I woke up tasting her on my tongue and feeling the ghost-weight of my own cum drying across my chest.
The house was quiet, but not peaceful. It felt like the walls themselves were holding their breath.
I showered fast, cock already thick and half-hard just from the memory of last night: Mom's tear-streaked face painted white, her mouth open and greedy for every drop. I didn't jerk off. I wanted the ache. I wanted it sharp enough to cut.
Downstairs smelled like bacon and coffee. Mom was at the stove, back to me, hair in a loose braid. She wore a simple sundress (pale yellow, thin straps, hem brushing mid-thigh). No bra again. The outline of her nipples was faint but constant, like they'd forgotten how to relax. When she turned to set a plate on the table I saw the faint shadow of a bruise on her throat (my thumbprint from holding her wrists). My cock surged so fast I had to grip the doorframe.
"Morning," I said, voice rough.
She startled anyway, nearly dropping the spatula. Her eyes flicked to me, then away, then (helplessly) back again. They were red-rimmed. She hadn't slept much either.
"Morning, honey." Too bright. Too careful. "Sit. Eat."
I sat. The table was small; our knees almost touched. She slid a plate in front of me (eggs, bacon, toast cut diagonally the way I'd liked since I was eight). Her hand shook. A faint white crust still clung to the hollow of her collarbone. She hadn't showered. She'd obeyed.
I ate slowly, watching her move around the kitchen. Every step made the dress sway against her thighs. Every time she reached for something high, the fabric pulled tight across her ass and I remembered how wet she'd been, how easily my fingers had slid inside.
She knew I was watching. Her cheeks stayed flushed, her breathing shallow.
When the plates were cleared she lingered at the sink, hands braced on the counter like she needed the support. I stood behind her (close enough that the heat of my body reached her first, then the rigid line of my cock brushing the small of her back through my jeans).
She went very still.
"Daniel," she whispered. Warning or plea, I couldn't tell.
I didn't speak. I just rested my hands on her hips, thumbs tracing the ridge of bone under the thin cotton. She trembled, but didn't pull away.
The bathroom door was ten feet down the hall. I'd left it unlocked again out of habit (or hope). Steam still drifted out from my shower.
I pressed forward until she could feel exactly how hard I was. The ridge of my cock nestled against the cleft of her ass, thick and obvious even through denim. She made a small, broken sound and pushed back (just once) before catching herself.
"I have to… I need to shower," she said, voice cracking.
I let her go. Watched her walk quickly down the hall, sundress fluttering around her legs. The bathroom door shut, but the lock didn't click.
I gave her sixty seconds.
Then I followed.
The room was already fogged with steam. She stood under the spray, eyes closed, head tipped back, water streaming over her face and breasts. The dress was gone (puddled on the tile). Her body was exactly as I remembered from stolen childhood glimpses and last night's fever dreams: soft waist, heavy breasts with dark rose nipples, the gentle swell of her belly leading down to auburn curls now plastered dark with water. My cum had washed away, but faint streaks still clung to her skin like she'd tried to rub it in instead of off.
She heard the door and her eyes snapped open.
"Daniel—"
I was already naked. I stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain closed behind me. The space was tiny; my chest brushed her breasts, my cock slapped wet against her stomach. Water pounded down on us both.
She stared up at me, lips parted, water streaming off her lashes.
"I tried to be good," she said. "I really tried."
"I know."
I cupped her face and kissed her. Not gentle. She opened instantly, tongue sliding against mine, tasting like toothpaste and guilt. Her hands clutched my shoulders, nails digging in. When I pulled back she chased my mouth with a whimper.
I turned her slowly until she faced the tile. She braced her palms against it without being told, arching her back, offering. Water sluiced down the groove of her spine, over the dimples above her ass, between her cheeks.
I took the soap and lathered my hands. Started at her shoulders, working down her arms, then back up again. She was shaking. When I reached her breasts I cupped them from behind, thumbs circling her nipples until she pushed into my palms with a sob. I kept going (belly, hips, thighs), deliberately skipping where she needed me most.
"Please," she whispered. "Touch me."
"Not yet."
I dropped to my knees. The water was hot on my back. I pressed my mouth to the base of her spine and tasted skin and soap and her. She jolted. I spread her cheeks with both hands and licked a slow line from her pussy to her tight, untouched hole. She cried out, legs buckling. I held her up and did it again, slower, spearing inside her cunt with my tongue until she was grinding back against my face, frantic.
When I stood she was panting, forehead against the tile.
I pressed the length of my cock along her back (too tall to line up properly from behind) and let her feel the weight of it. The head reached between her shoulder blades. She reached back blindly, trying to guide me lower.
I caught her wrists and pinned them to the wall above her head again.
"Look at me," I said.
She turned her head. Water streamed off her lips.
"I'm going to put my mouth on you," I told her. "And you're going to stay perfectly still. If you move, I stop. Understand?"
She nodded frantically.
I sank back down and turned her to face me. Lifted one of her legs over my shoulder, opening her completely. She was swollen, flushed dark pink, glistening with more than just water. I started slow (long, flat licks from her entrance to her clit, savoring the way she jerked every time my tongue flicked that sensitive bundle). When I sealed my lips around it and sucked gently she screamed (a sharp, shocked sound that echoed off the tile).
I didn't stop. I slid two fingers into her and curled, stroking that spot inside while I worked her clit with my tongue. She lasted less than a minute. Her whole body seized, pussy clamping down on my fingers so hard it hurt. A rush of wet heat flooded my mouth; she came so hard she squirted, clear fluid mixing with the shower spray, running down my chin.
I kept licking softly through the aftershocks until she sagged, held up only by my grip and the wall.
When I stood she stared at me like I'd rewritten the laws of gravity.
"Your turn," she rasped.
Before I could answer she dropped to her knees in the small space, water pounding on her back. Her hands wrapped around my cock (both of them, still not meeting) and she looked up at me with something close to worship.
"I need it," she said simply. "Please."
I threaded my fingers through her wet hair and guided her forward.
She took the head into her mouth with a grateful moan. Her lips stretched obscenely wide, jaw already aching, but she pushed forward anyway (gagging, drooling, eyes watering). She managed four inches before her throat spasmed and she had to pull back, coughing. Tried again. And again. Each time taking a fraction more, until the head was lodged in her throat and her nose brushed my stomach.
I let her set the pace. Let her choke and slurp and worship until her mascara ran black down her cheeks. When my balls drew up tight I warned her (hoarse, barely human).
She pulled off just enough to speak, lips brushing the slit.
"On my tongue," she begged. "Want to taste it again."
I came with a groan that felt ripped out of my soul. The first spurt hit the back of her throat; the rest flooded her mouth in thick pulses. She swallowed what she could, the rest spilling over her bottom lip, mixing with water and drool, dripping onto her breasts.
When I was spent she rested her cheek against my thigh, still kneeling, breathing hard. My cock softened slowly against her face, still too big to look normal.
After a minute she looked up, eyes soft and wrecked.
"I'm going to hell," she whispered.
I hauled her up and kissed her, tasting myself on her tongue.
"We both are," I said against her lips. "But not today."
I washed her gently after that (hair, body, between her legs where she was swollen and sensitive). She let me, docile, leaning into every touch. When we stepped out I wrapped her in a towel and carried her to her bed (still unmade, still smelling like last night's cum).
She curled against my chest, small and warm and trembling.
"Stay," she murmured. "Just until I fall asleep."
I stayed until her breathing evened out, until her fist uncurled against my skin.
Then I slipped away, cock already stirring again at the scent of her on my fingers.
The second accident, I thought as I closed her door softly behind me, wasn't an accident at all.