Chapter 11: The Marathon Weekend

Dad’s Uber vanished around the corner at six-fifteen on Friday morning, taillights swallowed by the quiet suburban street. The house exhaled the moment his car disappeared—every creak of the floorboards suddenly ours alone for forty-eight unbroken hours. Lauren stood barefoot in the foyer wearing nothing but an oversized white button-down she’d stolen from his closet, the hem skimming the tops of her thighs. Her dark waves fell loose and wild, still damp from the quick shower she’d taken the second his suitcase rolled out the door.

“But the thought of it ... the thought of you actually putting a baby in me...” She stepped forward, pressing the plastic stick to my chest. “We’re going to fuck like it’s real. Every room. Every kink. No brakes until he lands Sunday night.”

I didn’t answer with words. I simply lifted her, carried her straight to the living room, and set her on the original Peloton. The second bike waited beside it like a silent partner in crime, both saddles already fitted with the thick, veined attachments (the one we had shipped home from the resort after the vacation). She swung a leg over, sank down until the toy disappeared inside her, and started pedaling slow. I dropped to my knees behind her, spread those toned cheeks, and buried my tongue in the tight ring of her ass while the dildo worked her pussy in steady rhythm. The dual vibration traveled straight through her body into my mouth—warm, slick, addictive. She tasted of clean skin and the faint musk of overnight need, her hips rolling back to meet every swirl of my tongue.

“Deeper,” she breathed, voice already fracturing. “Eat Mommy’s ass while I ride.” I pushed inside, tongue fucking her in time with the pedals, hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave faint prints. The garage door stayed half-open from last night’s risk; morning breeze carried distant lawnmowers and the possibility of eyes, but we didn’t care. She came first with a broken moan that echoed off the concrete, thighs quaking, juices dripping down the toy onto my chin.

We didn’t stop. She climbed off, legs unsteady, and led me to the kitchen still wearing the open shirt. “Cook naked,” she ordered, voice thick. The remote egg was already nestled inside her again. I set the app to a pulsing rhythm while she bent over the island making coffee, ass presented. I took her from behind—deep, measured strokes—while the egg buzzed against my shaft through her walls. Spanking landed sharp and rhythmic, each crack leaving rosy blooms across her cheeks as she stirred creamer with trembling hands. Tit-fucking came next: she turned, dropped to her knees, and pressed my length between her full breasts, the shirt hanging open like a frame. I thrust through the warm, soft valley while she licked the head on every upstroke, eyes locked on mine.