Chapter 43: Nursing
Sunday morning light, the kind particular to winter in Texas, spilled into the bedroom. It was a pale, liquid gold, thin and clear, cutting through the slight haze of dust motes dancing in the air. It fell across the rumpled cream-colored comforter, over the discarded clothes from the night before—his jeans, her silk robe—and finally across the bed itself, illuminating the two forms nestled there.
Colt lay sprawled on his back, propped against a mountain of oversized pillows. The comforter was pooled around his waist, leaving his torso bare. The muscles of his chest and stomach were relaxed in sleep, but still defined, a topography of young strength. One arm was thrown back behind his head, the other rested on his stomach, his fingers idly tracing patterns on his own skin. He was already awake, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling with the pleasant, thoughtless vacancy of a morning with no obligations.
Lori was beside him, but not for long.
She had been watching him sleep for twenty minutes, studying the flutter of his eyelids, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her body ached in the best possible way—a deep, internal soreness that was a physical memory of the night before. The feeling of being thoroughly used, claimed, and then cared for. She could still smell the woodsmoke in her hair, a ghost of the fire that had witnessed their intimacy. A different, more intimate scent lingered between her legs, a reminder she had no desire to wash away just yet.
Now, as he woke, a different need began to thrum in her, low and insistent. It was a Sunday ritual, one of many. A day of rest, of reconnection. Of worship.
She shifted under the sheets, the linen cool against her bare skin. She slid down the bed, her movements slow and deliberate, until her head was level with his hips. The comforter formed a tent over her, a private, warm darkness scented with sleep and sex. She nuzzled the inside of his thigh, her lips brushing the coarse hair there. He stirred, a soft grunt escaping him.
Beneath the sheets, her hand found him. He was already half-hard, sleepily thickening in her grasp. A smile touched her lips. She loved this—the effortless, automatic response of his body to her proximity. She wrapped her fingers around his girth, feeling the heat and the weight, the slow pulse of blood that made him swell further. She gave him a few lazy, pulling strokes, her thumb smearing a bead of moisture that had already gathered at his tip.
His hips gave a slight, involuntary jerk.
“Morning,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep and intention.
“Mmm.” It was more a vibration than a word. His hand came down from behind his head and settled on the crown of hers, under the comforter. Not guiding, just resting. Acknowledging.
That was all the permission she needed, though she required none.
She emerged from under the covers, the cool morning air kissing her shoulders. Her blonde hair was a messy cascade around her face. Without breaking eye contact—a soft, blue-eyed gaze that held a universe of devotion—she bent her head and took him into her mouth.
She started slowly, with a reverence that was both genuine and deeply erotic. She circled the broad, smooth head with her tongue, tasting the clean, salty essence of him. She swirled the tip, then flattened her tongue against the sensitive frenulum, applying a firm, licking pressure she knew he loved. A low groan rumbled in his chest. His hand on her head pressed down slightly, not forcing, but encouraging.
She took him deeper, her lips stretching into a tight ‘O’ as she accommodated his width. She relaxed her throat, sinking down, down, until her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. She held there for a count of three, feeling him pulse against the back of her throat, feeling her own eyes water slightly. Then she pulled back, a slow, sucking retreat, her cheeks hollowed.
“Fuck, Mom,” he breathed, his head tipping back into the pillows.
The words, the title in this context, sent a thrill through her. She redoubled her efforts. This was her purpose, her joy. To service him, to pleasure him, to be the vessel for his release. She began a steady rhythm, one hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, working in tandem with her mouth. Up and down, a smooth, wet glide. The sounds were obscenely beautiful in the quiet room: the soft, slick pop of her lips, the wet friction of her mouth, his ragged breathing.
She lost herself in the mechanics and the sensations. The taste of him, musky and unique. The feel of him, rigid and velvety against her tongue. The weight on her tongue, the stretch of her jaws. It was a meditation.
Colt, for his part, seemed content to be a passive recipient. His hand remained on her head, fingers tangled in her hair, but he let her set the pace. His other hand fumbled across the nightstand, his fingers closing around his phone. He tapped the screen, the light illuminating his face in the dim room. A text notification had chimed a moment before.
Lori saw this from her periphery. It didn’t bother her. It was part of their dynamic, part of the Sunday casualness. Her worth wasn’t diminished because he was texting. Her worth was in the act itself, in her willing, enthusiastic submission. She increased her speed, adding a twisting motion with her hand, her tongue lashing the underside of his cock with every pass.
He let out a sharp hiss, his hips bucking up off the mattress. “Shit,” he muttered, his thumbs typing a quick response. The phone buzzed again.
She pulled off with an audible, wet sound. A string of saliva connected her lower lip to his glistening crown. “Don’t let me distract you from your important business,” she said, her voice dripping with a faux-politeness that was utterly filthy. She leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe from his balls to his tip, her eyes locked on his.
He chuckled, a dark, amused sound. “Just Travis. Being an idiot about the game last night.” He typed another message, but his eyes were on her now, watching her work.
“Tell Travis his quarterback has the decision-making skills of a concussed badger,” she said, before swallowing him down again, taking him deep and fast.
He laughed around a moan, his body shaking. He managed to type one-handed, “My mom says your QB is a concussed badger.” He hit send.
Lori hummed around his cock, the vibration drawing a guttural “oh, fuck,” from him. His typing stalled. She pulled back, using her hand to pump him vigorously as she spoke, her words coming in breathy bursts between strokes. “Is that more important than this? Than your cock in your mother’s whore mouth?” The word was a deliberate provocation, a key that unlocked a deeper layer of their play.
“No,” he said instantly, his voice tight. He dropped the phone onto his chest, screen down.
“Tell me what’s more important.”
“Nothing. This. Your mouth.”
“What about my mouth?” She swirled her tongue around the head, collecting the pre-come that was now freely leaking.
“It’s perfect. It’s a perfect fucking cocksucker.” His words were blunt, crude. They fed the fire in her belly.
“It’s your cocksucker,” she corrected, her tone turning needy, desperate. “It’s only yours. It was made for you. To suck your dick whenever you want. However you want.” She took him back in, deep, gagging slightly on the intrusion, tears springing to her eyes. She loved that feeling, the slight burn in her throat, the proof of her effort, of his size. She came up gasping, saliva coating her chin. “I’m just your live-in slut, aren’t I? Your personal fucking mouthpiece.”
“Yeah,” he growled, his hands now both coming to her head, gripping her hair more firmly. He guided her, setting a faster, rougher pace. “You’re my slut. My mommy-slut. Your only job is to make me feel good.”
The vulgarity, the truth of it, made her clit throb. She was soaking wet, her own need a secondary but potent hum. She focused entirely on him. She let him fuck her mouth, his hips pistoning up to meet her downward strokes. The head of his cock bumped repeatedly against the back of her throat. The sounds were louder now, wetter, more animalistic. Gagging, sucking, slobbering sounds. Drool dripped from her lips, down onto her chest, mingling with the remnants of last night.
That was another part of the scene. She was already a mess. Dried streaks of his release from the night before were still visible on her face, in her hair, across her breasts. They had been too tired to shower before collapsing into bed. Now, in the morning light, she was a canvas of their debauchery. It excited her, this visible proof of her usage. She was a well-fucked, well-claimed thing.
Colt’s eyes drank it in. The sight of his own dried cum on her cheeks, the fresh spit shining on her chin and breasts, the absolute dedication on her face as she choked on his dick. It was a feedback loop of arousal.
“Look at you,” he panted, his thrust into her mouth becoming erratic. “You’re covered in me. You’re a fucking mess. A beautiful, filthy mess.”
She pulled off, gasping for air, a line of spit and pre-come stretching between her lips and his cock. “I love it,” she rasped. “I love being your mess. I want to be painted in you. I want to wear your cum like perfume. I want everyone to smell you on me and know what I am.” Her words were frantic, confessional. She dove back down, taking him so deep her nose was buried in his skin, inhaling his scent. She held it, her throat working convulsively around him, until her lungs screamed for air.
When she surfaced, she was crying, tears cutting through the dried streaks on her face. They were tears of effort, of overwhelming emotion, of pure, unadulterated bliss.
“You close, baby?” she whispered, stroking him hard and fast with her fist. “You gonna feed me? I’m so hungry for it. Your slut is starving.”
He was on the edge. His stomach was clenched, his thighs taut. His knuckles were white where he gripped her hair. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m gonna come. Open up. Open that pretty, filthy mouth.”
She obeyed instantly, dropping her jaw, sticking out her tongue, presenting herself like a waiting receptacle. Her eyes were wide, pleading, worshipful.
He didn’t need to touch himself. He was too far gone. With a shout that was part groan, part roar, he erupted.
The first thick, pearlescent rope shot across her tongue, hitting the back of her throat. It was warm, salty, slightly bitter. The taste was intimately familiar, a flavor she craved. The second pulse was heavier, splashing across her tongue and coating it. She closed her lips around him, sucking fiercely, milking him with her mouth as the third, fourth, fifth surges filled her. It was a prodigious amount, as always. It flooded her mouth, pooling behind her teeth, threatening to overflow.
She swallowed convulsively, gulping down the hot, viscous load. But he kept coming. It spilled from the corners of her lips, dripped down her chin, joined the existing mess on her chest. She kept sucking, kept swallowing, a low, continuous moan of satisfaction vibrating in her throat as she consumed him.
Finally, with a final, shuddering pulse, he was spent. His body went limp, collapsing back into the pillows, his grip on her hair loosening to a tender caress. He was breathing as if he’d run a sprint.
Lori stayed where she was, her lips sealed around his softening cock, gently cleaning him with her tongue, swallowing the last drops. She was a vision of utter debasement. Her face was newly glazed, sticky and shining. Her breasts were streaked with fresh, white rivulets that slid slowly down the slopes of her flesh. She was panting, her eyes glazed with a kind of sated triumph.
Slowly, she released him with a soft, final kiss to his tip. She sat back on her heels, looking down at herself, then up at him. She ran a finger through the mess on her chest and brought it to her mouth, sucking it clean with a lewd pop.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse. The politeness, after the filth that had just spilled from her, was dizzyingly incongruous and profoundly them.
Colt reached for her, his hand trembling slightly from the aftershocks. He cupped her sticky cheek. “You’re incredible.”
She turned her face into his palm, nuzzling it. “It’s my favorite breakfast.”
He laughed, a full, exhausted, happy sound. He pulled her down beside him, not caring about the mess transferring to the sheets and his own skin. He kissed her forehead, then her salty lips. “We’re gonna need another shower.”
“Later,” she murmured, curling into his side. She traced a finger through the new cum on her own stomach, then brought it to his lips. He opened his mouth and sucked her finger clean, his eyes holding hers.
The sun climbed higher, the beam of light shifting across the bed. Somewhere downstairs, they could hear the faint sounds of Marty moving around, the clink of a pan, the hum of the coffee grinder. Normal life, continuing.
But here, in the golden sanctuary of the bedroom, time was suspended. Colt’s phone buzzed again, forgotten on his chest. Lori’s breathing began to even out against his side.
After a long while of quiet, her hand began to wander down his stomach again. He was soft, spent, but under her tender, insistent touch, he began, slowly, to stir once more.
She lifted her head, a new, gentle smile on her sticky face. “It’s Sunday,” she said, as if that explained everything. And it did.
She slid down the bed again, her movements languid now, without the frantic energy of before. This would be slow. Worshipful. A long, lazy exploration with her mouth and hands, a way to spend the empty hours. She took him into her mouth, not to bring him to a quick finish, but to simply hold him there, to savor the gradual return of his fullness, the steady, patient throb of his heartbeat against her tongue.
Outside, a meadowlark called. The scent of brewing coffee drifted up the stairs. Colt’s hand found her hair again, not to guide, but to simply rest, a point of connection as she began her gentle, unwavering work anew. The day stretched before them, warm and blank, a canvas for nothing but this.
The day stretched before them, warm and blank, a canvas for nothing but this. Lori’s mouth was a slow, wet haven, a soft suction that held him in a state of suspended, thickening fullness. Time dissolved into the rhythm of her breath through her nose, the occasional wet, contented sound in her throat, the gradual, inevitable return of his erection against her patient tongue. He watched the sunlight track across the ceiling, his hand absently stroking her hair, feeling the dried stiffness of his previous release tangled in the blonde strands. It was peace of a profoundly carnal kind.
“You’re getting so hard again,” she mumbled, her words distorted around his girth. She pulled off just enough to speak, a strand of saliva webbing her lower lip to his shaft. “You’re insatiable. My insatiable boy.” Her tone was one of awe, as if his virility were a miracle she was privileged to witness.
“You just taste too good,” he said, his voice still rough. His phone buzzed again on his stomach.
She glanced at it, then back at his face, a sly, sticky smile forming. “You should get that. Could be important.” Her hand began to pump him slowly, her thumb smearing the fresh pre-come that beaded at his tip. “I’ll just be here. Taking care of this.”
He grunted, picking up the phone. It was a meme from Travis. He snorted a laugh, typing a quick reply. His hips gave a slight upward push into her hand, a silent demand for more pressure.
Lori complied, tightening her fist, dragging the skin up over the rigid core of him. She watched him type, her own arousal a persistent, throbbing echo between her legs. The casualness of it, his divided attention, made her feel used in the most exquisite way. She was a utility, a pleasure dispenser operating in the background of his life. She bent and took just the head back into her mouth, swirling her tongue in a frantic circle.
“Christ,” he muttered, his typing slowing. He looked down at her, at the focused devotion on her cum-streaked face. An idea seemed to form. He shifted, lifting his hips slightly to adjust the pillows behind his back. “Hold on.”
“Hmm?” She released him with a pop.
He opened his camera app, switching it to video. He positioned the phone, propping it against the headboard, angling it downward. The red recording dot began to glow. “Keep going,” he said, his voice taking on a darker, more deliberate tone. “Talk to me. Talk to the camera.”
A fresh jolt of heat, sharp and liquid, shot through her. This was new. A documentation. It amplified everything. She looked directly into the lens, her blue eyes wide and glistening, and then deliberately slid her tongue out to lick a long, slow stripe from his balls to his tip. She maintained eye contact with the tiny lens the entire time.
“You wanna watch this later?” she asked, her voice a husky whisper directed at the phone. “Watch your mom be a total cocksucker?” She took him into her mouth, deep, letting her throat convulse around the intrusion, making sure the camera caught the tears welling in her eyes. She pulled back, gasping. “You wanna see how deep I can take my son’s big dick?”
“Yes,” Colt said, his own voice low. He wasn’t looking at the screen; he was watching her, his expression one of rapt, hungry ownership.
“Then watch,” she commanded the lens. She began in earnest now, the earlier languor burning away under the heat of performance. This was for him, for later, for a secret record of her debasement. She used both hands, one cupping his balls, rolling the heavy orbs in her palm, the other working his shaft in tandem with her mouth. She bobbed her head with a fierce, sloppy rhythm, abandoning grace for sheer, wet efficiency. The sounds were magnified in her own ears: the gagging choke as he hit her throat, the wet slaps of her lips against his skin, her own frantic, nasal breaths.
“This is all I’m good for,” she panted, pausing to catch her breath, her lips swollen and slick. She jerked him off hard, staring into the camera with a look of frantic need. “This mouth. This throat. It’s not for talking sense or singing songs. It’s a fuckhole. Your personal fuckhole. You should just keep it plugged with your cock all day. Use it as a fleshlight whenever you’re bored.” The filth poured out of her, uninhibited, fueled by the unblinking eye of the phone. “I’d let you. I’d kneel under your desk while you study. You could just unzip and shove it in my face. Wouldn’t even have to stop typing.”
Colt’s breath hitched. He reached down and fisted a handful of her hair, not to guide, but to anchor himself. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being furniture.”
“I’d love it,” she moaned, swallowing him down again. She deep-throated him, holding it, her nose buried in his pubic hair, letting the camera capture the strain in her neck, the flush of her skin. She came up spluttering, ropes of spit hanging from her chin. “I’m just a warm, wet hole for you to dump your loads in. A cum dumpster. That’s my highest purpose.” The words were vile, degrading, and they lit up every nerve ending in her body. She said them with a fervent, religious conviction.
“Prove it,” he growled. “Prove you’re just a hole.”
She obeyed with a frenzy. She focused on the head, sucking it with violent force, her cheeks hollowed to an almost painful degree. She slapped his shaft against her tongue, against her cheeks, the thick muscle leaving a red mark on her skin. “Look how hungry I am,” she slurred, her words garbled. “Look how this worthless cunt-mouth needs your cum. It’s starving for it. It’s empty without it.” She took him deep again, and this time when she gagged, she didn’t pull back. She forced herself down, relaxing her throat through the convulsive spasms, tears streaming down her face, cutting new paths through the dried and fresh semen. The camera saw it all: the struggle, the submission, the utter victory of his flesh over her reflex.
She stayed there, impaled, until her vision spotted. When she finally surged back for air, she was a sobbing, dripping wreck. “Please,” she begged the camera, her voice shredded. “Please, baby, I need it. Give me your load. Paint this stupid face. Fill this trash mouth. I need to drink it. I need to wear it. Mark me again.”
Her pleas pushed him to the brink. His hips began to piston upward, meeting her downward plunges with brutal force. The bedframe creaked a soft, rhythmic protest. The sounds were animalistic, raw. He was no longer passive; he was fucking her face in earnest, using her mouth with a singular, driven purpose.
“You want it?” he gritted out, his voice tight with the strain of holding back.
“I want it! God, yes, I want it! Give it to me! Breed your mom’s mouth! She’s your bitch! She’s your fucking broodmare! Do it!”
The vulgarity, the specific, shocking imagery, shattered his control. With a roar that was torn from his gut, he erupted.
This release was different from the first. It was a torrent, a geyser. The first blast hit the back of her throat with such force she coughed, but she sealed her lips and swallowed desperately. The second pulse was thicker, flooding her mouth, a viscous wave that overflowed instantly. It spilled from her sealed lips in a creamy rush, coating her chin. He kept coming. The third, fourth, fifth surges were relentless, painting her face in thick, pearly streaks. It splashed across her closed eyelids, coated her nose, matted her eyelashes together. It dripped from her jawline onto her chest, joining the mess already there.
She kept sucking, kept milking him, even as the deluge covered her. She was drowning in him. Gulping, swallowing, choking slightly, her throat working furiously to consume the massive volume. It was everywhere. In her hair, in her ears, sliding down her neck. The smell of it, musky and intimate, filled her nostrils.
Finally, the violent pulses subsided into weak, shuddering spurts. She didn’t let go until he was completely spent, softly sucking him clean, her tongue lapping at his oversensitive flesh. When she finally leaned back, the sight was breathtakingly obscene.
Her face was a glistening, white mask. His semen coated every inch, a second skin, dripping slowly from the point of her chin. Her breasts were a Jackson Pollock painting of fresh, thick strands over the dried remnants of before. A heavy dollop clung to the end of her nose. She was utterly, completely defiled.
She sat there on her heels, panting, her chest heaving. She opened her eyes, her lashes sticking together. She looked first at Colt, whose chest was heaving, his expression one of stunned, satiated awe. Then she turned her head and looked directly into the camera phone, its red light still glowing.
A slow, blissful smile spread across her ruined, sticky face. She stuck out her tongue, which was still coated white, and slowly, provocatively, licked a stripe through the cum on her upper lip. She swallowed. “Thank you for my breakfast, baby,” she rasped, her voice utterly ruined.
Colt reached out a trembling hand and tapped the phone screen, stopping the recording. He dropped the device onto the bed beside him. For a long moment, they just stared at each other, the only sound their ragged breathing and the distant call of a hawk outside.
Lori finally moved, lifting her hands to her face. She scooped a mass of the warm, sticky fluid from her cheek and pushed it into her mouth, swallowing with a satisfied sigh. “So much,” she murmured. “You filled me up so good.” She began the process of cleaning herself with her fingers and tongue, an auto-erotic ritual of consumption. She gathered the rivers from her breasts, sucking each finger clean. She tilted her head to catch the drips from her chin. It was a messy, intimate, silent communion.
After several minutes, she was still glazed, but the worst of the pools had been collected and consumed. She crawled up the bed and collapsed beside him, pressing her sticky body against his side. He wrapped an arm around her, his hand splayed on her slick back.
“The camera…” she said after a while.
“Yeah?”
“That was so hot. Watching me like that.”
“You were… unbelievable.” He kissed her sticky temple. “The things you were saying.”
“I meant every word.” She nuzzled into his neck. “I want to watch it with you. Later.”
He squeezed her. “We will.”
They lay in silence for a long time, dozing slightly in the post-coital haze. The sun was high now, a bright Texas noon. The scent of roasting meat and peppers drifted up from downstairs—Marty starting Sunday lunch.
Lori’s mind, sated but never still, began to wander. The feeling of his spend cooling on her skin was a delicious taunt. It was a claim, but she wanted the act itself again. The fullness. The stretch. The burn. She thought of the deck outside their bedroom, the one that looked out over the south pasture. It was private, surrounded by tall hedges. The sun would be warm out there. The rough wood of the decking against her knees.
A new, specific need crystallized.
She lifted her head, looking down at him. Her face, though partially cleaned, was still shiny, her pores likely clogged with him. She knew she looked like a whore. She felt like one. It gave her courage.
“Colt.”
“Hmm?”
“I want you to fuck my ass.” The words were calm, clear, a simple statement of desire.
He opened his eyes, looking at her. He didn’t look surprised.
“On the deck. In the sun.” She traced a finger through a drying patch on his chest. “I want you to bend me over the railing and fuck my asshole until I can’t remember my name. I want to feel it for days. I want to walk funny tomorrow and remember it was you who did this to me.” Her voice was low, steady, utterly convinced. “After you give me one more load. Right here. One more, just like the last one. Then take your messy, dripping slut outside and ruin her ass.”
He stared at her, his eyes darkening. The fatigue seemed to evaporate from his body, replaced by a renewed, predatory tension. He was already hardening again against her thigh, a phenomenon that never ceased to amaze and thrill her.
“You’re insatiable,” he echoed her earlier words back to her, a smile touching his lips.
“I’m yours,” she corrected. “And I want all of you. Every drop. Every hole.” She slid her hand down between them, wrapping her fingers around his renewed erection. It was thick and hot, a promise of what was to come. “Let’s make a movie of that, too.”