Her breasts pressed soft and warm against his chest; he felt the steady thump of her heart and told himself the heat rising in his blood was only the pleasure of coming home.
That night they ate simple food—sour fish soup, stir-fried wild fern, a plate of cured pork. Moonlight spilled through the paper windows. Lin Xiu drank two small cups of rice wine and her cheeks flushed peach. She kept refilling his bowl, scolding him gently for not eating enough in the city. When she leaned over to ladle more soup, the top button of her shirt had come undone; the shadowed cleft between her breasts gleamed faintly with perspiration.
Chen Mu looked away, but the image stayed burned behind his eyelids.
Later, lying on the old wooden bed that still smelled of camphor, he slipped his consciousness into the space that had followed him since the accident three years ago.
It was a separate world: thirty mu of black soil, air thick with spiritual energy, a spring the size of a courtyard bubbling at the center. The water glowed faint silver under starlight that shouldn't exist. Beside the spring grew a tree he had never been able to name—trunk thick as three men, leaves jade-green and fragrant. Its fruit hung heavy, peach-shaped but larger, skin flushed rose and gold.
He cupped his hands under the spring and drank. Warmth spread through his limbs like mellow wine. His muscles loosened, skin tingled, and lower—his cock thickened against his thigh with lazy, insistent heat. The spring did that sometimes. Made everything sharper. Hungrier.
Chen Mu exhaled through his teeth. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he would plant, water, wait. He would be the good son. Nothing more.
Morning mist still clung to the ridges when he carried a hoe to the half-abandoned plot behind the house. The soil here had lain fallow since his father died; weeds grew taller than his waist. He rolled up his sleeves, sweat already beading along the lean lines of his back.
Three plots over, Widow Wang was bent over her melon patch.
Wang Yan was thirty-nine, husband lost to a landslide eight years ago. Village gossip said she had refused every matchmaker since. She wore a straw hat and a thin white vest gone nearly transparent with sweat. Each time she reached for a melon, the fabric pulled tight across breasts so full they seemed ready to spill free. Below, her faded floral skirt hugged the dramatic sway of her hips, the material damp at the cleft where her thighs met.
Chen Mu's hoe paused mid-swing.
She straightened, caught sight of him, and smiled—slow, knowing, as if she felt the weight of his stare between her legs.
"Back from the city, Little Mu?" Her voice was low, cigarettes-and-honey rough. She walked to the low bamboo fence separating their fields. The movement made her breasts shift heavily; dark nipples pressed visibly against wet cloth. "Your ma said you were coming. Thought the matchmakers had stolen you for good."
"Just needed mountain air." He wiped sweat from his brow, eyes unwillingly tracing the bead of moisture sliding down her throat, disappearing between those glorious tits.
Wang Yan lifted a ripe Hami melon, pressed it into his hands. The fruit was warm from the sun, skin velvety. "Try it. Sweetest this year."
Their fingers brushed. Hers lingered a fraction longer than necessary, nails short and practical but painted unexpected coral. A pulse beat in Chen Mu's throat. He could smell her—sun-warmed skin, faint soap, and underneath, the intimate musk of a woman who had been working bent over in the heat.
He bit into the melon. Juice exploded across his tongue, impossibly sweet, dripping down his chin. Wang Yan watched his mouth with half-lidded eyes.
"Good?" she asked softly.
He nodded, throat dry despite the juice.
She leaned closer, voice dropping to a murmur only he could hear. "Come by later if you want more. My patch ripens faster than anyone else's." Her gaze flicked down to the front of his trousers where the spiritual spring's lingering effect was making itself traitorously obvious. "All kinds of things ripen faster around here lately."
That evening Chen Mu filled a small porcelain jar from the spiritual spring and carried it, hidden in his sleeve, to the back hill.
He found Wang Yan by the irrigation ditch, skirt hiked up to her thighs, bare feet in the water as she washed greens. Fireflies drifted like slow sparks. When she saw him she didn't bother pulling the skirt down; the wet fabric clung to the plush lips of her pussy, outlining everything in mouth-watering detail.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked.
"Thought you might be thirsty." He offered the jar.
She took it, sniffed—eyes widening at the pure, almost electric scent rising from the water. Drank. A soft moan escaped her throat as the liquid slid down. Color rushed to her cheeks; her nipples stiffened visibly beneath the thin blouse.
"Gods, what is this?" Her voice trembled. She drank again, deeper. A trickle escaped the corner of her mouth, ran over her chin, dripped onto the swell of her breast.
Chen Mu stepped closer. "Something from home."
Wang Yan set the jar aside with shaking hands. The spiritual spring worked fast on empty desire. Her eyes had gone glassy, pupils blown wide. "I've been thirsty a long time, Chen Mu."
He cupped her face—rough thumbs stroking the soft skin of her jaw—and kissed her. She tasted of melon and spring water and hot, desperate woman. Her tongue met his hungrily; she pressed those magnificent breasts against his chest, rubbing like a cat in heat.
His hands slid down, filling themselves with the weight of her tits. So heavy, so soft—nipples thick and begging. When he rolled them between thumb and forefinger she whimpered into his mouth, hips grinding forward. He could feel the slick heat of her through two layers of cloth.
"Touch me," she gasped against his lips. "Been years since anyone—"
He pushed her back against the smooth trunk of a phoenix tree, yanked her blouse open. Buttons scattered. Her breasts spilled free—creamy, blue-veined, areolas wide and dark. He groaned and buried his face between them, sucking one fat nipple deep while his hand shoved her skirt higher.
No panties. Of course a widow working the fields alone wouldn't bother.
Her pussy was drenched, lips plump and glistening in the moonlight. The spring had made her shameless; she spread her thighs wide, showing him everything—pink inner folds slick and fluttering.
Chen Mu dropped to his knees in the dirt like a supplicant. The scent of her arousal hit him like a drug. He licked a long stripe up her center and her whole body jolted.
"Fuck—yes—"
He ate her slowly at first, savoring the salty-sweet flood of her juices, the way her clit swelled under his tongue. Then faster, spearing inside her, fucking her with his mouth while she clawed at his hair and babbled filthy gratitude.
When she came it was with a low, broken wail, thighs clamping around his head, pussy gushing over his chin.
He rose, cock straining against his trousers, and she attacked his belt with frantic fingers. The moment his length sprang free—thick, veined, head already slick—she sank down and took him to the root in one greedy slide.
They both cried out.
She was scorching inside, walls rippling from her orgasm, milking him with every thrust. He gripped her ample ass, lifting her, pinning her against the tree as he drove deep—slow, then harder, wet sounds echoing obscenely in the quiet night.
"Fill me," she begged, nails raking his back. "Been so empty—give it to me—"
He did. With a guttural groan he buried himself to the hilt and spilled pulse after pulse of hot cum deep in her clenching cunt.
They stayed locked together, panting, sweat cooling on their skin. Crickets sang around them. Somewhere downhill an owl called.
Wang Yan kissed his jaw softly. "Your ma's lucky to have such a thoughtful son," she murmured, wicked amusement in her voice. "Bringing water to thirsty widows."
Chen Mu laughed breathlessly, still inside her. "There's plenty more where that came from."
And under the mountain moon, with the spiritual spring singing quietly in his veins, he knew this was only the first taste.