Chapter 253: Calls at home
The scent of him was still on her skin, a musky, intimate perfume that clung to the damp hollow of her throat and the soft swell of her breasts. It mingled with the vanilla and jasmine of her bath oil, a layered, carnal aroma that Ethan breathed in as he watched her pad barefoot from the hallway back into the living room’s lamplight.
She had, as promised, bathed. Her skin glowed a pale peach under the amber glow of the floor lamp, dewy and perfect. But she had not dressed. Instead, she wore only a pair of sheer, black silk thigh-high stockings, held up by delicate lace bands that bit gently into the ripe flesh of her thighs. A matching black lace garter belt encircled her narrow waist, its straps dangling. Otherwise, she was exquisitely, defiantly nude, her body a masterpiece of curves and hollows that the lamp painted in gold and deep shadow. Her pubic mound was smoothly shaved, a soft, vulnerable swell. The heavy, pendulum weight of her breasts swayed with each step, their dark nipples tight from the cool evening air seeping through the balcony doors.
She moved to the large, low table, its dark wood now draped with a single length of ivory raw silk. Her laptop was open, its screen casting a cold, blue-white rectangle onto the linen. Beside it sat the crystal decanter of whiskey, the liquid inside a deep, honeyed amber, and two cut-crystal glasses. One held a finger of whiskey, barely touched. The other was empty.
“The director is a nightmare,” she said, her voice a low, conversational murmur as she tapped a key, waking the laptop. The screen brightened, showing a calendar alert. “He wants the Shanghai shoot moved up by a week. Thinks the autumn light will be ‘more melancholic.’” She said the last word with a faint, professional derision, settling onto the edge of the table. She didn’t sit on the chair. She perched on the silk-draped wood, her back to the screen, her legs parted just enough to reveal the pink, glistening shadow between them.
Ethan stood by the sofa, a glass of water in his hand. He was already hard. Seeing her like this, a goddess in garters preparing for a teleconference, was an arousal that lived in his bones, a constant, low hum. The memory of her face, painted and dripping with his seed just hours before, flashed in his mind, intensifying the ache.
“Tell him the melancholic light will cost him another fifty grand,” Ethan said, his voice even. He took a sip of water, his eyes tracing the line of her spine, the dramatic flair of her hips where they met the table.
She laughed, a soft, tinkling sound. “I already did, baby. He agreed.” She reached back without looking and clicked on the video conferencing software. A small preview window popped up, showing her own image from the laptop’s camera. She tilted her chin, checking her angles. The camera captured her from the midsection up, a vision of flawless, made-up professionalism. The messy, devoured look from the morning was gone, replaced by artfully contoured cheekbones and a shade of lipstick that was both severe and sensual. The garter straps and the top of her stockings were just out of frame. The table’s edge cut off the view just below her navel.
It was a perfect, calculated tableau. A global icon ready for business. Only the two of them knew the truth of what lay beneath the frame.
“They’re connecting in thirty seconds,” she said, her eyes on the screen. Then she turned her head, looking over her shoulder at him. Her expression shifted from professional readiness to something hungry, submissive. “Come here, son. I’m empty. I need to feel you while I talk.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He set the water glass down on a side table and walked to her, the thick carpet muffling his steps. The lamplight caught the heavy, proud jut of his cock, already leaking a clear, viscous string onto his thigh. He moved behind her, his hands coming to rest on the glorious, full swell of her hips. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“You want it in your ass, mother?” he whispered, the words a hot, damp promise. “While you tell them about fabric swatches and lighting tests?”
A full-body shudder went through her. She nodded, pressing back against him. “Yes. Please. It’s my favourite. It makes me feel… owned. While I own the room.” Her hand reached back, fingers wrapping around his length, guiding him. She was already slick, her arousal evident, but she directed him lower, past her soaking entrance, to the tight, crinkled star of her other hole. She pressed the bulbous head against it. “Here. Claim it. Gently, at first. I need to sound coherent.”
On the laptop screen, a notification chimed. The other members of the charity committee were entering the virtual meeting. Little rectangular tiles populated the screen, each showing a face in a home office or a tasteful sitting room.
Olivia took a deep, centering breath, her shoulders squaring. She clicked ‘join with video’. Her professional smile, warm and polished, instantly bloomed on her face. “Hello, everyone! So sorry if you were waiting. The traffic of ideas in my own head, you know how it is.” Her voice was light, melodic, perfectly pitched.
As she spoke, Ethan pushed.
He fed the broad, spongy head of his cock into the clenching, resistant ring of muscle. It was impossibly tight, a hot, silken knot that yielded slowly, agonizingly, to the relentless pressure of his advance. Olivia’s breath hitched, a tiny, almost imperceptible catch in her throat. On screen, her smile didn’t falter. Her eyes remained focused on the camera lens.
“Olivia, darling, you look radiant as ever,” said a woman’s voice, tinny through the laptop speakers. A tile highlighted; a woman in her sixties with a severe silver bob and large pearls.
“Thank you, Beatrice. You’re too kind. I was just reviewing the architectural renders for the gala space.” Olivia’s voice was smooth, untroubled. Meanwhile, Ethan sank another inch into the breathtaking, scalding tightness of her ass. He had to go slow, so slow, to allow her body to accept him without betraying her. He could feel every internal ridge, every frantic pulse of her channel as it stretched to accommodate his invading girth. He placed his hands back on her hips, holding her steady, his own knees slightly bent to control the depth.
He was halfway in. The sensation was maddening, a velvet vise of incredible pressure. Olivia’s body was clenching rhythmically around him, a series of involuntary, gripping flutters. On screen, she gestured with one hand, a graceful, flowing motion. “The proposal for the floating installations in the central atrium, I think, needs revision. The scale feels intimidating rather than immersive.”
“I quite agree,” said a man’s voice. Another tile lit up. “The artist is being rather… precious.”
“Then we must un-precious him, Charles,” Olivia said, and her tone was gently chiding, charismatic. She shifted her weight on the table, a subtle roll of her hips. It was a signal. Ethan, gripping her hips tighter, sank the rest of the way in, until his pelvis met the full, rounded curve of her ass. He was buried to the hilt, his balls resting against her damp, swollen labia. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her, masked perfectly by her next sentence. “We have the leverage of the platform, after all. This is for the children’s ward.”
Her body was full of him. Completely, utterly filled. The stretch was monumental. Ethan remained still, letting her adjust, letting the fierce, burning tightness slowly melt into a deep, throbbing fullness. He looked down at the contrast: her professional, composed upper half engaged in a debate about artistic integrity, and her lower half, obscenely speared on her son’s cock, the black lace of her garter stark against both their skins.
He began to move. Not a thrust, but a slow, almost imperceptible withdrawal, then a gentle, rolling return. It was a pace of profound intimacy, not frantic passion. Each incremental slide drew a hushed, whispered gasp from her that the laptop microphone did not pick up. Her internal muscles clutched at him greedily with every retreat, as if begging him not to leave.
“The budget for the live quartet, however, is non-negotiable,” Olivia was saying, her voice gaining a firm, decisive edge. “Atmosphere is everything. We want donors to feel transported, not just solicited.” As she spoke the word ‘solicited’, Ethan pushed a little deeper, a fraction harder. Her eyes fluttered for a millisecond. Her knuckles, where her hand rested on the table beside the laptop, went white.
“Are you quite alright, Olivia?” Beatrice asked, her head tilted on the screen.
“Perfectly,” Olivia replied, her smile widening. “Just a slight chill from the air conditioning. Now, regarding the catering tenders…”
Ethan settled into a rhythm, a deep, slow, relentless pistoning that sank him into her depths with steady, measured strokes. He kept his movements fluid, controlled, the slap of skin against skin a quiet, wet rhythm lost in the ambient noise of the call. He watched the screen over her shoulder, watched the faces of the wealthy, powerful committee members discuss floral arrangements and donor thank-you gifts, utterly unaware that the woman leading their meeting was being gently, thoroughly ass-fucked.
The duality was awe-inspiring. It was the most potent form of dominance, of secret knowledge. He owned this moment, owned her composure. Her ability to take him like this, to let him use her most intimate passage while her intellect navigated the shallow waters of high society, was a testament to her strength, and to the depth of her submission. It wasn’t degrading; it was consecration.
He leaned forward, his chest against her back, his mouth by her ear. “You’re taking me so well, mum,” he breathed, the words a vibration against her skin. “Your ass is perfect. So tight around me. Can they see how full you are? Can they tell your son is in your guts while you talk about canapés?”
Her response was a soft, coherent whisper, timed as she listened to Charles speak. “No, baby. Only you know. Only you feel how much I need it. How much I love it.” She reached one hand behind her, not breaking her gaze at the camera, and found his thigh. Her fingers dug in, urging him. More.
He obliged. The pace remained slow, but the depth increased. Each stroke now bottomed out with a soft, deep nudge that made her breath catch. Her professional dialogue never stumbled. She debated, she agreed, she charmed. But beneath the table, her body was a secret festival of penetration. A faint sheen of perspiration bloomed on her upper lip, but it could be attributed to the heat of the lamp.
“Put your hands on me, son,” she whispered during a moment when Beatrice was speaking at length. “Touch me. Let me feel you enjoying it.”
He moved his hands from her hips. One slid around her front, palming the full, heavy weight of her breast, his thumb finding her nipple and rolling it to a stiff, aching peak. The other hand cupped the glorious, fleshy curve of her ass, his fingers spreading her cheek wider, allowing him to watch where their bodies joined, where his cock, slick with her arousal and the tight passage’s natural lubrication, disappeared into her. The visual was staggeringly obscene. He squeezed the firm globe of her ass, feeling the muscle clench around his invading length.
“The designer for the commemorative scarves has sent over the final proofs,” Olivia announced to the group, her voice clear. “I’ll forward the PDFs tonight. The gold thread on the midnight blue is exquisite.” As she said ‘exquisite,’ Ethan pushed particularly deep, grinding against her. A low, sweet moan escaped her, which she seamlessly transformed into a thoughtful hum. “Mmm, yes, Beatrice, I think that’s the one.”
The call continued. Minutes stretched. Ethan fucked her with a steady, profound patience. It was not about his release; it was about the act itself, the sustained state of possession. Her body accepted him utterly, the initial fierce tightness giving way to a slick, hot, clinging embrace that massaged every inch of him. He could feel the internal flutter of her orgasm building, held carefully at bay, a parallel tension to the discussion on the screen.
He slowed once, nearly stopping, to let her catch her breath, to let the intense sensation ebb for a moment. Instantly, she pushed back against him, a firm, demanding roll of her hips that took him even deeper, drawing a sharp gasp from him.
“Don’t stop, Ethan,” she murmured, her lips barely moving, her eyes still on her own image on the screen. “I don’t need a breath. I need your cock in my ass. It focuses me. It grounds me. Fuck me while I tell them about the wine pairings.”
He chuckled, a low, dark sound lost to the room, and resumed his pace, a fraction harder now. The table creaked softly, a wooden protest muffled by the silk.
“The sommelier is suggesting a progression from champagne to a bold Burgundy,” she said to the committee, her voice assuming a confidential, knowing tone. “To mirror the evening’s journey from light reception to serious fundraising.” Her journey, meanwhile, was the relentless, deep journey of his cock, stretching and filling her, a private Burgundy of sensation.
He watched her face on the preview window. A faint blush had crept up her chest, into her throat. Her pupils were wide, dark pools swallowing the hazel of her irises. To anyone else, it might look like fervor for the cause. He knew it was the fervor of being relentlessly taken. Her lips were parted slightly, and she licked them once, a quick, nervous gesture that she turned into a thoughtful pause.
“I need to feel you deeper, son,” she whispered, a thread of desperation now weaving into her coherency. “Just for a moment. Please.”
He held her hips firmly, leaned back, and pulled her onto him with a single, slow, powerful drag that seated him impossibly deep, his pubic bone grinding against her ass. She froze. On screen, her eyes closed for a full second. When they opened, they were glazed, triumphant.
“—so we are all in agreement on the final venue walk-through next Thursday?” Beatrice was asking.
Olivia’s smile was beatific. “Absolutely. Thursday is perfect.” Her voice was a dreamy sigh. Ethan held himself there, buried, not moving, just letting her feel the complete, stretching fullness. He could see the effort it took, the sublime control. A single bead of sweat traced a path from her temple down her jawline. She didn’t wipe it away.
For the final five minutes of the call, he moved again, slow, deep, penetrating strokes that seemed to reach her very core. She conducted the meeting’s closing remarks, delegated tasks, exuded graciousness and authority, all while being methodically ass-fucked by her son. The dissonance was beautiful. It was their art form.
“Thank you all, you’ve been brilliant,” Olivia said, her signature sign-off. “I’ll have the minutes circulated by morning. Goodnight.”
Her finger stabbed the trackpad, clicking the ‘leave meeting’ button. The screen went black, reflecting their distorted image back at them: her poised upper body, his form behind her, connected.
The moment the digital connection severed, the physical one became everything. The professional poise evaporated. Her shoulders slumped, a long, ragged moan tearing from her throat, unhindered now. Her head fell forward, her dark hair cascading around her face.
“Oh, God. Ethan. Baby.” The words were slurred, thick with sensation. “That was… you have no idea. The whole time. Feeling you there. Owning me. While I…” She trailed off, pushing back against him fiercely, demanding he move. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop now.”
He didn’t. With the audience gone, the performance was over, and the raw, unfiltered need took its place. He began to fuck her in earnest, still from behind, still deep, but now with a driving, purposeful rhythm. The wet, slapping sounds of their union filled the quiet room, loud and obscene. The table groaned in earnest with each thrust. He kept one hand on her breast, pinching and pulling at her nipple, the other guiding the pace on her hip.
“Talk to me, mother,” he growled, his own control beginning to fray. The sight of her, the feel of her, the secret they had just shared, was an aphrodisiac stronger than any whiskey. “Tell me what that was like.”
“It was… power,” she gasped, her words tumbling out between thrusts. “They were all so small. Their little concerns. And I was so full…