We lost track of days the way people lose track of breaths when they're drowning in pleasure.
By the third morning of her ten-day stay, the apartment no longer felt like the place I shared with Aiko. It smelled only of Mom's skin, of sex, of the faint almond oil she rubbed into her breasts every night so they stayed glossy and begging for my mouth. The sheets were ruined. The sofa bore permanent stains. Even the kitchen counter had a faint imprint of her hip bones where I'd taken her while the rice burned.
We had rules now, unspoken but ironclad:
1. No clothes unless the delivery intercom rang.
2. My cock stayed inside her as often as physics allowed.
3. Every orgasm belonged to both of us; no one came alone.
She woke me that morning the way she had every morning since she arrived: straddling my face, thighs trembling, already soaked.
"Breakfast," she whispered, lowering her dripping pussy onto my tongue.
I ate her slowly, reverently, hands gripping the lush weight of her ass while she rocked against my mouth. Her breasts hung heavy above me, swaying with every roll of her hips. I reached up and filled my palms with them, thumbs flicking her nipples until she shuddered and flooded my tongue with her first climax of the day.
She didn't let me up for air until she'd come twice more, the second time grinding so hard I saw stars.
Only then did she slide down my body, line me up, and sink onto my cock with a sigh that sounded like coming home.
We stayed like that for hours: her riding me slow, my mouth never leaving her breasts. I sucked and bit and worshipped those glorious tits until her nipples were dark red and so sensitive she sobbed every time my tongue brushed them. When she finally came again, it was with my name muffled against my shoulder and my cock buried to the hilt, pulsing another load deep inside her.
Later, she stood at the window naked, sunlight pouring over her curves like liquid gold. I watched from the bed, stroking myself lazily, cum still dripping from her swollen pussy onto the hardwood.
"I want to mark every room," she said without turning. "I want to bend over every surface and remember exactly how you felt inside me when I'm back on the farm milking cows at 5 a.m."
I crossed the room, pressed against her back, and slid into her from behind while she braced her palms on the glass. Tokyo sprawled beneath us, oblivious.
"Then let's start here," I growled, and fucked her against the window until her breasts left foggy prints on the pane and her cries echoed down the high-rise canyon.
That afternoon we showered only to end up on the bathroom floor, her legs over my shoulders, my tongue buried in her while water drummed on my back. I made her come so many times she begged, actually begged, for my cock instead.
I gave it to her on the bathmat, slow and deep, watching her tits bounce with every thrust until we were both shaking.
Night fell. We hadn't eaten anything but each other.
She lay on her stomach across the bed, ass slightly raised, thighs slick and shining. I drizzled warm oil between her shoulder blades and watched it run down the curve of her spine, over the dimples above her ass, into the cleft where I was already buried again.
I took her like that: slow, possessive strokes, hands kneading her breasts from underneath, pinching her nipples each time I bottomed out. She whimpered into the pillow, pushing back greedily.
"I'm keeping count," she gasped. "Every load you give me. When I go home I'll know exactly how many times my son claimed me."
I leaned over her, kissed the shell of her ear. "Then let's break the record tonight."
We did.
I came in her four times before dawn: once on her back with her ankles by her ears, once while she rode me reverse and I watched her ass ripple, once with her tits in my mouth and her crying my name, and once more just before sleep, spooning, my hand cupping a heavy breast while I filled her from behind with lazy, endless thrusts.
When consciousness finally returned, sunlight was slanting across the bed again. She was still impaled on me, soft and warm and full.
She stirred, clenched around my half-hard cock, and smiled sleepily.
"Day four," she murmured. "Seven more to go."
I rolled her beneath me, already hardening again.
"Then let's not waste a single minute."
Outside, the city kept spinning.
Inside our temple, time belonged only to the wet, perfect place where mother and son joined and refused to ever come apart.
Six days of nothing but skin, sweat, and the endless wet sound of my cock sliding home into her.
We had turned the apartment into a shrine of filth.
Every mirror bore smudged handprints and streaks of cum.
The sofa cushions were permanently indented with the shape of her knees.
Even the air tasted like her—musky, sweet, addictive.
By the sixth afternoon we were both raw.
Her nipples were so sensitive she whimpered when the air touched them.
My cock was flushed dark, aching, but still rising the moment she looked at me.
We had tried to slow down that morning—tried to be gentle.
I had laid her on her back, kissed every bruise I'd left on those glorious breasts, and slipped into her so slowly we both cried.
We came whispering "I love you" like a confession, tears mixing with sweat.
But tenderness only lasted so long.
Now she was bent over the dining table, dress rucked up to her waist (the only thing she'd put on all week), legs spread wide, pussy flushed deep red and glistening with the last three loads I'd put in her.
I stood behind her, not moving yet, just looking.
"Look at you," I said, voice hoarse. "Six days and you're still dripping for your son."
She glanced back over her shoulder, hair wild, lips bitten swollen.
"I'm ruined, Kenji," she whispered, and the words cracked with something between pride and desperation. "I'll never feel full again unless it's you."
I dragged the head of my cock through her folds, coating myself in the mess we'd made.
She shuddered, pushing back, trying to take me in.
"Not yet," I told her.
I dropped to my knees instead and spread her open with my thumbs.
Her pussy was puffy, used, beautiful. My cum leaked from her in slow, thick rivulets.
I licked her clean—long, filthy stripes from clit to entrance, swallowing everything we'd created together.
She sobbed into the table, hips jerking.
"Kenji… I can't… I'm too sensitive…"
I didn't stop until she came on my tongue, thighs clamping around my head, a broken scream tearing out of her.
Only then did I stand and drive into her in one brutal thrust.
The table rocked. Plates crashed to the floor. Neither of us cared.
I fucked her like punishment and worship at once—hard, relentless, one hand fisted in her hair, the other reaching under to maul her swinging breasts.
Every stroke dragged a raw cry from her throat.
"Tell me," I snarled against her ear.
"I'm yours," she chanted, voice breaking. "Only yours… my son's personal slut… fill me, breed me, never stop—"
I slammed deep and came with a roar, pumping what felt like the last drops in my body into her greedy, spasming cunt.
She followed instantly, entire body seizing, milking me so hard my vision whited out.
We collapsed forward together, my weight pinning her to the table, cock still twitching inside her.
Minutes—or hours—passed. I don't know.
Eventually I pulled out. A flood followed, pooling beneath her on the wood.
She stayed bent over, trembling, breath hitching.
I thought she was crying.
Then I realized she was laughing—soft, wrecked, delirious.
"I can't feel my legs," she rasped. "You broke your mother, Kenji."
I scooped her up, carried her to the bedroom, and laid her on the last clean sheet we owned.
She curled into me immediately, face buried in my neck, one leg thrown over mine so my softening cock nestled against her dripping folds.
"I'm serious," she whispered against my skin. "When I go home… I don't know how I'll survive without this. Without you inside me every hour."
I kissed her temple, tasting salt and sex.
"Then don't survive," I said quietly. "Come back. As often as you can. Lie. Sneak. I don't care. This isn't over."
She pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes glassy and fierce.
"It's not over until one of us is in the ground," she said, and kissed me so deep I felt it in my soul.
Later, when the sky turned violet outside the window, she rode me one more time—slow, aching, tears sliding down her cheeks with every roll of her hips.
I held her breasts like sacred things and let her take what she needed.
When she came, it was silent, body shaking, pussy fluttering around me in long, endless waves.
I followed her over, filling her again, whispering her name like a prayer.
Afterward she stayed on top of me, my cock still inside, her forehead pressed to mine.
"Four more days," she breathed.
I tightened my arms around her.
"Then we make them count."
The ninth night began with silence.
No frantic tearing at clothes.
No filthy commands.
Just the two of us standing in the dark living room, city lights flickering across her naked skin like a private aurora.
She had showered alone for the first time in a week.
I had watched from the doorway, afraid to blink, afraid she might vanish if I looked away too long.
Now her hair was still damp, clinging to her shoulders and the tops of her breasts.
Droplets traced slow paths down her body, over nipples that had been sucked and bitten and worshipped until they stood permanently hard, down the soft curve of her belly, into the trimmed patch of hair that was no longer just hair; it was territory I had claimed a hundred times.
She walked to me slowly, took my hands, and placed them over her heart.
It was racing.
"Kenji," she said, voice low, steady, terrifying. "Look at me."
I did.
Really looked.
At the faint stretch marks on the undersides of her breasts that I had kissed like scripture.
At the bruises on her hips shaped exactly like my fingertips.
At the woman who had raised me, fed me, sung me to sleep, and who was now trembling because she was about to say something that would burn the world down.
"I don't want to go back tomorrow," she said. "Not even for a day."
The air left my lungs.
"I wake up reaching for you," she continued. "I fall asleep tasting you. I sit on the train and feel you leaking out of me and I smile like an idiot because it's proof this really happened. I can't… I won't go back to a life where this is only stolen weeks."
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
She stepped closer, breasts brushing my chest, and wrapped my hand around the back of her neck, the way I did when I took her from behind.
"I'm leaving him," she whispered. "The moment I get home, I'm telling your father I want a divorce. I'll say it's because I'm lonely, because the farm is too quiet, anything. I don't care what story he believes. The truth is I belong to you now. Body, heart, everything."
My knees nearly buckled.
"Mom—"
She silenced me with a kiss, soft, deliberate, final.
"I'm fifty-two, Kenji. I've spent my whole life being a good wife, a good mother, a good woman. I have maybe thirty years left, maybe less. I'm not spending another minute of them without my son inside me."
The words detonated something in my chest.
I picked her up, her legs wrapping around my waist automatically, and carried her to the bedroom. Laid her down like she was made of glass and fire at the same time.
We didn't fuck this time.
We made love, slow, devastating, eye-to-eye.
I entered her inch by inch, watching her face the way you watch a miracle happen.
She cried, quietly, the whole time, tears slipping into her hair while her body welcomed me home.
When she came, it was with my name on her lips and her nails drawing blood down my back.
When I came, I stayed as deep as humanly possible and let go like I was trying to fuse us together forever.
Afterward, we didn't move apart.
I stayed inside her, softening slowly, then hardening again, over and over through the night.
Between rounds we talked, practical now, the way people talk when they've decided to burn their old lives to the ground.
She would file the papers.
I would tell Aiko… something. The truth, or a gentle lie, whatever hurt her least.
We would find a new place (small, discreet, ours).
She would bring nothing but the clothes she wore here and the gold chain around her neck.
Just before dawn, she fell asleep still impaled on me, my arms locked around her, her breast pressed to my cheek.
I listened to her breathe and felt the last piece of the boy I used to be die quietly in the dark.
When the sun rose, it rose on two people who had stopped pretending anything mattered except this:
Her body.
My body.
The place where they became one.
Tomorrow she would board the train south.
But only to end one life.
In a few weeks, maybe a month, she would come back north on a one-way ticket.
And I would be waiting on platform 14.
Hard.
Ready.
Forever.