Chapter 44: Returning worship
The morning sun was a lazy amber through the sheer curtains, painting warm stripes across the rumpled linen of the bed. Selene lay amidst the pillows, a vision of indulgent serenity. The previous night’s devotion still hummed in her bones, a pleasant, drowsy echo. Her body felt used in the best possible way—soft, open, profoundly satiated. Yet, a deeper hunger, one not of need but of greedy appreciation, was beginning to stir, coaxed awake by the man sleeping beside her.
She heard the shift in his breathing first, the moment his sleep turned shallow. She kept her eyes closed, feigning repose, feeling the weight of his gaze settle on her profile. He didn’t speak. His hand, rough and warm, found her bare hip beneath the sheet, his thumb stroking a slow arc over the crest of her ass.
“I can feel you thinking,” she murmured, a smile playing on her lips.
“Just admiring my handiwork,” Julian’s voice was sleep-roughened, a delicious scrape against her nerves.
She opened her eyes, turning her head to look at him. The morning light caught the gold in his stubble, the clear, focused warmth in his eyes. He looked rested, powerful, utterly content. Her son. Her master. Her heart did that familiar, painful, wonderful squeeze.
“Your handiwork is still a bit tired,” she said, stretching languidly, arching her back so her heavy breasts pressed against the thin fabric of the camisole she’d slipped into at some point before dawn.
“I know a cure for that.” He leaned over, planting a soft, claiming kiss on her shoulder. “Lie back. Don’t move.”
It wasn’t a question. The command, though softly spoken, vibrated in her core, a key turning in the lock of her submission. A sweet, willing tension coiled in her belly.
“What are you planning, baby?” she asked, even as she settled back against the pillows, obeying.
“My thanks,” he said simply. He shifted, moving down the bed. His hands hooked under her knees, lifting and spreading her legs wide. The cool morning air kissed her freshly-shaved sex, and she sighed, already relaxing into the promise of his touch. He arranged her like a prized offering, her knees bent and falling open, leaving her utterly exposed. He tucked pillows under her hips, elevating her. “You read. I’ll worship.”
He reached over to the nightstand, grabbing the folded stack of the Washington Post and the Financial Times. He dropped them onto her stomach. The physical weight of the world’s troubles, right there on her abdomen. The symbolism wasn’t lost on her. He was building her an altar of contradictory peace.
Selene picked up the front section of the Post, her fingers trembling slightly. This was… new. Intimate in a different, terrifyingly vulnerable way. He wasn’t just taking her; he was giving to her, demanding nothing but her passive receipt. She opened the paper, the rustle loud in the quiet room.
Then his mouth was on her.
There was no preamble, no teasing nibble. He applied his mouth to her core with the focused intensity of a man studying a sacred text. His tongue was broad, flat, and devastatingly precise. He licked a long, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit, gathering the lingering evidence of their night—his own essence, her arousal—and humming in approval at the taste.
Selene’s breath hitched. The newspaper blurred. “Oh, Jules…”
“Read, mother,” he murmured against her, the vibration making her jump. His hands settled on her inner thighs, his thumbs digging gently into the soft flesh, holding her open. He didn’t look up at her. His entire world had narrowed to the pink, glistening folds before him.
She tried. God, she tried. She forced her eyes to the headlines. Global Markets Stabilize After Hartwell Intervention. Her mind snagged on the name. His name. His work. The silent, immense power he wielded from this very penthouse, from between her legs. She swallowed, her throat dry.
His tongue delved inside her, not shallowly, but with a probing, intimate depth that made her toes curl. He fucked her with his tongue, slow and thorough, mimicking the deep, claiming thrusts of his cock. She could feel the scratch of his stubble against her tender inner thighs, a delicious abrasion. A soft, shattered moan escaped her. The stock market analysis column swam before her eyes.
“Jules… that’s so good, baby…”
He pulled back, blowing cool air on her wetness, making her shiver. “What’s the news, ma?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against her skin.
“I—it’s… it’s about the… the infrastructure bill,” she managed, her voice embarrassingly high. “The one you… ah!… you lobbied for.”
“Good.” He returned to his feast. This time, he focused on her clit. He didn’t flick or dart. He sucked it gently into his mouth, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure, his tongue swirling around the sensitized nub.
Pleasure, bright and electric, shot up her spine. Her hips lifted off the pillow, seeking more. His hands on her thighs pushed her firmly back down. He was in control. This was his gift, given on his terms. She was to lie there and take it.
She surrendered. Letting the newspaper fall to her chest, she gave up any pretense of reading. Her head tipped back, eyes closing. But he noticed.
“Read to me, mum,” he commanded, his mouth still working magic.
With a trembling hand, she lifted the paper again. The words were just shapes. She forced her voice to work, the act of forming sentences a bizarre counterpoint to the sensations liquefying her from the waist down.
“The… the bipartisan agreement,” she read, her voice shaking, “is seen as a… a landmark victory for pragmatic… oh, God, right there… pragmatic policymaking…”
He chuckled, the sound a dark, warm vibration against her core. He added a finger, sliding one thick digit into her cunt alongside his tongue. It was an easy, smooth invasion, her body already soft and slick from his attentions. He curled it, finding a spot deep inside that made her see white behind her eyelids.
“Go on,” he prompted, adding a second finger, stretching her deliciously.
“It… it promises to revitalize… fuck… revitalize aging transport…” Her voice broke. Her knuckles were white on the paper. His fingers began a slow, deep pistoning, in and out, in perfect time with the suction of his mouth. The dual stimulation was obscene, overwhelming. She was being read to the world while her son finger-fucked her and ate her pussy. The dichotomy was so perverse it tipped her over the edge.
Her first orgasm was a quiet, breathy thing, a sudden cresting wave that tightened her stomach and made her legs shake. She cried out, a sharp, truncated sound, her hips bucking against his restraining hands. He didn’t stop. He gentled his mouth, softening the suction to a gentle, lapping caress, but his fingers continued their relentless, deep stroking, milking the contractions until she whimpered, oversensitive.
He withdrew his fingers slowly, bringing them to his lips. She watched, dazed, as he sucked them clean, his eyes locked on hers. “Tastes like victory,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. Then he went back down.
The second time was slower. He was more exploratory, licking and sucking at her inner lips, tracing patterns around her entrance, dipping his tongue inside to taste her release mixed with his own from the night before. He alternated between broad, flat strokes and pointed, precise flicks. He found a rhythm that was less about driving her to climax and more about immersing her in a steady, sun-warmed pool of pleasure.
Selene managed to actually read a few paragraphs, her voice gaining a ragged steadiness. She read about trade deficits and diplomatic breakthroughs, her words punctuated by soft sighs, sharp intakes of breath, and his name, breathed like a prayer. “Jules… oh, baby… yes… just like that…”
His free hand, which had been resting on her thigh, wandered up. It palmed the generous swell of her ass, squeezing the firm, lush flesh. He kneaded it, his fingers digging in, possessive and appreciative. Then his hand slid around to her front, his thumb finding the other hole, the one they both preferred. He circled the tight, puckered rim, applying a gentle, insistent pressure.
She was already so open, so wet from his mouth and her own climax. His thumb pressed inward, slipping past the first tight ring of muscle with a wet, popping sound that was obscenely loud in the quiet room.
Selene’s entire body jolted. “Oh!”
He didn’t push further. He just held it there, a thick, invading presence as his mouth returned to her clit, his tongue now flicking rapidly. The sensation of being filled in both channels, however slightly, was maddening. It short-circuited her brain. The newspaper slipped from her nerveless fingers, scattering across the bed and floor.
“You’re neglecting your reading, mother,” he chided, his voice thick with her taste.
“I can’t… I can’t think when you do that,” she gasped.
“Try.” He pressed his thumb deeper, up to the knuckle. At the same time, he slid two fingers back into her cunt, scissoring them gently. He was opening her, stretching her, preparing her in a way that felt less like prelude and more like a complete act in itself. The stretch was breathtaking, a fullness that bordered on pain before dissolving into pure, mind-numbing pleasure.
Tears pricked her eyes. It was too much. It was everything. She fumbled for the newspaper, her vision blurry. She grabbed a section at random—the lifestyle pages. She blinked, trying to focus on a headline about holiday cookie recipes.
“A… a secret to chewy gingerbread,” she choked out, her voice trembling uncontrollably as his fingers moved inside her, his thumb working in a slow, corkscrew motion, “is… is molasses and a… a touch of black pepper…”
He groaned against her, the sound of pure male satisfaction. His fingers curled, pressing hard against her inner walls. The combined pressure, the relentless dual stimulation, was a vise tightening around her core. She was hurtling toward another peak, this one deeper, more seismic than the last. It built in her belly, a coiling, hot spring of tension.
“And… and to chill the dough… for at least… Jules!”
Her second orgasm tore through her without warning. It was a silent, wide-eyed explosion. Her back arched violently off the bed, a strangled scream caught in her throat. It felt like her soul was being pulled out through her clit, her internal muscles clenching in frantic, fluttering waves around his invading digits. She saw flashes of light, heard a roaring in her ears. It went on and on, each pulsing wave dragging a broken sob from her lips.
He rode it out with her, his mouth sealed to her, drinking every shudder, every pulse. Only when she collapsed, boneless and gasping, did he slowly, gently, withdraw his fingers. He kissed her inner thigh, a soft, chaste press of lips against quivering flesh.
He moved up her body then, a predator claiming its territory. His mouth and chin were glistening. He didn’t wipe it away. He positioned himself over her, bracing his weight on his elbows, and looked down at her ruined, blissful face.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered. “All fucked out on my tongue. My good mum.”
She could only mewl in response, her body humming, every nerve ending singing his praise.
He lowered his head to her breast. His hand, wet from her, found her other entrance again. This time, two of his fingers, slick and eager, pressed into her ass. They slid in to the knuckle with a smooth, practiced ease. She was so relaxed, so utterly open from her climaxes, she took them without a hint of resistance.
At the same moment, his mouth closed over her nipple. He didn’t just suck. He drew the entire, heavy swell of her breast into his mouth, areola and all, his tongue laving the stiff peak, his teeth grazing with possessive promise.
The dual violation—his fingers buried deep in her ass, his mouth claiming her breast—sent a fresh, shocking bolt of pleasure through her exhausted system. It wasn’t enough to trigger another climax, but it was enough to keep her suspended in a state of hypersensitive, submissive bliss.
He began to move. His fingers in her ass started a slow, deep fucking motion, in and out, stretching her with a gentle, inexorable rhythm. His mouth worked her breast with the same rhythm, sucking, releasing, tongue swirling. His other hand came up to knead and squeeze the other breast, pinching and rolling the neglected nipple.
Selene was beyond words. Beyond thought. Her hands came up, one tangling in his hair, holding his head to her breast, the other scrabbling at the sheets. Soft, continuous moans fell from her lips, a wordless litany of worship. She was a vessel, being filled and adored simultaneously. The world outside—the headlines, the power plays, the subterranean fate of nations—faded to a distant murmur. There was only this: the wet, rhythmic sound of his fingers in her ass, the soft suckling sounds at her breast, the smell of sex and sweat and newsprint, and the all-consuming, devotional love that radiated from the man destroying her so perfectly.
He maintained the pace for what felt like hours, a timeless, gentle claiming. He was marking her, reminding her body who it belonged to, from the inside out. Her ass greedily accepted each thrust, her cunt, empty and aching, clenching around nothing, jealous of the attention.
Finally, his fingers stilled, buried to the hilt. His mouth released her nipple with a soft, wet pop. He rested his forehead against her breastbone, his breath hot on her skin. She could feel the hard length of him pressing against her thigh, but he made no move to seek his own pleasure. This had been, truly, for her.
“My perfect slut,” he breathed, his voice raw. “My mother.”
She combed her fingers through his hair, her own breathing slowly settling. “Your mother,” she whispered back, the words a sacrament. The newspaper was a forgotten mess around them. The only news that mattered was written in the languid satisfaction of her body, in the devotion of his touch, and in the certain, unbreakable truth that this was her forever.