Chapter 4

I’m late.

That’s the only thought in my head, sharp and bright and real — I’m late — and my sneakers are slapping against linoleum that stretches out longer than any hallway should. Lockers blur past on both sides, numbers I can’t read, and the bell is already ringing, except it sounds like it’s coming from underwater. Muffled. Far away and close at the same time.

I find the classroom. I don’t remember which number it is or how I got here, but I’m through the door and sliding into a desk in the back row. Rows of heads in front of me. Nobody turns around. The teacher is writing something on the whiteboard but the marker doesn’t seem to be leaving any marks.

I look down and my stomach drops.

I’m not wearing anything. No shirt, no pants, no boxers. Just skin and the hard plastic edge of the desk chair pressing against my bare thighs. I was so rushed this morning. I just forgot. That’s all. I just forgot to get dressed.

I glance around. Nobody’s looking at me. A girl two seats up is chewing the end of her pencil. A guy by the window is asleep with his chin on his fist. The teacher keeps writing invisible words. Nobody cares. Nobody notices.

Okay. Okay, I can get through this. Just get through the day.

I pull the textbook open. The pages are heavy and cool under my fingers. I try to read the first line but the letters slide sideways, rearranging themselves into words that almost make sense and then don’t. I blink and try again. The sentence reforms and scatters. I turn the page and it’s the same thing — language that keeps slipping just out of reach, like trying to hold water.

Something brushes my leg.

Warm and soft, pushing against my calf. I look down and it’s Buffy, her golden fur catching light that doesn’t seem to have a source. She’s bigger than I remember. Her tail is wagging in slow sweeps behind her, tongue out, brown eyes looking up at me the way she always did. My chest goes tight with something good and aching.

“Buffy,” I whisper, and my voice sounds like it’s traveling through cotton. “Hey, girl.”

I haven’t seen her in years. She nudges her wet nose against my knee and I reach down to scratch behind her ears, feeling the silk of her fur between my fingers. She pushes forward, sniffing, her nose pressing between my legs, and I go to push her head away gently --

But it’s not Buffy anymore.

It’s a woman. Kneeling between my legs, her hands on my thighs. The classroom is empty now. Every desk vacant. The whiteboard blank. Just me and her and the muted hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

She leans forward and her mouth is on me — warm and wet and slow — and I try to see her face but it keeps shifting, blurring at the edges like a photograph left in the rain. Brown hair, maybe. Or lighter. Her eyes flick up to mine and they’re a color I can’t hold onto. I reach for her, try to focus, try to look, but every time I almost see her she slides out of clarity again. Just a mouth. Just warmth. Just the soft muted sound of --

The dream frays at the edges first. The faceless teacher, the empty classroom, the letters sliding off the whiteboard—all of it dissolving like smoke, replaced by something warm and wet and very, very real.

My hips shift on the mattress before my brain catches up.

Someone is sucking my dick.

I groan, low and rough, still half-tangled in sleep. My fingers curl into the sheet beneath me. The mouth around me is slow, deliberate—lips sealed tight, tongue working the underside in long strokes that send heat spiraling up through my stomach. It’s not frantic. It’s not greedy. It’s patient and deep and absolutely fucking incredible.

“Jess,” I mumble, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep. “God, that feels good.”

She doesn’t answer. Just sucks harder.

The pressure in my cock builds in a slow wave, throbbing against the swelling that hasn’t gone down since Friday. Her mouth glides lower. Lower than she’s gone before. I can feel the head pressing past the tight ring of her throat, and she doesn’t gag, doesn’t pull back—just keeps easing down, inch by inch, her lips stretching around the thickness of me like she’s been practicing this in her sleep.

My back arches off the mattress.

She’s past the halfway point now. The wet heat of her throat clenches around me and I make a sound I’ve never made before—something broken and grateful and barely human. Her hands are braced on my thighs, and she’s moving so slowly it’s almost cruel, every millimeter deliberate, like she’s memorizing the shape of me.

This is the best blowjob she’s ever given. It’s not just technique—it’s the care behind it. Like she’s trying to make love to my dick with her mouth. Every movement says I want to do this. I want to make you feel this.

And then her lips touch the base.

My eyes fly open.

Holy shit. She just took the whole thing. Every swollen inch, all the way down, her nose pressed against my skin, and she’s holding there, throat working around me in these soft rhythmic pulses that make my vision blur.

Morning light cuts through the window in pale slats across the mattress. I look down.

Light brown hair. Not dark brown. Light brown, sleep-mussed and falling across my thighs in soft waves, not pulled back in a ponytail.

It’s not Jess.

My mom’s brown eyes lift to meet mine, and even with her lips stretched around the base of my cock, even with her cheeks hollowed and flushed pink—she smiles. Or does the best version of a smile she can manage with her mouth that full. The corners of her eyes crinkle, warm and soft, and something passes between us that I don’t have a word for yet. Something that says good morning and I wanted to and let me take care of you all at once.

Then her focus drops back to what she’s doing, and I stop thinking entirely.

She pulls up. Slowly. Her lips drag along the full length of me, creating this insane vacuum seal that makes my toes curl against the sheet. All the way up to the head, tongue swirling once around the tip, cheeks hollowed so tight the suction is almost unbearable. Then back down. Slow. Relaxing her throat, letting me slide deep, deeper, all the way to the root where her lips seal around the base again.

All the way up. All the way down.

Suction on the way up. Soft and open on the way down.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

I’m moaning loud enough that I’d be embarrassed if I had any brain cells left to feel embarrassment with. My hand finds her hair—not grabbing, not pushing, just resting there, fingers threaded through the light brown strands while she works me with this slow relentless rhythm that’s turning my entire body into a live wire.

“Mom,” I manage, and my voice cracks on the word. “Mom, I’m—I’m gonna—”

Her only response is to pick up the pace.

The vacuum tightens. Her head bobs faster, each stroke pulling me closer to the edge, and I’m gripping the sheet with my free hand, knuckles white, every muscle in my body coiling—

Right at the point of no return she plunges all the way down and holds.

Her throat contracts around me. Not just the passive clenching from before—active, deliberate, her muscles squeezing and releasing in rapid pulses like she’s swallowing, and the sensation is so intense my vision whites out.

The first jet hits the back of her throat and she takes it. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull back. Just swallows. Another pulse, another jet, and she gulps that down too—I can feel her throat working around me, milking every rope of cum straight down while I’m arching off the mattress making sounds that aren’t words anymore.

It keeps going. Jet after jet, my cock twitching deep in her throat, and she keeps swallowing, keeps taking it, patient and steady and thorough until I’m empty. Until there’s nothing left.

I slump back against the mattress. My whole body feels like it’s been poured out through my dick. Every muscle unclenches at once and I sink into the pillow, chest heaving, staring at the hairline crack in the ceiling.

Mom pulls up slowly. Her lips slide along the softening—well, less hard, it never actually softens—length of me until just the head is in her mouth. She sucks gently, her tongue lapping at the tip in these small careful strokes, collecting the last traces of cum. Cleaning me. Taking care of me.

I lie there panting. Too stunned to form a complete sentence. Too drained to move.

“Wow,” I finally manage.

She hums around the head of my cock, and even that small vibration makes my whole body twitch.

The door cracks open and Jess pokes her head in, green eyes sweeping the scene—Mom kneeling between my legs on the mattress, her lips still wrapped around the tip of me, my chest rising and falling like I just ran a mile.

“Ahh,” Jess says, and her face falls into this expression of genuine betrayal. “I wanted to give you morning head.”

Mom pulls off with a soft wet sound but doesn’t turn around. Just rests her cheek against my thigh, looking thoroughly pleased with herself.

“Promise me I can do it tomorrow,” Jess says, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. Her green eyes are bright and sharp and already scheming.

I consider it for approximately half a second. “No.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not mount me while I’m too sleepy to stop you.”

Her mouth drops open. Then it closes. Then the corner twitches, and she breaks into a grin that confirms everything I just said.

“Damn you,” she says, giggling. “How do you know my plans?”

For the first time since waking up, I actually look at them.

Really look.

Mom is kneeling between my legs in nothing but a thin satin robe--except she’s bunched it up around her waist at some point, which means everything above her hips is just ... out. Her breasts hang full and heavy, soft pink nipples still tight from whatever combination of cold air and arousal has been running through her for the last however many minutes. Her light brown hair is sleep-mussed, falling in messy waves across her bare shoulders. She looks like a painting someone would hang in a museum and then immediately remove because it made the security guards uncomfortable.

And Jess. Jess is leaning against the doorframe in a pair of skimpy panties and absolutely nothing else. Arms still crossed under her bare chest, green eyes bright with that scheming energy she never turns off, brown hair a tangle from last night’s shower that she clearly didn’t bother brushing before bed. The morning light from the window catches the faint tan lines across her breasts and the muscle definition in her stomach, and she looks like she belongs on the cover of something I’d have hidden under my mattress six months ago.

And the thing that hits me--the thing that actually stops my brain for a second--is that I didn’t notice any of this until right now.

The entire conversation. Mom deepthroating me into next week. Jess bargaining for tomorrow’s slot like she’s negotiating a trade deal. Me refusing her, predicting her plan, watching her laugh about it. All of that happened while two essentially naked women stood in my bedroom, and my brain just ... filed it under normal. Background noise. Like the hum of the fridge downstairs or the creak of the house settling at night.

When did this become wallpaper?

I stare at the crack in my ceiling--that thin hairline fracture running from the light fixture to the corner--and something cold and clear moves through the fog of post-orgasm bliss. This is going to be an everyday thing. Every morning. Two beautiful women, barely dressed, competing for access to me like I’m the last charger in an airport terminal. Unless I do something to stop it.

Do I want to stop it?

The answer comes faster than I expect, and it’s not the one the old Chris would have given. The old Chris would have spiraled into seventeen layers of guilt and moral inventory and ended up paralyzed on this mattress until someone physically dragged him to school. The new Chris--the one who tied his sister’s wrists with kitchen twine yesterday and spanked her until she cried and then directed both of them through the most intense sexual experience of his life--the new Chris just lets the question sit there, looks at it honestly, and thinks: No. I don’t.

“Hey, dummy. Ya gonna answer me?”

I blink. Jess has pushed off the doorframe and taken a step into the room, head tilted, one eyebrow arched.

“Oh. Sorry.” I shake my head. “Was zoned out.”

“Yeah, no shit.” She rolls her eyes. “I was asking if one blowjob is enough before we head to school. Because it looks to me like you could use one more.”

I glance down.

She’s right. Despite the epic, earth-shattering, swallow-every-drop performance Mom just delivered--the kind of blowjob that should have put me into a medically induced coma--my cock is already thickening again. Not fully hard yet, but getting there. The swelling from the venom hasn’t gone down at all. If anything, it looks bigger than yesterday, the skin flushed and tight, veins prominent along the shaft. It doesn’t hurt exactly, but there’s a pressure behind it, a heaviness that won’t go away. Like my body is operating on some schedule I didn’t agree to.

I check the clock on the floor beside my mattress. The numbers glow back at me, indifferent and absolute.

We can’t spend all morning in bed. Even though the idea of staying right here with both of them sounds approximately ten thousand times better than walking into a new high school where I don’t know a single person and every woman in a fifty-foot radius is going to start acting like Emily did in that clinic waiting room.

But the clock doesn’t care what I want.

“Tell you what,” I say, swinging my legs off the mattress and standing. The hardwood floor is cool against my bare feet. “How about you blow me in the shower while we’re getting ready.”

The sound Jess makes is not human.

“REALLY?!”

Her entire body changes. The calculated lean, the crossed arms, the careful cool--all of it vanishes in a single instant, replaced by something so genuine and unguarded it almost makes me laugh. Her green eyes go wide, her mouth drops open, and for exactly one second she looks like a kid who just got told Christmas is happening twice this year.

Then she’s moving.

Before I can reconsider, before I can attach a single condition or caveat, Jess hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, shoves them down her thighs, and steps out of them in one fluid motion. She’s across the hallway in three steps, bare feet slapping against the hardwood, completely naked and not caring even a little bit.