Chapter 44: Decked
The transition from the warm, cum-scented nest of the bedroom to the crisp deck air was a shock that Lori felt in her bones. It was a delicious shock, a stripping away of one layer of intimacy for another, more exposed one. She walked ahead of him, barefoot, the weathered, cold planks biting at her soles. She wore only his unbuttoned flannel shirt, the thick fabric hanging open, doing nothing to conceal the map of drying semen on her skin, the sway of her heavy breasts, the jiggle of her ass with each step. The shirt tails brushed the tops of her thighs.
Colt followed, carrying a thick wool blanket and a small bottle of oil he’d grabbed from the bathroom. He was naked, his body taut and purposeful in the clear winter light, his erection bobbing with his movements, already fully hard again. The sun was high but held little warmth; its brilliance was a visual comfort, a stark contrast to the bite in the air. Their breath plumed in front of them in small, quick clouds.
The deck was private, enclosed by high, timber railings and screens of bare-limbed wisteria. The world beyond was a silent, snow-dusted painting of brown pastures and lead-gray sky. Out here, the evidence of their morning felt more illicit, more daring. The cold made her skin prickle, her nipples hardening into tight, aching points. She went to the wide railing that looked out over the south pasture, placing her hands on the sun-warmed wood. She bent forward, presenting herself, the flannel shirt falling away to hang from her shoulders.
Colt came up behind her. He didn’t speak. He spread the blanket on the planks behind her, a small island of potential comfort. Then his hands were on her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her ass cheeks. He squeezed, kneading the generous curves, pulling them apart slightly. The cold air kissed her exposed backdoor, making her flinch and gasp.
“Cold,” she whispered, her voice carrying in the stillness.
“You’ll warm up,” he said, his voice low. He took the oil, poured a generous amount into his palm, the slick sound loud in the quiet. He rubbed his hands together, warming it. Then his slick fingers were there, not on her pussy, which was already swollen and dripping, but on the tight, clenched pucker of her anus.
She jolted at the contact, a sharp intake of breath. The oil was cool at first, then warmed by his touch. He circled the nerve-rich rim, applying gentle, insistent pressure. One thick, oil-slick finger pressed inward, breaching the outer resistance. She pushed back against it, a low moan escaping her. The stretch was immediate, a bright, shocking sensation that traveled straight to her clit. He worked the finger in slowly, to the knuckle, letting her body adjust. He crooked it, massaging the inner walls.
“Oh, god,” she breathed, her forehead resting on her forearms on the railing. The view of the winter-bleached ranch blurred. All of her consciousness narrowed to that one, incredible point of intrusion. “Yes. Just like that. Get it ready for your cock.”
He added a second finger, the stretch becoming a burn, a glorious, painful fullness that made her cry out. The sound was swallowed by the vast landscape. He scissored his fingers gently, coating her inner channel with oil, his other hand reaching around to rub her clit in rough, demanding circles.
“You’re so tight,” he muttered, his breath warm against her chilled shoulder. “This perfect, filthy little asshole. You really want this?”
“I need it,” she gasped, pushing back onto his fingers, taking them deeper. “I need you to wreck it. Make it yours. Make it so I can’t sit without thinking of your dick splitting me open.” The filth poured out, fueled by the intense sensation, the exposure, the aftermath of the morning’s degradation. “Fuck your mom’s ass, baby. Claim it. It’s the only hole on this whole ranch that’s only ever been yours.”
He removed his fingers, leaving her feeling empty and gaping. She heard the slick sound of him stroking his own length, coating it thickly with oil. The broad, hot crown of his cock nudged against her pucker. He applied pressure, steady and unyielding.
The initial penetration was a white-hot spike of pure sensation. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, raw and unfiltered. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was an overwhelming, breathtaking stretch, a violation so complete it felt like truth. He didn’t stop. He pushed forward, an inch, then two, his grip on her hips iron-tight, holding her still as her body fought and then surrendered, accepting him.
“Fuck! Colt! Oh, Jesus Christ!” she sobbed, tears springing to her eyes. Her knuckles were white on the railing. The cold wood, the warm sun on her back, the incredible, impossible fullness in her ass—it was sensory overload.
He sank deeper, slowly, relentlessly, until his hips were flush against her buttocks. He was fully sheathed inside her ass, a thick, brutal invasion. He held there, letting her pant and shudder, letting her inner muscles flutter wildly around the foreign, delicious intrusion.
“You okay?” His voice was strained, tight with his own effort at control.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she snarled, pushing back against him. “Move. Please, move. Fuck your mom’s ass.”
He began to move. Withdrawing almost all the way, then driving back in with a smooth, powerful stroke. The friction was intense, a slick, tight burn that melted into a deep, radiating pleasure. Each thrust jolted her forward, made her tits sway heavily. The flannel shirt slid from one shoulder, then the other, pooling in the crooks of her elbows, leaving her completely bare to the elements and his gaze.
He set a deliberate, deep rhythm. Not the frantic pace of her face-fucking, but something more primal, more possessive. Each stroke was a claiming. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of his flesh against hers, the creak of the railing under her weight, their mingled, ragged breaths.
He reached around her again, one hand finding her breast, palming the heavy weight, pinching and pulling at her nipple. The other hand delved between her legs from the front, his fingers finding her sopping wet pussy. He rubbed her clit in time with his thrusts.
“You’re dripping,” he grunted into her ear, his thrusts gaining speed. “Your cunt is leaking all over my hand while I fuck your ass. You’re that much of a slut for it.”
“I am!” she cried, the pleasure building in a terrifying wave, coiling from her clit and her ass simultaneously. “I’m a double-holed slut! Just a set of holes for you! Fill one, use the other! I don’t care! I love it!” She was babbling, lost in the sensations and the confessional need. “This is all I’m for! This fat ass, these useless tits, this dirty mouth! They’re yours! Your property! Your breeding ground!”
Her words drove him wild. His thrusts became harder, faster, pounding into her with a force that shook her whole body. The railing groaned in protest. The world narrowed to the piston of his hips, the burn-stretch-pleasure radiating from her core, the rough calluses of his fingers on her clit.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice a guttural rasp. “Gonna fill this tight little ass.”
“Do it!” she screamed, her own orgasm detonating, a silent, blinding explosion that ripped through her. Her vision whited out. Her ass clenched violently around his invading cock, milking him, triggering his own release.
He slammed into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and roared. She felt the hot, liquid surge deep inside her rectum, pulse after pulse after incredible pulse, flooding the channel he’d just brutalized. It was an intimacy so profound it felt violent. He was marking her, branding her from the inside in a way even her stomach or her face couldn’t compare. She sobbed through the aftershocks of her own climax, overwhelmed, utterly conquered.
He stayed inside her, both of them panting, trembling, connected in the most forbidden way. Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. The sensation of emptiness was acute, followed by a hot, messy trickle down the inside of her thigh.
She couldn’t stand. Her legs buckled. He caught her, turning her, gathering her into his arms. He sank onto the wool blanket, pulling her into his lap, cradling her against his chest. She was a boneless, shuddering mess, her face buried in his neck. The cold air began to register again, raising goosebumps on her sweat-slicked skin. He wrapped the edges of the blanket around them both.
For a long time, they just sat there, listening to the distant wind, feeling their heartbeats slow. The sun continued its indifferent arc.
Lori finally stirred. She lifted her head. His release was already leaking from her, a warm, shameful trickle onto the blanket. She looked up at his face. He looked young, and tired, and sated.
“My face is still sticky,” she said, her voice hoarse from screaming.
“I know.”
“The sun feels good.”
“Yeah.”
She traced a finger over his lips. “I meant everything I said. Every filthy word.” Her tone was soft now, almost wonderous. “When you’re inside me like that… it’s like it scrubs everything else away. All the pretending, all the outside world. There’s just you. And me. And this… this truth. That I belong to you. That my body’s only real purpose is to please you.” She kissed his chin. “It’s the most peaceful I ever feel.”
He hugged her tighter, his nose in her hair. “I don’t deserve you.”
“You deserve every part of me,” she corrected gently. “Every hole, every thought, every heartbeat.” She shifted, wincing slightly at the deep, tender ache in her rear. “I’m gonna feel that for a week.”
“Good.”
She smiled. “Yeah. Good.”
They sat until the chill began to seep past the blanket. “Bath,” he said finally.
“Bath,” she agreed.
He stood, lifting her in his arms as if she weighed nothing. He carried her, blanket and all, back through the sliding glass door into the warmth of the house. As they crossed the living room, Marty emerged from the kitchen, holding a tray with two steaming mugs of coffee. She took in the sight: Colt naked and spent, carrying his mother wrapped in a blanket, Lori’s face a crusted, shiny mess, new semen leaking down her thigh.
Marty didn’t blink. A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “Bath’s already drawn,” she said softly, her voice warm. “I put in the Epsom salts. For soreness.”
Lori met her friend’s eyes, no shame, only a deep, exhausted gratitude. “Thank you, Marty.”
“Go on,” Marty nodded, setting the coffee down. “I’ll bring these up in a bit.”
Colt carried her up the stairs, into the large, steam-filled bathroom. The huge clawfoot tub was nearly full, the water clouded with salts and a hint of lavender oil. He lowered her into the hot water, and she hissed as it enveloped her sore body, the heat a penetrating balm.
He climbed in behind her, settling her between his legs, her back against his chest. The water turned murky around them, the evidence of their morning beginning to dissolve. But Lori’s face, above the waterline, remained a glistening, sticky testament. Tendrils of his release still clung to her hairline, her eyebrows, the curve of her jaw.
He reached for a soft cloth, dipped it in the clean water at the edge of the tub, and began, with infinite tenderness, to wipe her face.
He reached for a soft cloth, dipped it in the clean water at the edge of the tub, and began, with infinite tenderness, to wipe her face.
“Wait,” she murmured, catching his wrist. Her tongue darted out, licking a streak of pearly residue from her own cheekbone. She swallowed, her eyes locked on his. “Leave it. Just… add to it.”
He understood. The cloth was set aside. His cock, semi-hard and resting against her lower back in the warm water, began to thicken again at her words. She shifted, turning in the water with a soft slosh, her movements clumsy with exhaustion and saturation. Facing him now, she sank lower, the water lapping at her chin, then slid completely under.
Her hands found his thighs, her fingers digging into the muscle. He felt the pressure of her mouth, a hot, wet suction enveloping the head of his cock beneath the surface. Bubbles escaped her lips, rising in a frantic cluster. He let his head fall back against the rim of the tub, a groan rumbling in his chest. The sensation was blurred by the water, a muffled, weightless bliss.
She surfaced, gasping, water streaming from her hair and lashes. “Gimme that cloth,” she breathed, her voice husky. He handed it to her. She took it, sank under again, and he felt the soft, abrasive drag of the fabric against his shaft, her mouth working in tandem. She was cleaning him with the cloth while she sucked him, a slow, underwater worship. The dual sensation—the rough terry cloth and the soft, insistent pull of her lips—was surreal, dizzying.
She came up for air, sputtering, a wicked gleam in her blue eyes. “Fuck, I love this,” she panted, before diving back down. Her words were distorted by the water, by his flesh in her mouth. “Love… tasting me… on you… love your fuckin’ smell…”
He watched the top of her blond head bob beneath the soapy surface, her shoulders moving. He reached down, his fingers threading through her wet hair, not guiding, just feeling the motion. His other hand picked up the cloth where she’d dropped it and began, slowly, to wipe the remaining stickiness from her neck, her collarbones. He cleaned the hollow of her throat, the slope of her shoulders, all while she sucked him with a lazy, devoted rhythm.
Every few strokes, she’d surface, gasping, and continue her monologue between ragged breaths. “Been dreaming about this all week,” she’d say, before taking him deep again, her throat working. “Your fucking textbooks on the table… all I could think about… was how bad I needed this dick down my throat.” She’d disappear, the water churning. Then up again, water dripping from her nose. “I’d be makin’ your dinner… and my cunt would just ache… remembering how you stretch my ass…”
He washed her breasts, circling each nipple with the cloth until they peaked, tight and ruddy. He cleaned the soft swell of her stomach, the faint silver marks that told her history, his history. All the while, her mouth was a hot, demanding promise below the waterline.
His climax built not as a sudden storm, but as a deep, tectonic pressure. “Lori… I’m close…”
She didn’t stop. She sucked harder, her hand joining under the water, fisting the base of his shaft. He came with a sharp, choked cry, his hips lifting off the bottom of the tub. She held him deep, swallowing convulsively as his release pumped into her. He felt the pulses, each one wringing a tremor from his body. She stayed there, milking him with gentle sucks until he was soft and oversensitive.
Finally, she emerged, water sheeting off her. She was clean now, his latest offering inside her. She licked her lips, a slow, satisfied cat-like motion. “There,” she whispered, crawling up his body to kiss his chest. “Now I’m ready.”
They climbed from the cooling water, dripping on the bathmat. He toweled her first, with a rough, absorbing tenderness, patting every curve dry. She did the same for him, her movements slow, worshipful. The room was thick with steam, the mirror above the sink completely fogged.
He followed her, a towel slung low on his hips, into the bedroom. The phone was still on the nightstand, propped against a book, a tiny red light glowing. It had recorded the empty room, the distant sounds of water, their muffled voices. Now it would see more.
She went to her dresser, pulling out a large bottle of rich coconut lotion. The air in the bedroom was cooler, raising goosebumps on her freshly scrubbed skin. She stood before the large, fogged mirror and rubbed a clear circle with her hand.
Her reflection appeared, blurred at first, then sharp. Flushed skin, bright eyes, damp hair. She met her own gaze, then looked over her shoulder at him. “Come here.”
He stepped behind her, his own reflection joining hers. She uncapped the lotion, poured a generous pool into her palm, and began to rub her hands together. The sound was a soft, slick whisper. She started on her arms, smoothing the white cream into her skin, from shoulders to wrists, her movements languid, hypnotic.
He watched, his hands resting on his hips. Then he let his towel drop. His cock, spent so recently, was already stirring again, thickening against his thigh as he watched her ritual.
She bent forward, placing her hands flat on the dresser, leaning into her reflection. The posture arched her back, lifted her ass, presented the dark, swollen pucker between her cheeks. It looked used, tender. “It’s still so open,” she murmured, staring at herself in the mirror. “I can still feel the stretch. Keep it open for me, baby. Keep it full.”
He didn’t need oil this time. The natural slickness from the bath, from her body’s own lingering readiness, was enough. He stepped close, the heat of his body against hers. The broad head of his cock found that loosened, welcoming entrance. He pushed, and with a soft, wet sigh, he was inside her again.
The penetration was seamless, a deep, familiar sinking. There was no burn now, only a profound, stretching fullness. She gasped, her eyes fluttering shut for a second before forcing them open to watch. He slid in to the root, his hips nesting against the full curves of her ass.
“Oh god, yes,” she breathed, her voice a thrum of pure satisfaction. She resumed lotioning her other arm, the motion of her shoulders making her back muscles dance, sending subtle clenches through her internal muscles around him. “Just like that. Don’t move yet. Just let me feel you there.”
He obeyed, sheathed completely inside her, his hands coming to rest on her hips. He watched their reflection—her focused face, her moving hands, his own tense form behind her. The phone’s red light was a silent witness in the periphery.
She finished her arms and poured more lotion. She reached for her breasts, cupping their heavy weight, massaging the cream into the pale skin, circling her nipples until they were tight, pebbled peaks. He moved then, not pulling out, but grinding his hips in a slow, deep circle, stimulating her from the inside. A low moan vibrated in her throat.
“That’s it,” she whispered to the mirror, to him, to herself. “You see these? These big, sloppy tits? They’re yours. They only get hard for you. They only leak for you.” She pinched a nipple, hard, her breath catching. “I wanna feed you from them again. Like when you were little. But different. So fucking different. I want you to suck them raw while you’re buried in my ass. I want you to come all over them and then lick it off.”
Her filthy poetry unraveled him. He began to move, a slow, almost imperceptible withdrawal followed by a steady, penetrating thrust. The pace was glacial, each stroke a deliberate, full-depth conquest. The only sounds were the wet, rhythmic slide of their connection, the soft slap of flesh, and her continuing, whispered monologue.
She moved her lotioned hands down her stomach, over the soft curve of her belly. “This is where I carried you,” she said, her voice thickening with emotion even as the depravity spilled forth. “My womb. It’s empty now. Useless for anything but getting wet for you. But my ass… baby, my ass is so fertile for you. It grows your pleasure. It milks your cock so perfect. It’s my best hole now, isn’t it? My prime hole.”
“Yes,” he grunted, the word forced out between clenched teeth. His hands slid from her hips to grasp the full mounds of her ass, kneading the flesh, spreading her open wider for his slow, relentless strokes. He watched his hands on her, dark against her fairness, possessive.
“Harder,” she begged, though his pace didn’t change. “Squeeze it. Mark it. It’s your ass. All this fat, jiggly ass is just… packaging for your favorite fuckhole.” She was lotioning her thighs now, bending further, giving him a deeper angle. The change made him sink into her even more profoundly, and she cried out, her knuckles white on the dresser. “Fuck! Right there! God, you’re so deep you’re in my guts!”
He held that angle, each thrust now nudging something deep and electric within her. Her self-care continued, a bizarre, intimate counterpoint to the raw sex. She lotioned her calves, her ankles, all while being steadily, thoroughly ass-fucked. Her monologue never stopped, a stream of consciousness both loving and utterly debased.
“I wanna be your piece of furniture,” she gasped, straightening a little to rub lotion on her neck. “Just a thing you use. A warm, wet hole-holder you bend over whenever you want. No questions. No talking. Just… use. Fuck my face while you game. Fuck my tits while you watch the news. Empty your balls in my ass while you read your damn economics chapters.” She turned her head, met his eyes in the mirror. Hers were glazed, pupils blown wide. “Reduce me. Please. Strip me down to just… function. For you.”
Her words were a drug. His slow, deep thrusts became more powerful, more intent. The mirror rattled slightly with each impact. He leaned over her, his chest against her sweaty back, his mouth near her ear. “You’re my mom,” he breathed, the words a hot, shameful secret in the midst of their act.
“I’m your whore,” she corrected, shuddering. “I’m your slut. I’m your three-holed cocksleeve. Mom is just… the name of the girl you ruined. The girl you turned into this.” She gestured weakly at her reflected image, at his hands gripping her, at the point where their bodies joined. “And I love it. I love being ruined by you. I love the emptiness when you pull out. I love the mess. I love the ache.”
She reached back with a lotion-slick hand, groping for his, guiding it from her ass to between her legs. “Feel,” she demanded. “Feel how wet my pussy is. Just from you taking my ass. It’s dripping. It’s fucking weeping for you. It’s jealous.”
He slid two fingers into her cunt, easily, met with drenched, silken heat. He fingered her in time with his thrusts, a dual penetration that made her eyes roll back. Her knees buckled, and he held her up, his arm a band across her stomach.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna come,” she whimpered, the composed, lotion-rubbing facade shattering. “Just from my ass! Oh, fuck, Colt, I’m coming!”
Her orgasm was a silent, wrenching quake. Her internal muscles clamped around his cock in a series of violent, rhythmic spasms, her cunt pulsing around his fingers. She threw her head back, a soundless scream on her lips, her body bowing against him. The bottle of lotion fell from her limp hand, thudding to the carpet, pooling its contents.
Her climax triggered his own. The slow, possessive fucking broke into a final, frantic pace. He pistoned into her, his own control vaporizing in the face of her convulsing heat. “Where?” he growled, the question torn from him.
“In me!” she cried, her voice shattered. “Fill my ass! Pump it full! I want it leaking out of me all night! Mark me inside!”
With a final, brutal drive, he buried himself and came. His release felt endless, a hot, liquid flood jetting deep into her colon. She sobbed, feeling each pulse, the intimate violation a completion that sank into her bones. He collapsed over her, both of them supported by the dresser, staring at their wrecked reflections in the mirror.
They were a mess of sweat and lotion and spent passion. He was still inside her, softening. Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. A thick, white trickle immediately followed, tracing a path down her inner thigh, mixing with the glistening coconut cream on her skin.
They didn’t speak for a long moment, just breathed, watching the evidence of their union in the glass. The little red light on the phone glowed steadily.
Finally, she straightened, wincing at the deep, full-body ache. She turned, facing him, and cupped his jaw. “My perfect boy,” she whispered, her thumb stroking his cheekbone.
He leaned into her touch, his eyes closed. When he opened them, he looked at the phone. “You want me to stop that?”
“No,” she said, glancing at it. A small, tired smile touched her lips. “Let it run. I want to remember every second of how you made me feel tonight.” She took his hand, leading him toward the bed. “Now come hold me. I’m sore in all the best ways.”