The house settled into its nighttime creaks around 1:13 a.m.
I know the exact minute because the red glow of my alarm clock was burning into my retinas while I lay on top of the sheets, naked, cock so hard it curved back against my stomach and pulsed with every heartbeat. I hadn't come since the laundry room. Fourteen hours of ache. Fourteen hours of replaying the way Mom's mouth stretched, the wet heat of her tongue, the way she'd sobbed when I left her dripping on the tile.
I thought if I just waited it out, the need would dull.
It didn't.
Instead it sharpened into something vicious. Every breath tasted like her. Every shift of the sheets felt like her thighs brushing mine. I could still feel the ghost of her small hands trying to circle my shaft, the way her tears had slid down her cheeks and dripped off her chin onto my cock while she tried to swallow more than her throat could take.
I rolled onto my stomach and ground against the mattress, slow and deliberate, but even that wasn't enough. I wanted inside something warm and alive and forbidden. I wanted to watch her belly swell with what I put there. The thought alone made precome flood out of me in a steady stream, soaking the sheet beneath my hips.
That was when I heard it.
A sound so soft I thought I imagined it at first: a low, broken cry from down the hall. Then another. And another. Rhythmic. Muffled by a pillow or a fist or both.
Mom.
I was out of bed before my brain caught up, cock swinging heavy and wet between my legs, slapping my thigh with every silent step. The hallway was dark, the night-light in the bathroom casting a weak amber pool across the carpet. Her door was closed but not latched; a thin blade of gold leaked from the gap where the frame hadn't quite met.
I stood outside it and listened.
The sounds were unmistakable now. The soft, wet slide of fingers moving fast. The creak of bedsprings. The occasional choked gasp that tried to be my name and failed.
"Daniel… oh God… Daniel…"
Each syllable hit me like a fist to the sternum. My cock jerked so hard it left a smear of precome on the door itself. I wrapped my hand around the base; just to steady it; and felt the throb all the way into my teeth.
She was crying.
Not just pleasure. Real tears. I could hear them in the hitch of her breath, the way her voice cracked on the second syllable of my name. Guilt and need braided together so tight she was strangling on them.
I should have walked away. Should have gone back to my room and jerked myself raw and let her suffer alone.
Instead I pushed the door open an inch.
The room was lit only by the bedside lamp turned low. She was on her back in the center of the bed she used to share with Dad, knees drawn up and spread wide, one hand buried between her thighs, the other clutching the pillow over her mouth. Her nightgown; pale blue silk; was rucked up to her waist, exposing everything. Her fingers moved in frantic circles over her clit, three of them slick and shining, dipping shallowly inside before returning to that swollen knot of nerves. Her hips rolled in small, desperate thrusts, chasing her own hand.
She hadn't seen me yet.
I watched her arch, watched her toes curl into the sheets, watched a tear slip from the corner of her eye and disappear into her hair. Her thighs trembled. She was close.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me with a soft click.
Her eyes flew open. For one frozen heartbeat she stared at me; wild, terrified, beautiful; and then her body took over. She came with a muffled wail into the pillow, back bowing off the mattress, fingers plunging deep and staying there while her pussy clenched and fluttered around them. Clear fluid pulsed over her hand in tiny spurts, darkening the sheet beneath her ass.
I crossed the room in three strides and knelt on the bed between her spread legs. She was still shaking with aftershocks, eyes glassy and red-rimmed.
"I couldn't—" she started, voice hoarse. "I tried to stop, I swear I tried—"
I pulled the pillow from her face and replaced it with my mouth.
She tasted like salt and sleep and desperation. Her tongue met mine instantly, hungry, filthy, no hesitation. She moaned into me, hands scrabbling at my shoulders, my neck, trying to drag me down on top of her. I let her feel my weight for just a second; let her feel the heavy, leaking bar of my cock slide along the soaked seam of her pussy; before I pulled back.
"Not yet," I said against her lips.
She whimpered, hips chasing me. "Please. I'll be quiet, I swear. Just put it in me. I need—"
I caught her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand. She was so small underneath me, trembling. Her nipples poked stiff through the silk, dark and wet where she'd been sucking on the fabric earlier to stay quiet.
"Look at me," I said.
Her eyes locked on mine, pupils blown wide.
"You don't get my cock tonight," I told her. "You get to watch me take what I need while you remember exactly who you're aching for."
I sat back on my heels between her thighs and wrapped my free hand around my shaft. The first stroke made her cry out softly; the second made her bite her lip bloody. I was so wet the sound was obscene, slick and loud in the quiet room. Precome poured over my knuckles in a steady stream.
She couldn't look away. Her gaze was riveted to where my fist barely fit around the girth, to the fat head appearing and disappearing, flushed angry purple and shining.
"Daniel," she whispered, "you're so big it hurts to look at."
I sped up. The bed rocked under my knees. Her legs fell open wider, offering everything, but I didn't touch her again. I wanted her to feel the denial like a brand.
"I'm going to come on you," I said. "And you're going to lie there in it all night and remember whose it is."
She nodded frantically, tears spilling again. "Yes. Yes, please—"
I let go of her wrists and braced one hand beside her head, leaning over her. My balls drew up tight. The first pulse shot out hard enough to splatter her throat and chin. The second striped across her lips and open mouth. She licked it instinctively, moaning at the taste. I kept coming; thick, endless ropes painting her neck, her breasts through the silk, her belly. Some reached the bunched fabric at her waist and pooled in her navel.
When it finally stopped I was breathing like I'd sprinted miles. She was shaking underneath the mess I'd made of her, thighs slick with her own release and now mine.
I dragged a finger through the come on her breast and pushed it between her lips. She sucked greedily, eyes fluttering shut.
"Sleep like this," I said quietly. "Don't wash it off."
She nodded, still sucking my finger like it was a cock.
I climbed off the bed, cock hanging heavy and wet between my legs, and looked back once from the doorway. She hadn't moved. She lay exactly as I left her; covered in me, thighs spread, nightgown ruined; staring at the ceiling with stunned, reverent eyes.
I left the door open this time.
Back in my room I didn't bother closing mine either.
Tomorrow, I thought, drifting into uneasy sleep with the taste of her tears still on my tongue.
Tomorrow she'll beg properly.