Silver Routine
Copyright© 2026 by Ring of Seed
Chapter 6
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 6 - Graham was Ian’s cousin. Salt-and-pepper, charming, properly hairy. The kind of older man who should have stayed safely in family photos. Instead he ended up on his knees in the hallway, mouth open, throat working, every morning. A quiet, permanent, irreversible routine. The older man who fell under charm never got up again. He simply grew older inside the shape made for him. Family to the end.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Consensual Gay Fiction Anal Sex Oral Sex
Years pass in the quiet, inevitable way that makes obsession feel like breathing. Ian and I settle into married life in our Edinburgh flat overlooking the Water of Leith. Graham remains in his own house on the western edge, the same one where I first took him. The distance is short enough for routine, long enough to keep the secret sharp.
Ian knows. Not the full extent, not the wedding-day breeding in the function room, not the handkerchief soaked through during the vows, not the way Graham still carries phantom fullness from that day whenever he sits too long. But he knows enough. One evening, after a family dinner where Graham’s eyes lingered on me a fraction too long, Ian simply said, “He’s happier when he’s around us. Less alone. I don’t mind.”
He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need to. Graham is his cousin, his family, and family looks after each other. Ian sees the way Graham lights up when I text him to come over, the way he arrives with a bottle of wine or a homemade casserole, the way he quietly tidies the kitchen after dinner while Ian and I sit on the sofa. Ian sees it as kindness. I see it as submission.
When Ian is at work, or away on a conference, or even just out for a long run, Graham slips into the flat like he has always belonged there. The routine is effortless now. He arrives mid-morning with a paper bag of fresh rolls from the bakery on Raeburn Place, sets them on the counter, then waits. I don’t have to ask. He drops to his knees in the hallway, mouth open, eyes soft and grateful. I feed him slowly, letting him savour the taste he’s come to crave more than food. Sometimes I bend him over the kitchen island, trousers at his ankles, and breed him while the kettle boils. Sometimes I take him to our bed, the one Ian and I share, and fill him until the sheets are ruined and he’s trembling with the knowledge that he’s leaking my cum into the same space where his cousin sleeps.
He acts like a proper wifey. He irons my shirts while I read the paper. He cooks supper for when Ian gets home, always something hearty, always with extra portions so there’s enough for him to stay. He folds laundry with careful hands, stacking my underwear on top of Ian’s, the scent of my cock still clinging to the fabric from the night before. When Ian walks in he greets him with a warm hug, a kiss on the cheek, then retreats to the kitchen to serve. Ian smiles, thanks him, never suspects that Graham’s hole is still puffy and slick from the load I left in him an hour earlier.
Graham has learned to speak in whispers now. When Ian is in the next room he’ll lean close, breath hot against my ear:
“I’m full of you again. Right under his nose. Your cum in your husband’s cousin’s hole. Family.”
I’ll slide a hand under his shirt, pinch a nipple, feel him shiver.
“Keep it in. Let it leak while you pour the wine. Let it remind you who owns you.”
He nods, eyes glassy, and does exactly that.
The routine is where the truth lives. The moments Ian steps out to answer the phone, or goes to the loo, or falls asleep on the sofa after too much red wine. That’s when Graham crawls to me on the floor, silent, hungry, mouth already open. That’s when I breed him on the living-room rug, slow and deep, whispering:
“This is your life now. My wifey. My secret. My family hole. Every time you cook for us, every time you fold our clothes, every time you sit across from him at dinner, you’ll feel me inside you. You’ll feel how deep I’ve gone. How permanent it is.”
Graham comes untouched sometimes, just from the words, just from the weight of acceptance. He cries quietly afterward, tears of gratitude, tears of surrender, tears of the man who has finally stopped fighting what he was always meant to be.
One Sunday, after Ian has gone to bed early, Graham kneels between my legs on the sofa, mouth working me slow and reverent. He pulls off just long enough to murmur:
“I’m happy. Truly happy. I used to think I was alone. Now I have this. I have you. I have him. I have your seed inside me every day. I’m not empty anymore.”
I cup his face, thumb wiping the tear track down his cheek.
“You’re not. You’re full. You’re mine. You’re family.”
He smiles, small and broken and perfect, then takes me deep again. I come down his throat while Ian sleeps in the next room. Graham swallows every drop, then rests his head on my thigh, breathing steady, content.