Chapter 2: Sneak a Peek
The following day passed in a haze of normalcy that felt like a lie. They helped William weed the garden. They played chess. Eleanor made blueberry pancakes for breakfast, her smile as bright and easy as ever, as if the frantic, hungry sounds of the night before had been a collective dream.
Marcus couldn’t meet her eye. He watched her hands, deft and strong as she flipped pancakes, and a bolt of unwelcome heat would flash through him. He’d remember the whispered, “Fuck… please…” from the darkness. He spent the day adrift, caught between guilt and a gnawing, shameful curiosity.
That night, Marcus was already awake when the buzzing began.
It was later, deeper into the night. James’s heavy, rhythmic breathing from the other bed was a steady counterpoint to the sudden, familiar hum that vibrated up through the floorboards. It was the same. But it was different. He was listening for it. Waiting.
His body reacted before his mind could object, blood rushing south, his heart starting a hard, quick rhythm against his ribs. He lay perfectly still, ears straining. The hum was slightly muted tonight. Not the living room. The den? The small room just off the kitchen with the old leather sofa.
James slept on, a deep, oblivious sleeper. A log in his bed.
The urge was a physical pull, a temptation that coiled in his guts and clenched his jaw. He had to see. It wasn’t enough to just hear it anymore. The dark curiosity that had whispered to him last night was now a shout, drowning out every rational, decent thought.
Moving with a slowness that made his muscles ache, Marcus pushed back his sheet. The floorboards were cool under his bare feet. He crept to the door, his every sense screaming. He turned the knob with infinite care, avoiding the tell-tale click, and slipped out into the darkened hallway.
The house was a maze of shadows. The buzzing was clearer here, a persistent, electric purr. He moved like a ghost, past the closed master bedroom door—behind which, presumably, Grandpa William slept untouched—and down the stairs. Each creak of the wood was a gunshot in his ears. He paused, waiting for the buzzing to stop. It didn’t.
The den door was slightly ajar. A sliver of weak moonlight from the window painted a stripe across the floor. He approached, his breath held, and peered through the crack.
She was there, just as his mind had pictured, yet the reality was a hundred times more potent.
Eleanor lay sprawled on the leather sofa, naked. The silver-streaked auburn hair he knew in a ponytail was a wild river across the cushions. One toned leg was hooked over the back of the sofa, the other planted firmly on the floor, giving him a blatant, unobstructed view. In the monochrome light, her skin glowed pale, the curves of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the strong muscles of her thighs all rendered in stark relief.
Her left hand was busy between her legs. Not a toy this time. Her own fingers, working with a frantic, practiced urgency. Her right hand cupped and squeezed her own breast, pinching a dark nipple hard. The buzzing came from a small, bullet-shaped vibrator pressed ruthlessly against her clit. Her head was thrown back, mouth open in a silent gasp, her entire body a tight arc of tension.
Marcus watched, transfixed, his own hand moving to the painful erection straining against his boxers. He squeezed himself through the fabric, a mimicry of her motions, his morality incinerated by the raw spectacle before him.
Her hips bucked off the leather, a wet, slapping sound punctuating the buzz. “God… yes, right there…” she hissed into the empty room, her voice a ragged scrape. “You fuck me… fucking fuck me…”
She was talking to someone who wasn’t there. Or maybe she was talking to the sensation itself. Her fingers dove deeper inside herself, curling, and the vibrator ground in furious circles. Her breath hitched, her back arched impossibly higher.
“I’m gonna come… I’m gonna fucking come all over this couch…”
Her eyes, glazed and desperate, snapped open. They didn’t look at the ceiling. They looked directly at the sliver of darkness where Marcus stood frozen.
They locked onto his.
He stopped breathing. Time stopped. Her hand didn’t stop. Her hips didn’t falter. She held his gaze across the shadowed room, her green eyes sharp, knowing, and utterly devoid of surprise. There was no shock, no outrage. There was a challenge. A dark, shimmering recognition.
She saw him. She knew.
And she didn’t stop.
Her mouth twisted into that mischievous, seductive smile he knew so well, but it was ferocious now, hungry.
Her body began to shudder. The vibrations from the toy seemed to travel through the floor and up Marcus’s legs. Her cries lost all language, becoming a series of sharp, animalistic grunts and choked sobs of release. Her heels dug into the leather, her stomach quivering, her free hand fisting in her own hair. The climax racked her, violent and total, and she let it happen, her eyes burning into his soul until the very last tremor subsided.
Slowly, she came down. Her breathing eased. The buzzing stopped as she switched the vibrator off. The subsequent silence was deafening, thick with the smell of sex and sweat.
She didn’t scramble to cover herself. She simply swung her leg down from the back of the sofa and sat up, languid as a cat. She looked at the door, her expression unreadable. Then she stood, naked and unashamed, picked up a silken robe from a chair, and slid her arms into it. She didn’t tie it. She turned and walked, not toward the hall to the stairs, but toward the kitchen.
Marcus stumbled back from the door, panic finally overriding his stupor. He fled, taking the stairs two at a time, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He slipped back into the guest room, closed the door with a barely audible click, and threw himself onto his bed, pulling the sheet up to his chin. He was trembling, his cock still achingly hard, his mind a storm of horror and exhilaration.
He pretended to sleep, forcing his breathing into a slow, even rhythm. James snorted and rolled over.
Minutes passed. An eternity.
The door to the guest room opened.
There was no knock. A slice of hall light cut across the floor, then was swallowed as the figure entered and closed the door behind them. The room was plunged back into near-darkness, but he could see her silhouette. The robe, hanging open. The curve of her hip.
She stood there for a long moment. He could feel her gaze on him.
Then the bed dipped as she sat on the edge of his mattress. The scent of jasmine, sweat, and sex filled the small space around him. Her hand, cool and steady, came to rest on his shoulder through the sheet.
“Marcus,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, used. Not a grandmother’s voice at all.
He didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
Her hand slid from his shoulder, down his arm. “I know you’re awake. I saw you.” Her fingers traced the line of his bicep. “You were watching. You liked it.”
He couldn’t speak. His throat was sealed shut.
Her hand moved lower, over the sheet that tented above his throbbing erection. Her palm rested there, a hot, undeniable weight. He jerked involuntarily.
“Shhh,” she murmured, her other hand coming up to stroke his hair, a grotesque parody of comfort. “It’s okay. We all have needs. Your grandfather… he’s a wonderful man. But he’s an old man.” Her voice dropped, intimate and conspiratorial. “I’m not old where it counts, Marcus. I’m so fucking hungry all the time.”
Her fingers curled, applying a slight, torturous pressure through the fabric. He bit back a moan.
“You’re a handsome young man. Strong.” She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. “You wouldn’t leave a woman starving, would you?”
Her fingers pulled the sheet down, exposing him to the cool, shameful air of the room. His erection stood rigid, a blatant confession she didn’t need. He could only stare, paralyzed, as she studied him in the faint light, her head tilting with a predatory appreciation that made his skin prickle.
“Beautiful,” she breathed, not kindly. It was an assessment.
Before he could form a thought, her head descended. Her mouth, that familiar smile now a determined oval, enveloped the head of his cock. The heat was shocking, wet and perfect, and a choked gasp tore from his throat. Her tongue swirled around the sensitive ridge, a deliberate, practiced motion that made his hips jerk involuntarily.
She took more of him, her head bobbing slowly at first, her silver-streaked hair cascading over his thighs. The wet, filthy sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet room. He could hear her breathing through her nose, could feel the constriction of her throat as she pushed deeper, taking him all the way to the hilt. His hands clenched fistfuls of the sheet, knuckles white.
“Oh, god,” he whimpered, the words torn from him.
She pulled off with a slick pop, her hand pumping his shaft. “Quiet,” she commanded, her voice a guttural rasp. “You wake your brother, this ends. You understand?” He nodded, a frantic, desperate jerk of his head. She smiled again, that ferocious thing, and dove back down.
This time, there was no tentative exploration. She fucked him with her mouth, a ruthless, hungry rhythm that had nothing to do with his pleasure and everything to do with her consumption. Her hands gripped his hips, nails digging in, holding him still for her use. She deep-throated him repeatedly, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat with a soft, wet thud each time.
He was lost. Every moral circuit in his brain shorted out under the relentless, skilled suction. His grandfather was sleeping down the hall. His brother was three feet away. None of it mattered. Only this raw, devouring heat existed. His back arched, a silent scream locking in his chest.
She sensed his impending climax. Her pace became frantic, savage. One hand left his hip and cupped his balls, rolling them, squeezing just shy of pain. The other hand worked the base of his shaft in time with her plunging mouth.
“I’m… I’m gonna…” he hissed, a warning and a plea.
She didn’t pull away. She took him deeper, her eyes open and fixed on his, demanding witness. The orgasm erupted from him, a violent, silent convulsion that seized his entire body. Rope after rope of hot seed pulsed directly down her waiting throat.
She swallowed. He felt the muscles of her esophagus work, taking every drop, milking him dry with relentless sucks until he was twitching and oversensitive. She didn’t miss a single drop. When he was completely spent, soft and shuddering, she finally released him with a final, languid lick that cleaned him off.
She sat up, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked at him, at his shattered expression, his heaving chest. There was no tenderness there, only a kind of bleak satisfaction, the look of a predator that has finally fed.
“Good boy,” she whispered, the words acidic. She stood, closing her silk robe and tying the belt with a neat, final motion. She was the grandmother again, composed, apart. She turned and walked to the door without a backward glance.
The door opened. The hall light sliced in. She was gone.
The latch clicked shut with terrifying finality.
Marcus lay in the sudden, vacuum-like silence, the smell of sex and her jasmine perfume clinging to the air around him. His body was sticky with sweat, his softening cock wet from her mouth. From down the hall, the faint, steady rumble of his grandfather’s snore continued, utterly unchanged.
In the other bed, James sighed in his sleep and rolled over.
Marcus stared into the darkness, the raw, physical memory of her throat clenching around him already curdling into a cold, fathomless shame that settled deep into his bones. The house was quiet. He was alone.