Chapter 46: More of seme
The living room was a cathedral of quiet warmth. Flames licked hungrily at the seasoned oak logs in the stone fireplace, casting a liquid, amber light that danced across the polished hardwood floors and warmed the woven wool rug. The scent of woodsmoke and the faint, spicy cinnamon from a simmering potpourri on the mantel filled the air, a stark, clean contrast to the musk still clinging to their skin from the den. Family photos in simple frames smiled down from the walls: Colt as a gap-toothed kid on a horse, Lori with sun-bleached hair and a younger face, both of them at various county fairs, their grins genuine and unchanged by time.
Lori lay on her side on the long, plush sofa, a throw pillow crushed under her head. She was still in Colt’s football jersey, the fabric now stiff in patches where his spend had dried. The television across the room was tuned to a daytime drama, the volume low. On screen, a woman in an expensive pantsuit was tearfully confronting a man in a hospital corridor. The melodramatic score swelled.
The comfort of the couch, the heat of the fire, the mindless plot of the show—it all coalesced into a haze of pure contentment. Her body felt supremely used, a pleasant soreness humming in her muscles and a deeper, more specific ache blooming from her core. She was vaguely aware of Colt moving behind her, of the cushion dipping as he settled.
His hands were warm on her hip, guiding her. He nudged her top leg forward, opening her. There was no fumbling for lube here; the bottle from the den sat on the rough-hewn coffee table beside a half-empty glass of water. He was slick in moments, the sound of his palm stroking his erection a familiar, wet friction underneath the TV dialogue.
He didn’t ask. He simply positioned himself. The broad, blunt head of his cock pressed against the well-used, tender entrance to her ass. She exhaled, a soft, surrendering sound, and pushed back slightly, an instinctual invitation.
He entered her in one slow, inexorable slide. The feeling was profound, a stretching fullness that was simultaneously a violation and a homecoming. There was no resistance, only a deep, accepting embrace of his girth. He sank into her to the root, his pelvis meeting the full, soft curves of her rear. A low groan escaped him, lost in the crackle of the fire.
He lay behind her, his chest against her back, one arm hooked under her neck, his hand coming to rest possessively on her collarbone. The other hand slid under the hem of the jersey, his palm flattening against the soft swell of her belly. He began to move. Not thrusting, but rocking. A subtle, gentle rotation of his hips that ground his pubic bone against her, shifting his embedded cock inside her channel in slow, delicious circles.
“She’s lying,” Lori murmured, her eyes on the screen. Her voice was a sleepy drone. “I saw the previews. The test results are in his desk.”
Colt’s lips brushed the shell of her ear. “The doctor?” he asked, his own attention drifting to the television. His rocking motion continued, a lazy, persistent rhythm.
“No, the lawyer. The one with the blonde highlights. She’s covering for the husband.” Lori shifted, pressing her ass back against him, seeking more pressure. His hand on her belly slid upward, finding her breast. He took the full weight of it in his palm, his thumb strumming idly over her nipple. It hardened instantly under his touch.
“Makes sense,” Colt said, his voice a rumble in her ear. “He used the corporate funds. She’s scared of losing the house.” His fingers plucked and rolled her nipple, the sensation a bright counterpoint to the deep, grinding fullness in her ass. His hips continued their subtle, circular undulation. It was less like fucking and more like being slowly, lovingly stirred from the inside.
“The house is in her mother’s trust. I looked it up.” Lori’s breath hitched as his grinding found a particularly sweet spot. A shiver raced down her spine. “Oh, right there, baby. Just like that.”
He adjusted his angle minutely, focusing that slow, rotational pressure on the nerve bundle that made her toes curl. On screen, the blonde lawyer burst into tears. “So she’s just an idiot,” Colt observed, his voice laced with a faint amusement that had nothing to do with the show.
“A beautiful, well-dressed idiot,” Lori corrected, a smile in her voice. She reached a hand back, threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close. His rhythm was hypnotic. The fire warmed her front, his body warmed her back, and his cock warmed her core. The domestic scene, the casual critique of bad television, the utter normalcy of it all existed in perfect, perverse harmony with the fact that he was buried to the hilt in her ass.
His hand left her breast, traveled back down the plane of her stomach, and dipped between her legs from the front. His fingers found her clit, slick from her own excitement and the lube that had seeped around the edges of their connection. He rubbed slow, concentric circles that perfectly matched the languid rotation of his hips. Pleasure built not in spikes, but in a steadily rising tide, a warmth that spread from the dual points of contact out to her fingertips.
“He’s… he’s gonna sign the papers next episode,” she managed, her concentration on the plot fracturing. “He can’t… he can’t trust her.”
“Nobody can,” Colt whispered, his breath hot. “Except me. You can always trust me, can’t you, Lori?” His finger pressed harder, his circling becoming more deliberate.
“Yes,” she gasped, her hips beginning to move in tiny, involuntary circles of their own, matching his rhythm. “Always. Only you. Fuck, Colt…”
The dialogue from the television became meaningless noise. The only sounds that mattered were the soft, wet squelch of his cock moving in her ass, the crackle of the fire, and their escalating breaths. The casual analysis was over. The slow grind had stoked a fire that demanded more fuel. His rocking became shorter, harder pumps, his hips snapping forward with more intent, though still restrained by their sideways position.
“Turn over,” he growled, his voice thick.
He pulled out of her, the sudden emptiness a shock of cool air. She rolled onto her back, scooting up so her head was propped on the arm of the sofa. The football jersey was rucked up around her waist. Her legs fell open, knees bent, everything exposed to the firelight and his hungry gaze. Her face was flushed, her lips parted.
He knelt on the floor between her legs, his own need etched in the tense lines of his body. He didn’t re-enter her. Instead, he fisted his cock, which glistened with lube and her internal heat, and began to stroke himself with hard, quick tugs. His eyes were locked on her face.
“Look at you,” he panted. “My perfect, filthy mother. Spread out on the living room couch. You want it?”
“I want it,” she breathed, her eyes wide and fixed on the urgent motion of his hand. “Please. On my face. Mark me again. I need to taste it.”
He needed no further encouragement. He shifted forward, bracing one hand on the couch back above her head. His other hand guided the swollen, purplish head of his cock to her lips. She opened her mouth eagerly, her tongue out, but he didn’t give it to her. He rubbed the slick tip over her lips, painting them with pre-come, then dragged it up over her cheekbones, across her forehead, down the bridge of her nose. It was a claiming, a painter preparing his canvas.
Then he positioned himself directly over her. “Open wide,” he commanded, his voice guttural.
She obeyed, her mouth stretching into an ‘O’. He aimed and let go.
The first jet was a blistering stripe across her tongue and the roof of her mouth. The taste, salty and musky and uniquely his, flooded her senses. The second splashed across her closed eyelids, warm and shocking. She whimpered, a sound of pure want. He kept coming, his body shuddering with the force of it. Thick, pearly ropes lashed her face—her cheeks, her chin, her neck. One heavy glob landed directly on her eyelid and oozed slowly into the corner of her eye, mixing with the tear of pleasure that had escaped. Another spurt landed on her parted lips, and she instinctively flicked her tongue out to catch it.
It was another spectacular, impossible volume. It pooled in the hollows of her eyes, dripped into her hairline, coated her like a second, glistening skin. He milked himself through the last few pulses, a final drip landing on the tip of her nose before he sank back onto his heels, breathing hard.
Lori lay still, breathless, a portrait of absolute devotion. The firelight played over the shimmering, white wash on her face. She carefully opened the eye not sealed shut by semen. She looked up at him, her gaze soft and saturated with love. A slow, sticky blink.
Without a word, Colt reached for the glass of water on the table. He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving her. Then he put the glass down, grabbed the bottle of lube, and slicked himself again. He was still mostly hard, his virility seemingly inexhaustible. He moved forward, his hands sliding under her ass, lifting her hips.
He pushed her knees back toward her shoulders, exposing her completely. The head of his cock nudged past her smeared, wet folds, seeking the tighter, darker entrance it had just vacated. It pressed against her asshole, still loose and puffy from use. With a firm, steady pressure, he pushed back inside.
The re-entry was smoother this time, a homecoming with no pretense of resistance. She groaned, a deep, full-bodied sound of satisfaction as he sheathed himself once more to the hilt. He held himself there, buried deeply, letting them both feel the totality of the connection.
Then he began to fuck her in earnest. Long, slow, deep strokes that withdrew almost completely before plunging back in. The pace was relentless but measured, each inward drive punching a soft ‘umph’ from her lungs. He braced himself over her, his arms caging her head, his eyes watching the flickering expressions on her ruined face. Semen jiggled on her skin with each powerful thrust.
The television droned on. The cliffhanger music played. A new episode was starting.
“So,” Colt breathed, his voice strained with the effort of his controlled thrusts. “The husband’s in a coma.”
Lori’s mind, hazy with pleasure and the smell of her own degradation, struggled to re-engage. She focused on his eyes, on the beloved face hovering above her. “The… the car crash,” she panted, matching his slow, deep rhythm. “He swerved… to avoid the… ah!… the other woman.”
“Right.” He sank deep and ground, making her gasp. “Do you think he’ll wake up?”
“Not… not until February sweeps,” she managed, a delirious laugh bubbling up in her throat, cut short by another deep, filling stroke. “Oh god, baby… that’s so deep…”
He smiled, a dark, possessive smile. He lowered his head and licked a stripe through the drying semen on her cheek, tasting himself on her skin. “Good,” he murmured against her face. “Then we have plenty of time.”
His thrusts continued, a steady, heartbeat rhythm that tied the moment to all the moments before it and to all that were yet to come. The fire burned low. The television provided its inconsequential drama. And in the warm, silent heart of the living room, he held himself deep inside her, a permanent claim in the dark, welcome heat, their story far from its final scene.