That was the plan. Three-day business trip, cheap hotel, late-night drinks with clients. He had even texted Sayuri that morning:
[Will miss you both. Kiss Kenta for me—he better study instead of playing games.]
So when the front door clicked open at 7:42 p.m. on Sunday, Sayuri froze mid-ride.
She was on the living-room couch, sweater rucked up to her neck, bra dangling off one arm, skirt bunched around her waist. Kenta lay beneath her, shirtless, hands gripping his mother's wide hips as she rolled them in slow, greedy circles, her soaked pussy swallowing his cock to the root over and over. The wet slap of their bodies and Sayuri's breathy little "ah-ah-ah"s filled the room.
They both heard the door at the same moment.
Sayuri's eyes went wide. Kenta's cock twitched hard inside her—traitorously excited.
Before either could move, Hiroshi stepped into the living room, loosening his tie.
"Hey, the deal closed early—thought I'd surprise—"
He stopped.
The suitcase slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud.
For three long seconds nobody spoke. The only sound was the obscene squelch as Sayuri instinctively clenched around her son in panic… which only made Kenta groan and buck up into her.
Hiroshi's gaze traveled slowly: his wife's flushed face, her bare breasts bouncing from that tiny movement, the way their son's thick cock disappeared again and again into the pussy he'd thought was only his for sixteen years.
Sayuri tried to speak first. "H-Hiroshi… it's not—"
But her husband's eyes weren't angry.
They were dark. Hungry. His slacks were already tenting.
He closed the door behind him with deliberate calm, locked it, and started unbuttoning his shirt.
"So this is the 'special care' our boy's been getting?" His voice was low, rough with something that wasn't rage. "No wonder he suddenly loves being sick."
Sayuri whimpered—half mortified, half relieved—and tried to lift off Kenta. Her thighs shook; strings of their mixed fluids stretched between them, snapping wetly.
Hiroshi crossed the room in four strides, caught her by the waist, and kept her impaled.
"Don't you dare stop on my account," he growled against her ear, loud enough for Kenta to hear every word. "I've been neglecting my beautiful wife. Looks like our son stepped up. Good boy."
Kenta's hips jerked involuntarily at the praise, driving deeper. Sayuri cried out, head falling back against her husband's shoulder.
Hiroshi's hands slid up to cup her breasts from behind, kneading roughly, rolling her nipples between his fingers until she was squirming on Kenta's cock again.
"Show me," he commanded. "Show Daddy how you cured Kenta's fever."
Sayuri had no willpower left. She started moving again—slow, shamefully eager rolls of her hips—fucking her son while her husband watched and pinched and twisted her nipples until they were dark red and throbbing.
Kenta could only stare up at them, stunned and harder than he'd ever been in his life.
Hiroshi leaned down, kissed his wife's tear-stained cheek, then looked straight at his son.
"Does Mommy's pussy feel good, Kenta?"
Kenta managed a strangled "Y-yes, Dad…"
"Louder."
"It feels incredible," he gasped, thrusting up to meet Sayuri's next downward grind. "So hot… so wet…"
Hiroshi chuckled darkly. He unbuckled his belt, freed his own cock—longer than Kenta's, familiar to Sayuri—and stroked himself lazily.
"Then keep going. Make her come again. I want to watch my family take care of each other."
Sayuri sobbed and sped up, breasts bouncing wildly now, pussy making filthy wet sounds as she chased her orgasm with her husband's blessing. When she came, it was spectacular—back arching, walls clamping down so hard Kenta saw stars, juices squirting around his cock and soaking his stomach.
Hiroshi didn't let her rest.
He pulled her off Kenta with gentle but firm hands, turned her around, and pushed her down onto all fours—face inches from her son's glistening cock.
"Clean him up, sweetheart," he murmured, lining himself up behind her. "Taste what you two made together."
Sayuri obeyed instantly, mouth descending on Kenta's cock with a desperate moan. She licked and sucked greedily, swallowing their mixed release while her husband slid into her from behind in one smooth thrust.
The room filled with the sounds of a family finally, completely honest: Sayuri's muffled whimpers around her son's cock, Hiroshi's low groans as he fucked his wife deep and steady, Kenta's broken curses as his mother's tongue swirled around the head.
Minutes blurred.
Hiroshi pulled out, slick with Sayuri's arousal, and tapped Kenta's thigh.
"Your turn again, son. She's dripping for it."
They moved her like a cherished doll—Hiroshi lying back on the couch, pulling Sayuri to straddle him reverse cowgirl so Kenta could watch his father's cock disappear into the pussy he'd just been inside. Then Kenta knelt in front of her, feeding his cock back into her eager mouth while Hiroshi thrust up into her from below.
Sayuri was lost between them, coming over and over, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaming down her cheeks.
Finally Hiroshi gripped her hips hard.
"Together," he panted. "Fill her from both ends."
Kenta groaned at the words. Sayuri sucked him harder, hollowing her cheeks.
Hiroshi came first—deep, pulsing spurts that flooded her womb, leaking out around his shaft. The feeling triggered Kenta; he pulled out just enough to paint his mother's tongue and lips with thick ropes of cum while she swallowed what she could, the rest dripping down her chin onto her heaving breasts.
They collapsed in a sweaty, trembling pile—Sayuri cradled between husband and son, both men still half-hard and curled protectively around her.
After a long silence, Hiroshi kissed his wife's temple, then his son's forehead.
"From now on," he said quietly, "whenever anyone in this house feels 'sick'… we all take care of it together. Understood?"
Sayuri let out a watery laugh and nodded, pressing kisses to both of them.
Kenta—still dazed, cock already twitching against his mother's thigh—just whispered, "Yes, Dad."
Outside, the night settled quiet and ordinary.
Inside, the family bed suddenly felt very, very small for three.