Chapter 8: Video Night & Squirting

The Thursday after the lingerie night still hummed with the faint echo of Dad’s game blaring downstairs, but this time the house felt different—charged, like the air itself knew what was coming. I slipped into the master bedroom first, boxers already tented, pulse thrumming in my throat and my cock at the thought of whatever new lesson she had planned. The black lace teddy she’d left with me the week before was tucked safely in my drawer, a secret reminder of how her ass had reddened under my palm and how her pussy had clenched around me while I marked her. But tonight felt bigger. Riskier. Permanent.

Laura stepped in a minute later, closing the door with that soft, decisive click that always sent electricity racing up my spine. She wore nothing but the black sports bra from her runs—the same one that had haunted my hidden folder for years—and a tiny pair of boy-short panties that barely covered the curve of her firm ass. Her hair was in a loose ponytail, strands already sticking to her neck from the warm evening air, and her skin carried that fresh, clean-vanilla glow she always had after a quick shower. No makeup, just raw, athletic beauty: the faint tan lines framing her C-cups, the subtle flex of her runner’s stomach, the powerful thighs that could pin me down without effort. She held her phone in one hand and a small black tripod in the other, her lips curved in that calm, knowing smile that made my balls tighten.

“Tonight we’re making something we can watch whenever we miss each other, baby,” she murmured, voice low and maternal, already laced with heat. She set the tripod on the nightstand, angled the phone perfectly toward the center of the big king bed, and hit record. The little red light blinked on like a warning and a promise all at once. My cock jerked hard against the cotton of my boxers. “Smile for the camera, Ethan. Show it how hard you get for Mommy.”

I stripped the boxers off without being told, letting my shaft spring free, already leaking a clear bead at the tip. She peeled the panties down her toned legs slowly, stepping out of them and kicking them aside so the camera caught every inch of her smooth, shaved lips—already glistening, puffy and ready. The sports bra stayed on, the fabric stretched tight across her breasts, nipples sharp little points pushing against the material. She climbed onto the bed, patted the spot in front of her, and pulled me down onto my back.

“Eyes on the lens, baby,” she whispered, straddling my hips in one fluid motion. Her strong thighs framed me, warm and smooth, the faint scent of her post-shower lotion mixing with the richer musk of her arousal. She reached down, wrapped her fingers around my cock, and rubbed the swollen head up and down her slick folds, letting the camera see everything—the way her lips parted around me, the shiny trail of her wetness coating my shaft. “Watch Mommy take what’s hers.”