Peeping On My Reluctant Mom
I was trying to study, but the silence in the house was a physical weight, pressing down on my eyelids. Another chapter of Advanced Chemistry blurred into a mess of formulas. My focus kept drifting to the empty driveway, the untouched plate of dinner in the fridge. Dad was gone again. Another three-month business trip, another stretch of hollow days with just me and Mom. The house felt too big without his heavy footsteps, his terse phone calls, the faint scent of his cologne that clung to the hallway. It was just the low hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the kitchen clock, and the unspoken worry that had become our third roommate. Money. It was a ghost we never talked about, a specter that thinned our soup and frayed the edges of the carpets.
I pushed the textbook away and rubbed my eyes. A floorboard creaked down the hall. Mom was getting ready. Her sister’s daughter, my cousin Sarah, was getting engaged. A party. A celebration I was exempt from. Exams. The perfect excuse. I heard her closet door slide open, the soft rustle of hangers. I knew her routine. I knew every sound she made.
My bedroom door was cracked open. I stood up and walked to it, my socked feet silent on the wood. I peered out into the hallway, a familiar voyeuristic act that had become a quiet ritual. Her bedroom door was ajar, too. I saw her, a slice of her, reflected in her dressing table mirror. She was in her underwear. A simple, sensible white bra and matching panties that did little to hide the figure that had been the secret subject of my teenage fantasies for years. My mother, Emily. Thirty-eight, and she still had it. The other guys at school talked about models and actresses, but they had no idea. They hadn't seen their mother, her skin still pale and smooth from a youth spent avoiding the sun, her breasts full and heavy, a 36C I'd figured out from sneaking a look at the laundry tags. Her legs were my obsession. Long, shapely, toned not from a gym but from years of walking through this house, up and down the stairs, a constant, graceful motion. I'd spent countless hours imagining those legs wrapped around me.
She turned, and I got a full view of her front. Her stomach was soft, with a gentle curve I found intoxicating. She was humming a tuneless song, a nervous habit. She was worried. I could see it in the tight set of her shoulders. This party wasn't just a party. It was a stage. She had to look like she wasn't drowning. She had to smile and congratulate my Aunt Laura and her wealthy husband, Victor, while our own world was crumbling.
She reached for a dress. It was a deep, shimmering red. An evening gown. Not something she wore often. She slipped it on. The fabric clung to her curves like a second skin, the neckline dipping just low enough to be daring, the hem high enough to show off those incredible calves. She turned, and the light caught her, and for a second, she wasn't my worried, tired mother. She was the woman from old photographs, the one my father had fallen for, vibrant and beautiful. She looked at herself in the mirror, and her smile was brittle. A piece of performance art for the family.
My cock stiffened in my jeans. It was a Pavlovian response. The sight of her, the mix of beauty and sorrow, the forbidden nature of my thoughts. I retreated back into my room, my heart thumping. I sat on my bed, my textbook forgotten. I listened to her finish getting ready. The click of her heels on the hardwood floor. The jingle of her car keys. The front door opening and closing. Silence descended again, but it was a different kind of silence now. A silence filled with her absence.
I stood up and walked to her room. The air still smelled like her perfume, something floral and powdery. On her bed, where she'd laid out her options, was the green silk summer dress. The one I had stolen glances at for years, the one I had wrapped around my fist late at night, imagining it was her body. It was her favorite, a cool, emerald green that brought out the color of her eyes. I picked it up. The silk was cool and smooth against my fingertips. I brought it to my face. It smelled of her, of soap and clean skin. My cock was rock hard now, pressing insistently against my zipper. I had to see. I had to see what was in her closet. I opened the mirrored doors. There, arranged neatly, were her other dresses, her blouses, her everyday clothes. And a section of her underwear drawer was slightly open. I pulled it out. Lacy things, sensible things, things I'd never seen her wear. My breath caught in my throat. A black, lacy bra. Matching panties. I pulled them out. They felt delicate, forbidden. My hand went to my crotch, I was so hard it hurt. I had to. I couldn't stop myself. I unzipped my pants and pulled out my cock, wrapping the black lace around it. The feeling of her intimate apparel against my most sensitive skin was almost enough to make me cum right then and there. I started to stroke, slowly, imagining her putting these on. Imagining taking them off her. My eyes closed, my movements getting faster, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The thought of her, in that red dress, with those other men looking at her, Victor looking at her, sent a sick, possessive jolt through me. He always looked at her. He looked at her like she was a prize he wanted to win. My strokes became frantic. With a choked groan, I came, spilling myself into the delicate fabric. The shame washed over me immediately, hot and sharp. I stared at the mess I'd made, my cum soaking into the black lace. Panic set in. I couldn't leave it. I stumbled to the laundry hamper, stuffed the soiled underwear deep inside, buried under her dirty clothes. My hands were shaking. I closed the drawer, the closet, and fled back to my room, the scent of her perfume and my own shame clinging to me. I lay on my bed, my heart pounding, and waited. Waited for her to come home.
Hours passed. I must have dozed off. I was woken by the sound of a car engine. Not her car. A deeper, throatier rumble. Victor's Mercedes. I was out of bed and at my door in a second, my heart in my throat. I heard voices in the entryway. Hers, low and tired. His, smooth as whiskey.
"You really didn't have to see me all the way to the door, Victor. I'm fine."
"I insist, Emily. A beautiful woman like you shouldn't be out alone at this hour." His voice had that oily charm I'd always hated. "It was a lovely party. You were the most beautiful woman there."
"I'm sure Robert's a lucky man," I heard him say, his voice closer now. They were inside. I could hear the soft click of her heels on the wood, a heavier tread alongside them.
"He's... away," she said. There was a strained pause.
"So Alex is home alone?"
"No, he's studying for his exams. He needs his rest." Her lie was a thin, transparent thing. It hung in the air between them. Why was she lying for me? A flicker of shame mixed with the fear coiling in my gut.
"Well, then. A moment of peace." I heard the clink of ice in a glass. He'd helped himself to a drink. "The house feels... quiet without Robert."
"He works hard," she defended, her voice tight.
"Of course. But a woman has... needs. Needs that shouldn't be neglected." His voice dropped, low and insinuating.
I had to see. I had to know. I crept out of my room, staying in the deep shadows of the hallway. I could see them in the living room. The dim light from a single lamp cast them in gold and shadow. My mother stood by the fireplace, her arms crossed over her chest. Victor was lounging on the sofa, his suit jacket unbuttoned, a glass in his hand. He was looking at her the way he always did, like she was a piece of meat he was about to carve.
"Victor, please. It's late." Her voice was a plea.
He stood up, setting his glass down. He walked toward her, a predator closing in. "I know things are hard, Emily. Laura told me. About the... financial situation."
Her shoulders slumped. The admission, even indirect, seemed to drain the last of her energy. "We're managing."
"Are you?" He was standing in front of her now, too close. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. I saw her flinch. "A woman like you shouldn't have to 'manage'." His other hand came up, his fingers tracing the strap of her red dress. "This dress. It deserves diamonds, not worry."
"Stop," she whispered, but it was weak. Her eyes were fixed on the floor.
He smiled, a slow, triumphant curve of his lips. He pulled an envelope from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. It was thick, stuffed with cash. He held it out. "This is for you. No strings. Just a gift from family."
Her eyes flickered from the envelope to his face. The war in her expression was plain to see, even from the shadows. Pride against desperation. Desperation won. Her hand, trembling, reached out and took the envelope. Her fingers closed around it. A lifeline.
"Thank you," she breathed, her voice cracking.
"Of course." His hand didn't move from her shoulder. Instead, his thumb stroked the skin of her collarbone, right above the neckline of her dress. "But Emily... even family deserves a little... appreciation."
Her head snapped up. "What do you want?"
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "I want what Robert doesn't seem to have time for. I want to appreciate you." His hand slid from her shoulder down her back, resting possessively on her waist. "I've wanted to for a long time."
She tried to pull away. "Victor, no. This is wrong. We're family."
"A very generous family," he said, his voice hardening slightly. He tapped the envelope still clutched in her hand. "That is a very generous gift. For a very small favor." He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear. "I want you. Just for an hour. Let me show you what a real man can do. Let me make you feel like the woman you are."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't run. She looked trapped, a beautiful creature caught in a gilded snare. The money in her hand was a heavy, tangible weight.
"Alex..." she whispered, her voice a desperate thread.
"Is studying," Victor finished for her. "He won't hear a thing. Your bedroom is down the hall."
He didn't wait for an answer. He took her arm, his grip firm, and started guiding her toward the hallway. Toward my room. Toward her room. My blood ran cold. I pressed myself back into the shadows, my body flat against the wall, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I was sure they could hear it. They passed the entrance to my room, just a few feet away. I smelled her perfume, his expensive cologne. I saw the tear track on her cheek in the dim light.
They disappeared into her room. Her door didn't click shut. It stayed open a crack, a sliver of forbidden light.
I had to move. I had to see. My legs felt like they were made of wood, but I forced them forward, one silent step at a time. I reached her door, my breath held tight in my chest. I peered through the crack.
The scene was lit by her dressing table lamp, a soft, golden glow that made everything look like a dirty photograph. He was standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face the mirror. Her red dress was a splash of blood in the soft light.
"Look at you," he murmured, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection. "You're magnificent. And he leaves you here. Alone."
His hands slid down her arms, then around her waist, pulling her back against him. I could see his erection pressing against the fabric of her dress, against her ass. She flinched, her eyes squeezing shut. He was bigger than my father, stockier, with a thick chest and a gut that strained the buttons of his shirt. His hair was silver at the temples, a sign of his age, his experience. He was a wolf, and she was a lamb.
"Don't," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Emily. I'm going to make you feel good." His hands moved up, cupping her breasts through the thin fabric of her dress. He squeezed, and I saw her wince. "These have been wasted. Neglected."
He reached for the zipper on the side of her dress. The sound of it lowering was a slow, metallic hiss in the quiet room. He peeled the red fabric from her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet. She stood there in her underwear, a plain white bra and panties, a stark contrast to the sensuality of the dress. She was shivering, but whether from cold or fear, I couldn't tell.
"Turn around," he commanded.
She didn't move. He sighed, a sound of mock patience, and turned her himself. His hands went to the clasp of her bra. It sprang open. He slid the straps from her shoulders and tossed it aside. Her breasts were exposed, full and pale in the soft light, the nipples a dusty rose, already hardening from the chill in the air, or from fear. He stared at them, his eyes dark with hunger.
"Perfect," he breathed. He bent his head and took one in his mouth. I saw her back arch involuntarily, a sharp intake of breath. He wasn't gentle. He sucked hard, his tongue lashing against the sensitive flesh. He used his teeth, grazing the nipple, and I saw a flicker of pain cross her face. His other hand came up to maul her other breast, squeezing it roughly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.
He moved to the other breast, giving it the same brutal, hungry attention. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, her head turned away, her eyes closed. She was enduring it. She was a statue being defiled. He kept at it for what felt like an eternity, his mouth wet and noisy, his hands possessive. He was marking her. I watched, a hot, sick feeling churning in my gut. I was hard. So hard it was a physical pain, my cock straining against my jeans. The sight of it, the wrongness of it, the sheer animalistic power he was exerting over her. It was a poison coursing through my veins.
He finally straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A faint red mark bloomed on the pale skin of her breast, a love bite that was more like a brand. He looked her up and down, his gaze predatory.
"On the bed," he said. It wasn't a request.
She didn't move. He sighed again, this time with real impatience. He grabbed her arm and practically dragged her the few steps to the bed, pushing her down onto her back. She fell with a soft cry, her limbs sprawling. The bed, our shared family bed, where she slept with my father. His bed. Now it was his stage.
He knelt on the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress, and hooked his fingers into the waistband of her white panties. He pulled. She resisted, her legs trying to press together, but it was a futile gesture. He was too strong. The fabric stretched, then gave way with a soft sound of tearing. He tossed the ripped scrap of cotton aside. She was naked. Completely exposed. Her legs, the legs I had worshipped from afar, were sprawled open, pale and vulnerable. Her pussy was a dark shadow between her thighs. I could see the trimmed hair there, neat despite the chaos.
He pushed her knees apart, his hands rough on her skin. She let out a choked sob, turning her face into the pillow, hiding. He didn't care. He was fumbling with his own belt, the buckle clinking. Then his zipper. He shoved his trousers and boxers down his hips. His cock sprang free. It was thick, angry-looking, the head a dark, engorged purple. It was bigger than mine. Veins stood out on the shaft. He stroked it a few times, his eyes fixed on her exposed pussy.
"You're going to take all of this," he grunted, more to himself than to her.
He positioned himself between her legs, his weight pinning her down. He grabbed his cock and guided it to her entrance. I saw him rub the head against her, spreading her lips, wetting himself with her. She wasn't wet. Not really. She was dry, her body fighting him. He didn't seem to notice or care. He just pushed.
The first thrust was brutal.
Her whole body jerked, a muffled cry tearing from her throat into the pillow. He sank into her, inch by thick, unrelenting inch. His face was a mask of pure, selfish gratification. He was all the way in now, his pelvis pressed against hers. He held himself there for a moment, savoring it, savoring her tightness, her resistance.
"God, you're tight," he groaned. "Robert's been neglecting this sweet cunt."
He started to move. Pulling out, then slamming back in. The sound of their bodies meeting was a wet, slapping rhythm that echoed in the quiet room. It was fast, hard, without any finesse. It was a punishment. A taking. Her legs were limp, her feet bouncing with the force of his thrusts. Her hands were clutching the sheets, her knuckles white. Her head was still turned away, hidden. She had checked out. She had gone somewhere else in her mind to survive this.
My own hand was on my cock, I'd pulled it out without even realizing. I was stroking myself in time with his thrusts, my eyes glued to the scene. The sight of his thick, veined cock disappearing into my mother, the sight of her pale legs splayed open for him, the raw, animalistic nature of it. It was disgusting. It was horrifying. And I couldn't look away.
He changed his angle, hooking his arms under her knees and pushing them up towards her chest, folding her in half. The new position let him drive deeper, and he grunted with the effort. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice harsh.
She didn't.
"I said, look at me." He grabbed her jaw, forcing her head to turn, forcing her to face him. Her eyes were open, but they were vacant, glassy. Dead. He didn't care. He just wanted to see her face as he fucked her. "That's it. See who's fucking you. See who's giving you what you need."
His pace became erratic. His breath was coming in harsh gasps. I knew he was close. I was close too, my own hand flying on my cock, the familiar pressure building at the base of my spine.
With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself inside her and groaned, a long, guttural sound. I saw his balls tighten, his ass clench as he pumped his cum into her. He held himself there, shuddering, emptying himself. The sight of it, the finality of his possession of her, sent me over the edge. I bit down hard on my lip to keep from making a sound as my own orgasm ripped through me. My cock pulsed, spilling hot cum over my hand and onto the floor in the hallway.
He collapsed on top of her, his full weight crushing her into the mattress. He was breathing heavily, his face buried in her neck. She didn't move. She was a doll beneath him. After a moment, he pushed himself up, his softening cock slipping out of her with a wet sound. I saw the mess between her legs, the redness, the smear of his cum and a faint tinge of her own blood. He'd been rough.
He stood up, his movements unconcerned, and started pulling up his trousers. He looked down at her, a satisfied smirk on his face. "You're a good fuck, Emily. A damn good fuck." He patted her ass, a proprietary, dismissive gesture. "That money will cover the mortgage for a couple of months. You let me know when you need more."
He walked over to the dressing table, picked up his glass, and drained the last of his drink. He adjusted his tie in the mirror, smoothed his hair, the perfect picture of a satisfied man. He didn't look at her again. He just walked out of the room.
I flattened myself against the wall, holding my breath, as he passed. He didn't even glance my way. His footsteps echoed down the hall, then the front door opened and closed. The rumble of his car engine faded into the night.
Silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence descended on the house. I stayed where I was for a long moment, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. My cum was cooling on my hand, sticky and wet. I looked at it, then wiped it on my jeans, a wave of disgust and self-loathing washing over me. I had watched. I had gotten off on it.
I finally pushed myself away from the wall and crept back to her door. I peered inside. She hadn't moved. She was still lying on the bed, her legs slightly apart, her face turned into the pillow. The torn white panties lay on the floor beside the red dress, a shredded flag of surrender. The envelope of cash was on the nightstand, a testament to her violation.
I took a step into the room. The floorboard creaked. She flinched, a full-body tremor. Her head turned slowly, her eyes finding mine.
And they weren't dead anymore. They were filled with a horror so profound it was a physical force. Horror at being seen. Horror at being seen by me.
"Alex," she whispered, her voice a cracked, broken thing. It was the worst sound I had ever heard.
I couldn't speak. I just stood there, a monster in her doorway, my shame a burning brand on my soul.
"Get out," she gasped, her voice gaining a little strength, a desperate edge. "Get out!"
I backed away, my hands held up as if to ward off a blow, and fled down the hall. I slammed the door to my room, the sound loud and violent in the quiet house. I leaned against it, my body shaking, my breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. The image was seared onto my retinas: her face, the betrayal, the shame, the absolute devastation in her eyes.
***
The next morning was a slow-motion horror. I didn't want to leave my room. I didn't want to face her. But my stomach was a hard, painful knot, and I knew I had to. The silence in the house was worse than any noise. It was a judgment.
I finally opened my door. The hallway was empty. I walked toward the kitchen, each step a monumental effort. She was there. Her back was to me, standing at the counter. She was wearing the green silk dress.
The green silk summer dress.
My breath caught. It was a low-cut, sleeveless thing, the silk clinging to her curves, the V-neck dipping low enough to show the soft swell of her breasts. It was the dress I had dreamed about. The one I had used. And she was wearing it now, a day after… after last night. It was a masochistic choice, or perhaps she was just too broken to care.
She turned as I entered. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale and drawn. There were faint, purplish bruises on her arms, where Victor had gripped her. She looked at me, and for a second, the horror was back in her eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by a brittle, fragile calm.
"There's coffee," she said, her voice flat. She gestured to the pot. She turned back to the counter, to the toaster. She was making toast.
I poured a cup, my hand trembling so much the coffee sloshed over the rim. I stood there, unsure what to do. Should I sit? Should I speak? The air was thick with unspoken things.
She moved to the fridge, bending over to get the butter. The silk of her dress pulled tight across her ass, and as she bent, the neckline gaped. I saw it all. The creamy skin of her breasts, the shadow between them, the lace of a white bra peeking out. My body reacted instantly, a traitorous surge of heat in my groin. I was disgusted with myself.
She straightened up and spread butter on the toast, her movements precise, her back still to me. She put the toast on a plate and brought it to the table, setting it down in front of my usual chair. Then she sat opposite me. She still hadn't really looked at me. She was staring at the grain of the wood table.
We ate in silence. The scrape of my knife on the toast, the clink of her coffee mug on its saucer. It was unbearable. The memory of last night was a third person at the table, a grotesque, grinning ghost.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. "Mom..."
She flinched at the word.
"Are you... are you okay?"
A bitter, broken laugh escaped her lips. She looked up at me then, her eyes full of a despair so deep it made my chest ache. "No, Alex. I'm not okay."
"Did he... did he hurt you?"
"He paid the mortgage," she said, her voice dripping with a self-loathing that was almost physical. "For a couple of months. Is that what you want to know?"
"That's not what I asked."
She stood up so fast her chair scraped backward and toppled over with a crash. She didn't even look at it. "You saw," she accused, her voice rising, cracking with hysteria. "You watched him. You watched him... do that to me. And you ask if he hurt me?" She was breathing hard, her hands clenched into fists. "You saw everything."
My face burned with shame. I had. I had watched. And worse.
"You enjoyed it," she whispered, the accusation a dagger. "I heard you. After he left. I heard you in your room."
My shame curdled into something hot and defensive. "He made you do it. He's a monster."
"He is," she agreed, her voice dropping to a defeated whisper. "He is. And I let him. For this." She gestured vaguely at the house, at our life of quiet desperation. "I let him do what he wanted because I was scared of losing this... this prison." A tear traced a path down her cheek.
I pushed my chair back and stood up. My own anger and shame were a volatile mix. "So I'm supposed to feel sorry for you? I'm supposed to just forget what I saw?"
Her eyes flashed. "What do you want from me, Alex?"
And in that moment, something inside me snapped. The months of repression, the secret fantasies, the stolen glances, the toxic shame of last night. It all coalesced into a single, ugly impulse. An impulse to possess, to punish, to take back some measure of control.
I took a step toward her. She flinched but held her ground. I reached out and grabbed her, my hand closing over her breast through the thin silk of her dress. It was just as I had imagined. Full, soft, heavy in my palm.
She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. Her hands flew up and slapped me, hard, across the face. The crack of skin on skin echoed in the silent kitchen.
"You little bastard!" she spat, her eyes wide with a mixture of fury and disbelief. "What are you doing?"
"Getting what I want," I said, my voice a low growl I didn't recognize. My cheek stung, but I didn't let go. I squeezed her breast, my thumb brushing over the nipple, which was hardening traitorously beneath the fabric. "I saw what he did. I saw how he took you. And now I'm taking you."
Horror warred with disbelief in her eyes. "Alex, stop. This is insane."
"I heard you in your room, too," I lied, the words a venomous weapon. "After he left. I heard you touching yourself. Thinking about him. Thinking about his cock inside you."
It was a shot in the dark, a cruel guess. But I saw the flicker of truth in her eyes. A faint blush of shame colored her pale cheeks. Her body had responded, even if her mind hadn't. That was all the confirmation I needed.
Her resolve crumbled. The fight went out of her. Her shoulders slumped, her hands falling to her sides. She started to cry, silent, shuddering sobs that wracked her body.
"Please, Alex," she whispered, her voice broken. "Don't. Please."
"Then make a deal with me," I said, my voice cold, hard. "Just like you made one with him."
"What do you want?"
"Everything," I said. "When I want. Where I want. If you agree, I'll never tell a soul. Not Dad, not anyone. What happened last night will be our secret. Our family secret."
Her eyes were wide, trapped. She was cornered again, but this time by me. Her own son. She looked at my face, at the hard, determined set of my jaw. She saw that I wasn't bluffing. She saw the monster he had created, the monster she had helped create with her silence, with her desperate choices.
"Can we... can we just not..." she stammered, her last desperate plea.
"No sex," I said, throwing her a crumb. "I won't fuck you. Not yet." The word hung in the air between us, a promise of future violations.
She closed her eyes. A single tear escaped and traced a path through the powder on her cheek. She took a deep, shuddering breath. And she nodded. A slight, almost imperceptible movement. It was enough.
Triumph, cold and sharp, shot through me. I let go of her breast and hooked my fingers into the V-neck of her green silk dress. I pulled. The fabric strained, then tore with a satisfying rip. I pulled the torn sides apart, exposing her white lace bra.
"No," she whimpered, a weak, defeated protest.
I ignored her. I reached around her back and fumbled with the clasp of her bra. My fingers were clumsy with adrenaline. It finally sprang open. I pulled the straps down her arms and tossed the bra aside. Her breasts were free. They were just as I had imagined, even better than I had imagined. Pale, full, with small, rosy nipples that were hardened into tight pebbles from the cold air, or from fear, or from a perversion of her own desire. I didn't care which. I just stared. They were mine to look at.
I cupped one in my hand, feeling its weight, its softness. I brushed my thumb over the nipple, and she flinched, a small, sharp intake of breath. I leaned down and took it in my mouth. The skin was soft, the nipple hard against my tongue. I sucked, drawing it deep into my mouth, mimicking the rough way I had seen Victor do it. I wasn't gentle. I used my teeth, grazing the sensitive peak. She let out a choked sob, her hands coming up to rest on my shoulders, not pushing me away, just… holding on.
I moved to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. My other hand went to her back, pulling her closer, pressing her bare flesh against my t-shirt. The feel of her skin against mine was electric. I was rock hard, my cock a painful, demanding pressure in my jeans. I'd dreamed of this for years, and now it was happening, the reality so much more potent than any fantasy.
I pulled my head away and looked at her. Her face was turned away, her eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners and tracking down her temples. She was a masterpiece of misery and surrender.
"On your knees," I said. My voice was rough, unrecognizable.
Her eyes snapped open, wide with fresh horror. "Alex, no. Please don't make me."
"On your knees, Mom," I repeated, my voice harder. I put my hands on her shoulders and applied pressure, a slow, inexorable push. I wasn't asking.
Her legs trembled, but they gave way. She sank to her knees on the cold linoleum floor, the torn green silk pooling around her. The position was an act of utter submission. She was looking up at me now, her tear-streaked face at the level of my crotch. Her eyes were pools of despair.
I unzipped my jeans and pulled my cock out. It was stiff, flushed, the head already slick with pre-cum. Her gaze flickered to it, then away, a look of revulsion crossing her features. It was the same look she'd given me in the kitchen when I first touched her. I liked it.
"Suck it," I commanded.
She shook her head, a small, frantic motion. "I can't. Alex, please."
"You can," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "You will."
I grabbed a handful of her hair at the back of her head, my fingers twisting into the strands. Her scalp tensed under my grip. I used my hold on her to pull her forward, to guide her face toward my erection. Her hands came up and pressed against my thighs, a weak, useless attempt to hold me back.
"Open your mouth," I grunted.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Her lips were pressed together in a tight, white line.
"Open. Your. Mouth." I tightened my grip on her hair, pulling just enough to make her wince.
With a choked sob, her lips parted. It was a small, reluctant opening. I didn't hesitate. I pushed the head of my cock into her mouth.
The feeling was incredible. Wet, hot, the inside of her cheek soft against my sensitive skin. Her tongue was a clumsy, inert presence. I pushed deeper, until the head touched the back of her throat. She gagged, a dry, heaving sound, her body convulsing. I held her there for a second, feeling her throat constrict around me, before pulling back slightly to let her breathe.
"Look at me," I ordered.
Her eyes fluttered open, swimming with tears. They looked up at me, full of a broken, shattered humiliation that sent a jolt of pure, dark power straight to my groin.
"Use your tongue," I commanded. "Lick it."
She hesitated. I tightened my grip on her hair again. Slowly, tentatively, her tongue moved. It was a clumsy, uncertain swipe across the underside of my shaft. I groaned. It was the best thing I had ever felt.
"Again."
She did it again, a little more firmly this time. I began to move, sliding my cock in and out of her mouth in a slow, shallow rhythm. Her hands were still braced against my thighs, her fingernails digging into the denim of my jeans. I set the pace, my hand in her hair controlling her movements, guiding her up and down my length.
"That's it," I groaned. "Just like that."
I watched her face as she did it. The tear tracks on her cheeks. The way her lips were stretched around my shaft. The way her eyes would close for a moment, then open again, as if she couldn't bear to see what she was doing, but couldn't look away either. A muscle in her jaw worked, a constant, subtle fight against the gag reflex.
The power was intoxicating. This woman, my mother, the source of all my secret fantasies, was on her knees for me. I was the one in control. Not Victor. Not my absent father. Me. My balls tightened, a familiar pressure building at the base of my spine. I was getting close.
I started to thrust faster, deeper. The head of my cock hit the back of her throat with each push. Her gagging became more frequent, wet, choking sounds that only spurred me on. My hips started to move of their own accord, a jerky, uncontrolled rhythm. I was fucking her mouth. Hard.
"I'm going to cum," I grunted, the words torn from my throat. "I'm going to cum in your mouth."
Her eyes widened in panic. Her hands pushed against my thighs, a frantic, useless gesture. She tried to pull her head back, but my hand in her hair held her fast. She was trapped.
With a final, brutal thrust, I buried myself in her throat and came. My cock pulsed, thick jets of my cum shooting into her mouth. I held her there, my body shaking, my groans of pleasure echoing in the quiet kitchen. Her throat worked, convulsing, trying to swallow. Some of it escaped, a thin, white trickle leaking from the corner of her mouth and running down her chin.
I finally let go of her hair and pulled out. She collapsed forward, her forehead resting on my thigh, her body wracked with dry, heaving sobs. A string of my cum and her saliva connected my cock to her lips before breaking. I looked down at her, at the mess on her face, the torn dress around her, the utter brokenness of her pose. A wave of triumph washed over me, so strong it was dizzying.
I put myself away and zipped up my jeans. She didn't move. I just stood there for a moment, looking down at her. She was a ruin. My ruin.
I walked away without a word. I went back to my room and closed the door. The adrenaline started to fade, leaving a cold, hollow feeling in its wake. I didn't feel guilty. Not exactly. I felt... powerful. And scared of that power. I had crossed a line. A line so deep and so dark there was probably no coming back.
And the terrifying part was, I wanted to cross it again.
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