Chapter 9: Present times
The late afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Dupont Circle loft, cutting the open-plan living space into sharp planes of gold and long, deep shadow. Dust motes danced in the beams, lazy and hypnotic. The city’s ambient murmur—the distant sigh of traffic, the occasional blare of a horn—was a soft, living backdrop, a white noise they had long ago ceased to hear.
At the large, reclaimed wood desk by the window, Celeste sat, or rather, hovered. Her chin was propped in one hand, her brow furrowed in concentration. The other hand danced across the keyboard of her laptop, tapping out a rapid, staccato rhythm that was the only urgent sound in the quiet apartment. She was draped in one of Elias’s old, soft Harvard sweatshirts, the gray fabric swallowing her frame, the sleeves rolled to her wrists. It hung to mid-thigh, and beneath it, she was naked.
Beneath her, Elias lay on his back on the plush, charcoal-gray area rug, his head pillowed on a cushion he’d pulled from the sofa. He was fully dressed in dark jeans and a thin black henley, the fabric stretched across his chest. His eyes were closed, his expression one of serene, focused contentment. His hands rested on her hips, his thumbs making slow, absent circles on the bare skin just above the swell of her ass.
The connection between them was deep, intimate, and utterly casual.
She was impaled on him, his thick, hard length buried to the root inside the tight, clenching heat of her ass. He had entered her almost an hour ago, a slow, patient breach as she’d settled backwards onto his lap while he sat in her desk chair. They had kissed, slow and deep, before he’d guided her forward, lay down on the rug, and pulled her down onto him. It had been a seamless transition from one form of closeness to another, as natural as breathing. She had needed to work. He had wanted to be inside her. The solution was elegant in its simplicity.
Now, he simply existed within her, a constant, stretching presence. He wasn’t thrusting. He was just… there. A living, breathing plug, filling her completely. The initial burning stretch had faded into a profound, satisfying fullness, a warm anchor that grounded her even as her mind raced across the fictional landscapes of her novel.
She typed another sentence, her fingers flying. Deleted it. Huffed a small, frustrated breath.
“The antagonist is being a prick,” she muttered, her eyes scanning the words on the screen.
Elias’s hands slid from her hips, around to her stomach, splaying across the soft plane beneath the bulky sweatshirt. He gave a gentle, rolling push upwards. The movement shifted him inside her, a subtle internal nudge that made her breath catch for a second. She felt him, every ridge, every vein, a brand of ownership settled deep in her guts.
“Talk it out, mother,” he said, his voice a low, relaxed rumble from beneath her. His eyes were still closed. “Is it a motivation issue or a logistics issue?”
She leaned back slightly, resting her weight more fully on him, and the shift in angle made them both sigh. The fabric of his jeans was rough against the backs of her thighs. “Logistics. He needs to get the amulet from the vault, but the security I wrote in chapter four is too good. I painted myself into a corner.”
“So break the rules,” Elias murmured. His hands moved higher, sliding under the sweatshirt, his warm palms encountering the smooth, shaved skin of her lower belly. “You’re the god here. Retcon it. Say he had a dormant spell. Or that the guard was on his payroll all along.”
“That’s cheating,” she protested, but a smile touched her lips. She began typing again, a new idea forming. Her hips made an unconscious, tiny circle, grinding down on him. He responded with a soft groan, his cock twitching inside her, swelling impossibly further.
“It’s not cheating. It’s a plot twist.” His hands continued their ascent, finally cupping the magnificent, heavy weight of her breasts. He filled his palms with them, hefting their soft, incredible mass, his thumbs finding her nipples and brushing over them until they puckered into tight, aching points. He kneaded gently, a soothing, rhythmic motion. “The reader doesn’t know what you didn’t write before. They only know what you tell them now.”
She moaned softly, her typing slowing. His touch, so familiar and so electrifying, scattered her thoughts for a moment. The sensation was dual: the deep, constant fullness below, and the delicious, rolling pressure on her breasts above. She let her head fall back, her chestnut hair tumbling over his legs. “You’re distracting the god.”
“I’m providing inspiration,” he corrected. He pinched a nipple lightly, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. A bolt of pure, sharp pleasure shot straight to her core, making her inner muscles flutter around his buried cock. “Think of the tension. The guard, secretly loyal to the villain, watching the hero parade past him every day. The betrayal. It’s good stuff.”
She exhaled, a long, shaky breath, and forced her eyes back to the screen. Her fingers found the keys. She started writing the guard, a minor character she’d named Alaric, giving him a hidden resentment, a sick daughter, a secret deal struck in a rain-slicked alley. The words began to flow, easier now, propelled by the physical pleasure grounding her body. The click-clack of the keyboard resumed, a counterpoint to his slow, worshipful massage.
He was right. It was good stuff.
For long minutes, the only sounds were the typing, their breathing, and the distant city. The sun crept across the floor. Elias’s hands never stopped moving. He worshipped her breasts like they were the most fascinating things in the world, molding them, caressing them, tracing the full, curved undersides where they met her ribcage. He would occasionally shift his hips, the tiniest upward nudge, a reminder of his presence, and she would answer with a small, answering rock of her own pelvis, a secret, silent conversation.
“This is my favorite part of the day,” he said quietly, his voice hushed with reverence. He wasn’t looking at the ceiling anymore. He was watching her face, the way her lips moved slightly as she composed sentences in her head, the little frown of concentration between her brows. “Seeing you like this. Full of my cock, lost in your own world. Creating. You’re so powerful, mother. So fucking powerful, and you’re sitting on me like I’m your throne.”
She didn’t stop typing, but her cheeks flushed. His words, raw and adoring, seeped into her alongside the pleasure. “Your throne is very hard,” she quipped, her voice a little breathless.
He chuckled, and the vibration traveled through him, into her. “It’s hard because of you. Always because of you.”
She finished a paragraph, her fingers flying in a final burst. She leaned forward to highlight a section, and the motion changed the angle dramatically. He slid even deeper, a fraction more, a feeling of being utterly speared. She gasped, her hands gripping the edge of the desk.
“Sorry,” she breathed.
“Don’t you dare apologize,” he growled, his hands tightening on her breasts. “Do that again.”
She did. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the desk, arching her back. The position presented her ass to him, lifted her hips, and took him in at a new, devastating angle. He felt bigger.Deeper. It was no longer just a fullness; it was an invasion, a glorious, stretching occupation. A low, continuous moan escaped her as she held the position, the sensations short-circuiting her ability to think about fictional vaults.
His hands slid from her breasts, down her sides, coming to rest on the lush, expansive curves of her ass. He gripped her, his fingers sinking into the impossibly soft, yet resilient flesh. He began to move her. Not with frantic passion, but with a slow, inevitable rhythm. He guided her hips up, then pulled her down, setting a lazy, deep pace.
The typing stopped.
Her hands fell from the keyboard. She gripped the desk, her knuckles whitening. Her head hung between her shoulders, her hair a curtain around her face. Each downward slide was a masterpiece of sensation, a slow, burning descent that stretched her open, then a sweet, dragging friction as he guided her back up. The wet, intimate sound of their joining filled the quiet room, a stark, obscene counterpoint to the civilized view of the cityscape.
“Elias…” she whispered.
“I’m here, mum,” he murmured, his own breath starting to quicken. He kept the pace achingly slow, each movement deliberate, forcing her to feel every millimeter. “You just write. I’ll do the work.”
But she couldn’t write. Not now. The pleasure was a thick, syrupy tide rising in her veins, swallowing her capacity for language. She could only feel. The rough denim abrading her thighs. The cool air from the window on her exposed back. The insane, perfect stretch inside her. The way his pubic bone ground against her cheeks with each lift and fall.
He kept talking, his voice a hypnotic, dirty drone. “Look at this ass. God, look at it. Taking all of me. Swallowing my cock like it was made for it. It was, you know. This body… this perfect, filthy, glorious body was designed for this. For taking my dick in this sweet, tight hole whenever I want. However I want.”
His words were crude, but his tone was one of awe. It was the duality of him that undid her every time. The gentle son who made her tea and discussed plot holes, and the possessive lover who talked like a sailor while he fucked her senseless.
She started to meet his movements, pushing back against his guiding hands, urging him deeper, faster. A needy, pleading sound crawled up her throat.
“Please… more…”
“What do you need, mother?” he asked, though he knew. He always knew.
“Harder. Please, Elias. Fuck me. Properly.”
That was all the invitation he needed.
His grip on her ass became iron. The lazy rhythm shattered. He drove upwards as he pulled her down, a powerful, piston-like slam that forced a scream from her lungs. The desk rattled. Her laptop screen wobbled. The world dissolved into a brutal, exquisite cacophony of sound and sensation: the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh, his guttural grunts, her shattered cries, the distant, indifferent hum of the city.
He fucked her with a relentless, driving intensity. This was no lazy afternoon connection. This was a claiming. The earlier tenderness was burned away in the furnace of building need. Each thrust was a declaration, pounding into her deepest core. She could feel him everywhere, a branding iron in her guts, a storm in her nerves.
She came suddenly, violently. It ripped through her with no warning, a climax born from the prolonged, subtle arousal of the last hour and the sudden, brutal escalation. Her body seized around him, her internal muscles clamping down in a series of vicious, rhythmic spasms that milked his length. She saw stars, her vision graying at the edges, her voice breaking as she sobbed his name into the crook of her arm.
He didn’t stop. He fucked her through the convulsions, his pace unwavering, drawing her orgasm out until it became a form of torture, pleasure so intense it tipped into pain. When her tremors began to subside into weak, helpless shudders, he finally stilled, buried to the hilt, both of them panting, dripping with sweat.
“Not yet,” he gasped, his voice ragged. “My turn isn’t until you finish your chapter.”
She could only whimper in response, utterly spent, her body humming like a plucked string.
With surprising gentleness, he eased her off him. The loss of his fullness made her feel empty, bereft. She slumped forward over the desk, her forehead resting on the cool wood, her body trembling. She heard him get up, his footsteps soft on the rug. A moment later, a glass of cold water appeared beside her hand. He pressed a kiss to her damp shoulder.
“Drink. Then write. I’m not done with you.”
His words were a promise that sent a fresh, weak thrill through her exhausted flesh. She gulped the water, the cold a shock to her system, clearing some of the haze. She righted herself, wincing at the deep, sore ache between her legs—an ache she loved. She pulled the sweatshirt back down and looked at the screen. The document was still open, the cursor blinking accusingly at the end of the last sentence she’d written.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and began to type.
Elias resumed his position on the floor, leaning against the sofa now, watching her. His cock, still glistening and hard, lay against his stomach. He made no move to touch himself. He just watched her, his warm brown eyes soft with love and simmering hunger.
The writing was different now. Cleaner. Sharper. The words poured out of her, infused with the residual energy of her climax. She wrote Alaric’s betrayal with a cruel, insightful clarity. She understood his desperation. She felt his twisted justification. The chapter began to race toward its conclusion.
As she worked, Elias would occasionally reach out and trail his fingers up her calf, or squeeze her ankle. A constant, low-level connection. The sore, stretched feeling between her cheeks was a persistent, thrilling reminder of what was to come.
Finally, she typed the last line. She hit the period with a sense of profound triumph. She leaned back, stretching her arms above her head. The sweatshirt rode up, exposing the smooth skin of her belly. She had done it. A difficult chapter, conquered.
“Finished?” His voice was quiet from behind her.
“Finished.” She saved the document, closed the laptop, and turned on the stool to face him.
He was still leaning against the sofa, his gaze a physical weight. The late afternoon sun had turned to early evening gloom, painting the room in deep blues and purples. He hadn’t turned on any lights. His face was in shadow, but she could see the glint of his eyes.
“Come here, mother.”
She slid off the stool and walked to him, her legs slightly unsteady. She stood before him. He didn’t pull her down. He just looked up at her, his expression unreadable.
“You know what time it is,” he said softly.
A shiver of anticipation ran through her. This was their ritual, their daily homage. After a writing victory, after a shared household chore, sometimes for no reason at all. Her daily dose.
She nodded, her throat suddenly tight. She sank to her knees on the soft rug, settling between his spread legs. The scent of him, of them, was strong here—musky, intimate, familiar. She looked at his cock, standing proud and thick against his stomach, the head flushed a deep, purplish red. It was beaded with a drop of clear fluid that gleamed in the dim light.
She didn’t touch him with her hands. She leaned forward, her chestnut hair falling around her face like a curtain. She opened her mouth and took just the broad, smooth head inside.
He let out a long, shuddering sigh. His hands came up to cradle her head, not forcing, just holding. “That’s it. Just like that.”
She swirled her tongue around the crown, tasting the salty, clean pre-cum, tracing the sensitive frenulum. She sucked gently, eliciting a low groan from above. She took him deeper, relaxing her throat, until she felt him nudge the back of her mouth. She held him there, breathing through her nose, her eyes closed, in a state of pure, submissive worship.
“I’m close, mum,” he warned, his voice strangled. “So close. Are you ready for it? Are you ready for your treat?”
She made a hungry, affirmative noise around his girth, her tongue pressing insistently along the underside.
That was all it took.
His hips gave a shallow, reflexive buck. He cried out, a raw, torn sound.
Then it began.
The first spurt was hot and sudden, flooding her mouth with the bitter, musky taste of him. She swallowed instinctively, her throat working. But he had warned her it was just the beginning.
The second pulse was stronger, a thick, voluminous jet that hit the back of her throat. She swallowed again.
Then the dam broke.
It wasn’t spurts. It was a torrent. A seemingly endless, hot flood. His massive, unbelievable load erupted from him in a continuous, pumping stream. It filled her mouth too quickly to swallow. It spilled over her lips, coating her chin. It splashed onto her chest, soaking through the thin fabric of the sweatshirt, plastering it to her breasts. He was grunting with each seismic expulsion, his body bowed, his fingers tangled in her hair.
“Take it… take all of it… drink your son’s cum, mother… it’s all for you…”
She tried to swallow, but the volume was too great. It dripped from her chin, pooled in the hollow of her collarbone, soaked her. The warm, sticky fluid was everywhere. The scent, powerfully organic and masculine, filled her nostrils. She kept her mouth locked around him, feeling each powerful, throbbing release directly on her tongue, at the source. It went on and on, just as she knew it would, an impossible geyser of his essence.
Finally, the torrent began to subside into thick, last pulses, then weak, shuddering drips. She swallowed what was in her mouth, licking her lips, tasting him. She was drenched. The front of the gray sweatshirt was dark and clung to her nipples, outlining them perfectly. Her face was a glistening, sticky mess.
He slowly softened in her mouth. She released him with a soft, wet sound. She stayed on her knees, panting, looking up at him through sticky eyelashes.
He looked down at her, his chest heaving. His expression was one of dazed, satiated wonder, mixed with a deep, fervent love. He gently wiped a glob of cum from her cheekbone with his thumb, then brought his thumb to his own mouth and sucked it clean, never breaking eye contact.
“Beautiful,” he breathed. “You look so beautiful like this. Covered in me.”
He leaned forward and kissed her, deep and slow, sharing the taste of himself. She kissed him back, fervent, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders.
When they broke apart, he smiled, a tender, boyish smile. “You taste good.”
She laughed, a hoarse, spent sound. “You’re biased.”
“I’m enlightened,” he repeated their old joke. He stood, his legs a little unsteady, and pulled her to her feet. He looked at the ruin of the sweatshirt. “This is a lost cause.”
He peeled it off her, over her head, tossing the sodden garment aside. She stood naked before him in the twilight, her skin gleaming with streaks of his release. He took her hand and led her to the bathroom, not the master en-suite, but the guest bathroom with the large, standalone tub.
He ran the water, hot and deep, pouring in a capful of her lavender bubbles. He helped her in, then climbed in behind her, settling her between his legs, her back to his chest. The warm, fragrant water enveloped them, soothing her sore muscles, slowly dissolving the sticky evidence on her skin.
They sat in silence for a long time, his arms around her, his chin resting on her shoulder. The bubbles popped softly around them. The world outside the windows was dark now, pinpricked with the lights of the city.
“I love you, Elias,” she whispered, leaning her head back against him.
“I love you more, mother. More than anything in this world or any other I could imagine.”
He nuzzled her neck. His hands, under the water, began to drift. Over her belly. Up to cup her breasts, weighing them in the buoyant water. Lower, over the curve of her hips. And then between her legs, his fingers finding her slick, swollen folds from her earlier climax, and the other, more tender, stretched entrance he had used so thoroughly.
He was hard again. Pressing against the small of her back.
She smiled into the dark. She shifted in the water, turning to face him, sending waves sloshing over the rim of the tub. She straddled his lap, her knees on either side of his hips, the water lapping at her waist. She reached between them, taking his length in hand, already rigid and eager. She guided him, not to her front, but behind, pressing the tip against that familiar, sore, willing pucker.
She looked into his warm brown eyes, seeing the love and the fire there, and sank down.
He filled her, in the warm, weightless embrace of the water, in a slow, blissful slide. They both sighed, a unison of perfect contentment.
She began to move, a slow, rocking rhythm, there in the lavender-scented dark, their world once again narrowed to the point where they were joined, where love and desire were the same infinite, unstoppable thing.