Chapter 13

I surface slowly, dragged out of sleep by that warm, wet pressure I’m starting to know better than my alarm clock. Mom’s mouth on me, steady and sure, coaxing me awake one lazy stroke at a time. I swear I’ll never get tired of this. Not in a million years. Best alarm clock on the planet.

I keep my eyes closed, letting the sensation build, letting consciousness seep in around the edges like light through blinds. But something’s ... off. Not bad off. Just different. The rhythm is more mechanical than the last few mornings, dutiful, almost, instead of that slow, worshipful thing Mom does where she makes it feel like she’s savoring every inch. And there’s a hand wrapped around the base of my shaft, pumping in time with her mouth, which Mom hasn’t needed to do since she figured out how to take me all the way down.

Then I feel someone nuzzle against my neck from the right side. Soft lips trace my jaw. A tongue flicks warm and slow against my earlobe.

My eyes snap open.

Mom is right there, curled against my side, her light brown hair mussed from sleep, a lazy smile spreading across her face. Morning light from the window catches the soft lines around her eyes.

“Good morning, handsome,” she murmurs.

I look down.

Jess pulls her mouth off my cock with a wet pop, lips swollen and shiny, her green eyes flicking up at me through a curtain of messy brown hair. She grins.

“Mornin’, big bro.”

Then she dips right back down, her tongue swirling around the head before she takes me back into her mouth.

“Damn,” I say, letting my head drop back against the pillow. “Can’t believe Jess beat you to my dick. Her lazy ass is normally sleeping in till noon.”

Jess pulls off again, indignant. “Hey, I’ll have you know—”

I reach down and shove her head back onto my cock.

She giggles around me, the vibration buzzing through my shaft and up into my gut. Then she settles in and gets back to work, bobbing steadily, her fist working the lower half where her mouth can’t reach.

Mom traces a finger along my collarbone. “She really wanted your first load of the day,” she says, like she’s explaining why she let Jess pick the restaurant. “So I let her have it this time.”

This time. Like they negotiated. Like there was a whole conversation about it while I was unconscious. I file that away and decide not to think too hard about it right now, because Jess is doing this thing where she twists her wrist on the upstroke and it’s making it very difficult to think about anything.

I turn to Mom instead, cup her jaw, and pull her mouth to mine. She melts into the kiss instantly, her lips parting, and I take my time exploring her mouth, running my tongue along the edges of her teeth, sucking gently on her lower lip, tasting the faint staleness of sleep that somehow doesn’t bother me at all. My free hand finds her breast, full and heavy and warm, and I knead it slowly, rolling her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. She sighs into my mouth.

Jess keeps working below, steady and eager if not exactly skilled, while I lose myself in kissing Mom. Her nipples harden under my fingers, stiffening into tight little peaks, and I break the kiss.

“Scoot up,” I tell her.

She knows what I want. She shifts up on the pillow, angling her chest toward me, and I latch onto her left nipple, sucking it into my mouth while palming the other breast. The sound Mom makes, this breathy, trembling moan, goes straight through me.

“Chris,” she whispers, threading her fingers into my hair. “Oh, Chris...”

I alternate between her nipples, tonguing and sucking, feeling them swell harder against my lips. I reach my right hand down between her thighs and find her already wet. My fingers slide through the slick heat of her, finding her clit, and I rub slow circles while I keep my mouth on her tits.

It doesn’t take long. Mom’s hips start rocking against my hand, her breathing goes ragged, and then she shudders against me, clenching around nothing, my name spilling out of her in a long, quivering exhale.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes when she comes back down, pressing her lips to my temple. “What a wonderful son you are.”

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. We’ve been at this a while.

“Jess.” I look down at her. She peers up at me, cheeks hollowed around my shaft. “You need to start deep throating me or we’re gonna be here all day.”

She pulls off, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. “I tried earlier this morning,” she says, and there’s genuine frustration in her voice. “Before you woke up. My mouth is too sore from last night.”

I think about last night, Mom grabbing Jess’s hair, forcing her down on my cock over and over while she learned to relax her throat. Yeah. That tracks.

“Then why’d you insist on being the one to blow me this morning?”

She whines, actually whines, like a kid told she can’t have dessert. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this for sooo long, okay? I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Something about the raw honesty of it catches me off guard. The bratty delivery, sure, that’s pure Jess. But underneath it there’s this naked sincerity that makes my chest tighten for a second.

“Okay,” I say. “But I’m showering with Mom this morning, then.”

Jess’s face does this thing where three different emotions fight for control. She glances at Mom, then back at my cock, then back at me. Whatever internal math she’s doing, greed apparently wins, because she nods once and dives back down.

She picks up the pace this time, both hands and her mouth working in concert. Her head bobs faster, sloppy and enthusiastic, spit running down my shaft and pooling where her fist grips me. She’s really going for it now, trying to make me cum on effort alone since she can’t take me deep.

It strikes me, lying here with my sister’s mouth on my cock and my mother curled against my side: three days ago, we were arguing over whose turn it was to do the dishes. Now we’re negotiating who gets to blow me in the morning.

I let my head fall back into the pillow and just enjoy it. Mom nestles closer, her bare skin warm against mine, and her tongue finds my ear again, soft, slow, deliberate licks along the outer ridge before dipping inside. I shiver. Never once in my life thought of my ear as an erogenous zone, but holy shit, it’s sending electric tingles racing up and down my spine, meeting the heat building in my core from both directions.

Jess moans around me, the vibration pushing me closer. Mom breathes hot against my ear, her tongue tracing the same maddening path. My hips start to lift off the mattress.

“Jess,” I manage, and that’s all the warning she gets.

I cum hard, pulsing into her mouth, and she takes every drop, swallowing greedily, her throat working, her lips sealed tight around my shaft so nothing escapes. She keeps sucking through the aftershocks, milking me until I’m twitching and oversensitive, and only then does she pull off with a satisfied gasp.

She licks her lips. Grins up at me.

Jess scooches over on the mattress and flops onto her back, chest rising and falling, a sly little grin spreading across her flushed face. She drags a stray strand of cum from her chin with one finger and pops it into her mouth like it’s frosting off a cupcake. Triumphant to the very end.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and reach back for Mom’s hand, pulling her gently to her feet. She comes up warm and soft against me, squeezing my fingers.

My body still aches (calves, thighs, lower back, basically everywhere) but it’s duller now, more like the echo of soreness than the real thing. A week of nonstop physical activity I never trained for. My muscles are either adapting or giving up on complaining.

“Come on,” I say, and lead Mom toward her attached bathroom.

I honestly haven’t been in here since the day we moved in and hauled boxes through every room. It’s the same cramped layout as the bathroom Jess and I share (cracked tile, rust-stained sink, shower-tub combo with a curtain that’s seen better decades). The only thing that makes it the “master bath” is the fact that it opens off Mom’s bedroom instead of the hallway. Luxury.

Mom steps past me and leans into the tub to adjust the water. And I just stop. Stand there and admire. The way her back curves down to that narrow waist, then flares into her hips, her ass round and full as she bends forward. She’s thirty-eight and she looks like this. It’s almost unfair.

The pipes groan, then hot water hisses against porcelain. Steam starts curling up. She tests the temperature with her wrist, nods, and pulls the diverter. The showerhead sputters to life.

We step in together and the warm spray hits my chest, loosening some of the ache in my shoulders. Mom reaches for the bar of soap and works up a lather between her palms, then presses them flat against my stomach. Her hands slide up my ribs, across my chest, slow and deliberate, soap suds trailing behind her fingers.

I take the bar from her and do the same. Run my slick palms over her shoulders, down her arms, then across her collarbones to her breasts. God, her breasts. I’ll never get tired of Jess’s tight little body (the way everything on her is firm and compact and perfectly tight) but Mom is something else entirely. Softer. Curvier. Her waist is still small, her stomach still flat, but her tits are heavy and full in my hands, and her hips and ass have this shape to them that just begs to be grabbed. Two completely different women, two completely different kinds of beautiful, and somehow they’re both mine.

My hands linger on her, soaping her breasts, her stomach, her hips. She hums and leans back into me.

It hits me that this shower is way too small for three people. There’s barely room for two (my elbow keeps bumping the curtain and the showerhead is angled so only one of us is really getting the water at a time). If all three of us tried to fit in here, someone would end up with a faucet handle in their spine. Which means every morning I’ll have to choose: shower with Mom, or shower with Jess.

Just one more reason it’s better to be rich. A bigger house, a bigger shower, and I wouldn’t have to pick. Maybe a walk-in with dual showerheads and a bench. The kind of bathroom you see in movies about people who actually have money.

I snap out of it. We don’t have time for fantasies about real estate.

I put my hands on Mom’s hips and guide her forward, bending her at the waist. She knows exactly what I want. Her palms press flat against the tile wall and she arches her back, wiggling her ass at me with this little look over her shoulder (half invitation, half dare).

I line myself up and ease into her from behind. Slow. Feeling every inch of her stretch around me, wet and hot and tight in a way that makes my breath catch. Once I’m all the way in I reach around and cup both her breasts, pulling her back against me, fingers sinking into that soft flesh.

I start moving. Slow, deep strokes. In and out.

Our moans bounce off the tile walls and the small space amplifies everything (her gasps, the wet slap of skin, the spray of water hitting my back). It sounds louder than it is, like the shower is its own little echo chamber built specifically for this.

I could do this all day. Just stay inside her, unhurried, savoring every squeeze and shudder. But we’ve got school, and Mom has work.

I pick up the pace. Grip her breasts tighter. Drive into her harder, faster, until she’s bracing both arms against the wall to keep from being pushed into it.

“Oh God, oh baby, you’re such a, such a stud.”

Her pussy flutters around me, clenching in rhythmic pulses, and she cries out as she comes on my cock. I don’t stop. I keep fucking her right through it, feeling her legs tremble, hearing her moans climb higher.

“Tell me,” I pant, my fingers digging into her hips now. “Whose pussy am I fucking?”

No hesitation. Not even a heartbeat of pause.

“Yours,” she gasps. “This pussy is all yours, baby. It’s yours, oh God, it’s all yours.”

Something about hearing her say it (the absolute certainty in her voice, the surrender) sends me over the edge. I slam deep and come with a roar that echoes off every tile in this tiny bathroom, flooding her with a load so big I can feel it pulsing out of me in waves. My fingers are white-knuckled on her hips and my vision blurs and all I can think is mine.

My pussy. My mom.

I stay buried in her for a long moment, both of us breathing hard under the warm spray, steam swirling around us. Her walls are still twitching around me, milking out the last of it.

God, what a thought. Knowing I own this. Knowing she wants me to own it.

I press a kiss between her shoulder blades and feel her shiver.

We rinse the last of the soap away, standing under the spray until the water runs clear. Mom leans into me, her cheek against my chest, and I let us stay like that for a few extra seconds before reaching past her to shut the faucet off. The pipes groan in the wall the way they always do.

I grab the towel off the hook and dry her first — shoulders, back, the curve of her waist — because it feels right and because the way she hums when I do it makes something warm settle in my chest. She takes the towel from me when I’m done and returns the favor, patting my arms and torso gently, careful around the spots where my muscles are still sore. When she hands it back, her fingers linger on mine.

“Go get dressed, baby,” she says softly. “You’ll be late.”

I wrap the towel around my waist and step out of her bathroom into the bedroom. The sheets are tangled from all three of us, and Jess is already gone. I can hear the pipes rattling again from down the hall — our shared bathroom this time. I pad across the hallway in bare feet, and sure enough, behind the door with the chipped paint, the shower’s running and Jess is humming something off-key.

My hand hovers over the doorknob. The mental image arrives uninvited — Jess under the water, head tilted back, steam curling around her — and my cock twitches against my thigh like it has a vote. Which, lately, it kind of does.

But no. There’s no time. If I go in there, we both know how it ends, and then we’re both late, and then Guber has another reason to make my life miserable.

I pull my hand back and keep walking to my room.

The blue button-up Regina bought me is hanging on the back of my desk chair where I left it. I pull on boxers, then the slim-fit navy chinos, then the shirt. The fabric still feels expensive against my skin — nicer than anything I’ve ever owned. I catch my reflection in the small mirror above my dresser and barely recognize myself. Not bad, actually. The shirt fits my shoulders in a way my old clothes never did.