Chapter 114: Afternoon
The silence in the villa was a living thing, thick and golden, woven from slanting afternoon sun and the distant, muted hum of the city eighty-seven floors below. It was a silence of utter satiation, of bodies and souls thoroughly spent and communing in a language beyond words. Lucas lay on his back, one arm bent behind his head, the other draped across his mother’s waist. She was curled into his side, her head on his shoulder, her breathing slow and even. A sheet of ivory silk was tangled around their legs, but most of their skin was bare to the conditioned, fragrant air.
Her fingertips traced idle, invisible patterns on his chest, following the trail of dark hair that narrowed to a line down his abdomen. Her touch was feather-light, a ghost of sensation that made his skin hum. He watched the light play across the high, coffered ceiling, his mind empty of everything but the weight of her against him, the scent of her hair—clean, with a lingering trace of jasmine from the lotion he’d massaged into her breasts just hours before.
“What are you thinking about?” Her voice was a sleepy murmur against his collarbone.
“Nothing,” he said. It was the truth. His mind was a blank, peaceful slate. Then he amended, “Everything. You. This. The way the light is hitting that mirror. It’s perfect. I should get my camera.”
She lifted her head, propping her chin on his chest. Her eyes, still heavy-lidded from their earlier exertions, sparkled with amusement. “You’re not getting your camera. This is a camera-free zone. This,” she said, sliding her hand down his flat stomach, her fingers dipping beneath the silk sheet to wrap around his soft, thick length, “is a camera-free zone.”
He chuckled, the sound a low rumble she felt through his ribs. “Possessive.”
“Damn right.” She gave him a gentle, possessive squeeze, feeling him stir, blood beginning to pool and thicken in response to her touch. It was a miracle, really. After the marathon of the night and the brutal, filthy worship of the morning, that his body could even respond. But it did. For her, it always did. It was its own form of devotion. “My baby boy. My view. My everything.”
He turned his head, capturing her lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It tasted of sleep and shared breath. When they parted, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “What are you thinking about, mum?”
A slow, secretive smile curved her mouth. “I’m thinking… it’s a lazy afternoon. We have nowhere to be. The world is far away. And I’m lying here with the most beautiful cock in the world going semi-hard in my hand just because I touched it.” She began to stroke him, a slow, up-and-down glide that was more teasing than purposeful. “Seems a shame to waste a lazy afternoon.”
He groaned, closing his eyes, surrendering to her ministrations. “It’s not wasted. This is perfect.”
“Mmm. It could be more perfect.” She shifted, the silk sheet slipping further down, revealing the full, glorious swell of her breasts, the nipples a deep rosy brown from his earlier attention. She swung a leg over his hips, straddling him, but kept her weight on her thighs, her sex hovering just above his now fully erect penis. She didn’t lower herself. She just looked down at him, her hair creating a dark curtain around their faces. “Remember that first time? In my bedroom at the old house? The sheer terror… the excitement…”
“I remember,” he breathed, his hands coming up to grip her hips. His thumbs stroked the sharp crests of her iliac bones. “I thought my heart was going to explode. I thought you’d change your mind. I thought the world would end.”
“But it didn’t,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss him again, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against his. “It began.”
She finally sank down, but not onto his cock. She settled her weight onto his chest, sliding backwards until she was sitting on his sternum, her back to his face. His view was now the impossibly lush, full curves of her buttocks, pale and flawless as carved alabaster, the cleft a deep, inviting shadow. She was completely clean-shaven, the skin there so soft and vulnerable. He could smell her, the intimate, musky scent of her sex, underscored by the faint, clean aroma of the vetiver and bergamot soap they used.
“Mum…” he said, his voice choked.
“Shhh,” she cooed, looking over her shoulder, a wicked glint in her eye. “It’s a lazy afternoon. Let me be lazy.”
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his thighs, presenting herself to him fully. The invitation was unmistakable, blatant. His hands flew to her ass, his fingers sinking into the impossibly soft, yielding flesh. He kneaded her, spreading her cheeks apart, exposing the tiny, puckered rosebud of her anus and the glistening, pink folds of her pussy below it. She was already wet, dew coating her inner lips.
“You’re so beautiful here,” he murmured, awestruck as he always was. “So perfect. My perfect, filthy mother.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. He lifted his head from the pillow and licked a broad, slow stripe from the bottom of her sex, over her perineum, and up to the very center of her offered rear hole.
She cried out, a sharp, sweet sound, and pushed back against his face. “Oh, baby… yes…”
This was a different kind of worship. Slow, indulgent, decadent. He feasted on her with a lazy, thorough attention that matched the afternoon’s pace. He licked and suckled at her pussy, his tongue delving deep into her channel, lapping up her creamy essence. Then he would devote equal time to her asshole, circling the tight rim with the very tip of his tongue, probing gently until the muscle relaxed and allowed him shallow entry. The taste was complex, salty-sweet, utterly her. He lost himself in it, in the feel of her soft flesh under his hands and mouth, in the sounds of her escalating moans that echoed softly in the vast room.
The sun crawled across the floor. A beam of light found them, gilding her skin, highlighting the swell of her ass, the sheen of his saliva on her. She ground herself against his face, riding his tongue, her earlier laziness giving way to a building, urgent need. Her fingers dug into his thighs.
“Enough,” she finally gasped, pulling away. She was breathless, her skin flushed. She turned around, still straddling him, and leaned down to kiss him deeply, tasting herself on his lips and tongue. “Now I want you. The lazy part is over.”
She reached behind herself, took his cock in her hand, and guided it. But not to her waiting, wet pussy. She angled it upwards, the broad head nudging against the pucker of her anus.
“This,” she breathed, her eyes locked on his. “I want to feel you here all afternoon. Slow. Deep. Make it last forever, Lucas. Fill this lazy afternoon with your cock.”
He helped her, his hands on her hips, as she began to lower herself. The tip pressed insistently, then began to breach her. She bit her lip, her eyes fluttering closed, then open, holding his gaze as her body slowly, inexorably, consumed him. It was a tight, burning, glorious stretch. He watched, mesmerized, as his girth disappeared into her, inch by exquisite inch, her body swallowing him into that incredible, clenching heat. She took him all, until she was seated fully in his lap, his pelvis snug against the curves of her ass.
“Oh, God…” she sighed, a sound of profound completion. She rested her hands on his chest, her head falling forward. “You’re so deep…”
“You feel like heaven,” he groaned, his own breath short. He was sheathed in a vise of velvet heat. “Tight, hot heaven.”
She began to move. Not a frantic ride, but a slow, undulating grind. She rotated her hips, circling on his embedded length, making him feel every millimeter of her inner passage. Then she would lift herself, a slow, delicious withdrawal until just the head remained inside, before sinking down again with a soft, wet sigh. The pace was hypnotic, sensual, a world away from the frantic pounding of the morning. This was about feeling, about connection, about prolonging the ache into a sweet, sustained burn.
He let her set the rhythm, his hands roaming over her body. He cupped the heavy, swaying weight of her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers until they were hard pebbles. He smoothed his palms down her sides, over the flare of her hips, gripping her ass to help guide her movements. The sunlight warmed his hands on her skin.
“Talk to me, baby,” she murmured, her eyes half-closed in pleasure. “Tell me.”
“You’re taking me so perfectly,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Your ass is hugging my cock like it was made for it. Maybe it was. Maybe you were born to have your son’s cock in this perfect, tight hole. To be my sweet, anal slut mother.”
The filthy words, spoken in his gentle, adoring tone, sent a fresh ripple of contraction through her. She moaned, leaning forward to kiss him, her tongue tangling with his. “I was. I am. It’s my favorite place for you. My favorite feeling. Even more than your piss warming me up this morning. This… this fullness… this ache… it’s mine.”
He remembered the morning, the shocking intimacy of it. The memory made him throb inside her. “You loved that, didn’t you? You loved me pissing deep inside your ass.”
“I loved it,” she confessed, riding him a little faster, her breaths coming in shorter pants. “It was so dirty. So wrong. So us. Do it again sometime. When I don’t expect it.”
“Anything for you,” he promised, meaning it with every fiber of his being. He shifted his grip, pulling her down harder onto him as he thrust up, finding a slightly new angle that made her cry out. “Anything. This is all for you. Every drop of cum, every moment of pleasure. It’s all yours, mum.”
The slow burn was intensifying, threatening to catch fire. Her movements became less circular, more vertical, seeking that deep, friction-driven bliss. The wet, rhythmic slap of their joining began to punctuate the quiet room. He could feel the tension coiling in her belly, hear it in the broken cadence of her breathing.
“I’m close, baby… so close…”
“Not yet,” he urged, though his own control was fraying. The sight of her above him, her magnificent breasts bouncing with each descent, her face a mask of rapturous need, was almost too much. “Wait for me. Come with me. Let’s fall together.”
He sat up abruptly, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly against his chest as he rolled them over without slipping out of her. Now she was on her back, buried in the silk sheets, and he was on top, still buried deep in her ass. He braced himself on his elbows, cradling her face.
“Look at me,” he said, and she did, her eyes wide and drowning in love and lust. He began to fuck her in earnest now, the lazy afternoon pretense shattered by the raw need crashing over them. His thrusts were long, deep, and powerful, each one driving the breath from her lungs. The bed began to rock, its frame emitting a soft, rhythmic creak in time with his movements.
“Yes! Oh, God, yes! Right there! Don’t stop! Fuck your mother’s ass! Ruin it! Make it yours!” Her pleas were a litany of filth and devotion, her nails scoring his back.
He was a piston, relentless, his stamina holding true. He fucked her through her first orgasm, which tore through her with a silent, shuddering intensity, her inner muscles milking him in frantic pulses. He barely slowed, chasing his own peak, driving into her clenched, fluttering channel.
“Gonna cum,” he gritted out, his rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. “Gonna fill you… gonna pump this ass so full…”
“Do it! Breed your mum’s ass! Fill me up, baby! Give it all to me!”
With a roar that was part sob, he slammed home and erupted.
It was, as always, a torrent. The first spurt was so forceful it seemed to vibrate through both of them. Hot, thick cum jetted into her rectum, a scalding flood that had nowhere to go but to pool and expand inside her. He gasped, his entire body rigid with the force of the release. Another volley followed, and another. It felt endless, a massive, pumping geyser of his essence claiming her deepest passage. He shuddered violently with each pulse, his forehead pressed to hers, his eyes screwed shut in transcendent agony.
Finally, it ebbed. The last few weak spurts seeped from him. He collapsed atop her, spent, his weight a welcome burden. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. He was still semi-hard inside her, plugging her full.
Long minutes passed. The only sound was their slowing breath and the distant whisper of traffic far below. The sunbeam had moved, now highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air above the bed.
He eventually stirred, softening enough to slip out of her with a soft, wet sound. He rolled to the side, pulling her with him, tucking her back into his embrace. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her hair.
“I think,” he said, his voice hoarse, “we should order food. I’m starving.”
She laughed, a weak, happy sound. “You just had a three-course meal.”
“That was dessert. I need sustenance. For round… whatever number we’re on.”
They lay tangled for another half-hour, dozing, touching, talking in soft murmurs about nothing and everything. The previous night’s gallery opening, a photographer whose work he admired, her thoughts on re-decorating the villa’s study. Normal conversation threaded through the utterly abnormal reality of their post-coital bliss.
He finally extracted himself, padding naked to the phone by the bed. He ordered from a favorite Greek place downtown: spanakopita, grilled octopus, a hearty moussaka, a salad, and baklava. He asked for it to be left at the service entrance; they wouldn’t be answering the door.
While they waited, he drew her a bath in the massive, freestanding tub in the corner of the suite, adding generous handfuls of violet-scented bath salts. He led her to it, helping her step in, then climbed in behind her, settling her between his legs, her back against his chest. The hot water was a soothing balm on their overstimulated flesh.
He washed her hair again, his fingers working magic on her scalp. She sighed, leaning back into him, her eyes closed. The water lapped at their bodies, tinged milky from the salts. His soft cock nestled in the cleft of her buttocks under the water.
“This is the life,” she murmured.
“This is our life,” he corrected softly, kissing her wet shoulder.
The food arrived. Wrapped in thick, white robes, they ate it on the floor of the living area, using the enormous glass coffee table as their dining surface. They fed each other bites with their fingers, licking olive oil and honey from each other’s skin. They talked and laughed, the empty plates and clutter of their meal a testament to their shared, carnal hunger extending to simpler appetites.
After eating, they migrated to the vast, L-shaped sofa. She curled up at one end with a book—a new historical novel she’d been meaning to start. He sprawled at the other end with his laptop, reviewing the shots he’d taken at the gallery, his brow furrowed in professional concentration. The late afternoon sun poured in, casting long, dramatic shadows.
It was a picture of domestic tranquility. Except for the undercurrent, the constant, humming awareness that crackled between them across the ten feet of cashmere upholstery.
She read a page, then two. But her eyes kept drifting from the words. She watched him. The intense focus on his face, the way his dark hair fell over his forehead, the corded strength in his forearms as he typed. The robe had fallen open, revealing a tantalizing V of his chest and the flat plane of his stomach. Her mouth went dry.
She put her book down.