The master suite envelops Luke like a velvet trap, its air thick and still, carrying the faint, lingering ghosts of Richard's domain: the polished mahogany scent of the four-poster bed's headboard, carved with twisting vines that climb toward the canopy like desperate fingers; the subtle, musty undertone of aged leather from the armchair in the corner, where Richard used to sip scotch and review ledgers late into the night; the crisp, starched freshness of the dove-gray Egyptian cotton sheets, changed that morning by the silent housekeeper who never meets anyone's eyes.
Sunlight slants low through the floor-to-ceiling windows, golden and unforgiving, spilling across the Persian rug in long, lazy bars that illuminate the intricate patterns of crimson and indigo—ancient motifs of lovers entwined in eternal chase, their threads worn soft from decades of footfalls.
The room feels vast yet claustrophobic, the walls paneled in dark walnut that absorb the light rather than reflect it, shadows pooling in the high corners where crystal sconces wait unlit, their glass facets catching stray glints like distant stars mocking his isolation.
Luke stands rigid in the precise center of the rug, feet planted shoulder-width apart on the woven wool that prickles faintly against his soles—cool, slightly yielding, grounding him even as his body betrays him in every pulse.
He is utterly, vulnerably naked: skin prickling in the room's ambient warmth (72 degrees, thermostat set by Richard's unyielding routine), every muscle taut from neck to calves, the faint sheen of nervous sweat beading at his temples and tracing slow, invisible paths down the valley of his spine to pool at the small of his back.
His chest rises and falls in shallow, erratic rhythms—each inhale sharp through his nose, filling his lungs with the room's heavy air, each exhale ragged from parted lips that taste faintly of the mint gum he chewed on the stairs to steady himself.
His heart hammers—a relentless, thunderous drumbeat echoing in his ears, vibrating through his ribs, down his sternum, into the pit of his stomach where it twists like a live wire—fast, so fast he swears he can feel the individual chambers contracting, blood rushing hot and urgent through his veins.
And his cock.
God, his cock.
It stands rigid and unyielding, jutting upward from the dark thatch of hair at its base like a declaration carved in flesh: nine and a half inches of thick, flushed heat curving insistent toward his navel, the shaft a map of prominent veins—blue-ridged rivers that bulge and throb with every heartbeat, starting fat at the root where it disappears into his groin and tapering only slightly before flaring at the head.
The skin is stretched taut, silky-smooth under the faint sheen of pre-cum that has already begun its slow, torturous leak: a single, fat bead welling at the slit, translucent and viscous, stretching into a glistening string that dangles for a suspended heartbeat—two, three—before breaking free to fall in a warm, wet splatter against the polished oak floorboards between his feet, leaving a tiny, obscene puddle that catches the sunlight in a mocking shimmer.
Another pulse, and it happens again: the head—swollen, flushed a deep, angry plum—flaring slightly as fresh pre-cum pearls at the tip, the slit winking open like a secret mouth, the drop hovering, quivering, before gravity claims it with a faint, audible plink against the wood.
His balls ache in sympathy—heavy, drawn tight against his body, the skin there wrinkled and taut, a faint pulse throbbing in time with his heart, as if they too are impatient, swollen with the load he's denied himself for days (weeks, if he's honest), saving it unconsciously for this impossible moment.
Every twitch of his cock sends a jolt up his spine, a spark that blooms low in his belly and radiates outward—tightening his abs, pebbling the fine hairs on his forearms, making his thighs clench involuntarily, the muscles there flexing hard enough to dimple the skin.
He can't sit.
The bed looms behind him like a judgment—sheets smooth and inviting, pillows fluffed in perfect symmetry, the faint indentation from Richard's last night still visible on the left side, a ghost that makes his stomach churn.
He can't pace—the rug's edge is too close, the windows too exposing, the estate grounds beyond them dotted with groundskeepers who might glance up from their pruning and see the heir apparent standing naked and leaking in the widow's sanctum.
He can't even touch himself—fingers itching at his sides, knuckles white from the effort of restraint, because to stroke even once would be surrender, would spill him too soon, and he needs every drop for her, for the calendar, for the clause that has turned his lifelong ache into a contract sealed in cum.
So he stands.
And waits.
And remembers.
The memory crashes over him without mercy, vivid as if the door has cracked open again, moonlight spilling silver across his vision even in the afternoon glow.
**Age 16 – The Guest Room, 2:13 a.m. (Memory, Unspooling in Agonizing Clarity)**
Thirst had pulled him from sleep—cotton-mouthed from a late-night gaming session, the house silent under the weight of summer midnight, only the low, rhythmic hum of the central AC whispering through the vents like a distant lover's breath.
He'd risen on bare feet, the cool hardwood of the upstairs hall kissing his soles with each silent step—left, right, left—boxer briefs riding low on his hips, the elastic waistband chafing faintly against the faint trail of hair leading down from his navel, his cock soft and heavy against his thigh in the humid air.
The guest room door was ajar—just a sliver, three inches of shadow and invitation, the brass handle cool under his palm when he nudged it wider without thinking, without knocking, assuming emptiness in the witching hour.
Moonlight poured through the room's tall casement windows like liquid silver, bathing the king-sized bed in a cold, ethereal glow that turned skin to marble and shadows to secrets.
There they were: Victoria on her back in the center of the rumpled sheets (ivory satin, tangled at her hips), legs spread wide in blatant offering—knees bent high, feet planted firm on the mattress, toes curling into the fabric with each shift.
Her nightgown—thin white silk, inherited from some long-ago trousseau—had been rucked up to her waist, baring the creamy expanse of her thighs, the dark triangle of curls at the apex, and the swollen, pink part of her pussy where Richard's cock plunged in and out with mechanical precision.
Richard above her in classic missionary—nothing tender, nothing exploratory, just the brute efficiency of a man claiming what he thought was his: hips snapping forward in short, hurried thrusts, his pale, softening ass flexing with visible effort, the skin there dimpled and loose from too many desk-bound years.
Each impact landed with a wet, resounding slap—his balls (small, tight, slapping heavy against her perineum) colliding with the plush undersides of her ass cheeks, the sound echoing sharp in the quiet room like flesh on flesh percussion, rhythmic and relentless, underscored by the faint squelch of her slick-coated pussy yielding around him.
Victoria's body responded in waves: her heavy JJ-cup tits bouncing wildly with every thrust, the veiny swells heaving up and down in hypnotic, liquid arcs—skin stretched taut over the fullness, faint blue veins tracing delicate paths from the undersides to the wide, dark areolas that puckered tight around nipples elongated and begging, leaking thin streams of milk (residual from her last pregnancy, or perhaps from the friction alone) that arced in fine, silvery sprays with each jolt.
The milk caught the moonlight like shattered diamonds, falling in slow-motion droplets to trace glistening paths down the inner curves of her breasts, pooling in the valley between before spilling sideways to soak the sheets in dark, spreading patches that smelled faintly sweet even from the doorway.
Her head was thrown back against the pillows, throat arched in a pale column, mouth parted wide on moans that were too loud, too raw for the house's silence—low and guttural at first ("Ah… yes… harder"), rising to desperate, breathy pleas ("Deeper, Richard… please…") that twisted into frustration when he grunted and chased his own rhythm, oblivious.
Her hands clutched the sheets at first—knuckles white, nails digging crescents into the satin—then one slid up to clamp over her own breast, squeezing hard enough to make milk jet from the nipple in a forceful spurt that arced across her chest and landed warm on Richard's shoulder, making him curse softly under his breath.
Luke had frozen in the doorway, breath seizing in his chest, hand already slipping beneath the waistband of his briefs without conscious volition—fingers wrapping instinctive around his teenage cock, already half-hard from the humid dream he'd woken from, now surging full and aching at the sight.
He was bigger than Richard even then—thicker, longer, the veins already prominent under the skin—and the first stroke was automatic, slow, base to tip, feeling the pre-cum bead hot at his slit and slick his palm as he watched Richard's ass clench one final time, hips slamming forward in a stuttered, erratic rhythm.
The godfather buried deep with a guttural groan—short, sharp, over too fast—his balls drawing tight as he spilled inside her, the faint, wet pulse visible in the way Victoria's pussy clenched around him, milking what little he gave.
Richard collapsed forward for a beat, panting against her neck, before rolling off with a satisfied sigh, his spent cock slipping free with a soft, obscene pop, a thick trickle of his cum following to run slow and white down her parted lips, pooling in the crease of her ass.
Victoria's moan turned frustrated then—needy, unfinished—her hand flying between her spread thighs without shame, fingers parting her swollen lips (pink and glistening, stretched from him but already fluttering empty) to rub frantic, circular strokes over her clit, the nub swollen and dark under her touch.
Her hips bucked up off the mattress, tits jiggling with the motion, milk leaking fresh from both nipples now in steady rivulets that soaked her ribs and the sheets beneath.
She came hard—back arching off the bed, mouth falling open on a silent scream that twisted into a ragged gasp, pussy clenching visibly around nothing, slick gushing in a hot flood that soaked her fingers and the mattress in a dark, spreading stain.
Luke had matched her exactly—his fist pumping faster now, three tight strokes from base to tip, the wet schlick of pre-cum-slick skin echoing faintly in the hall as his balls drew tight and he spilled: thick, endless ropes of cum splattering the baseboard in hot, white arcs, his free hand clamped over his mouth to muffle the choked groan that tore from his throat.
He came so hard his vision whited at the edges, knees buckling, the last spurts dribbling warm over his knuckles as he sagged against the wall, watching Victoria collapse back with a final, shuddering sigh, fingers still circling lazy now, chasing aftershocks while Richard snored oblivious beside her.
He fled then—bare feet silent on the hall runner, cock still twitching and leaking in his briefs, heart pounding like it would burst, the image burned into his retinas: her parted lips dripping his godfather's cum, her tits heaving with milk-slick shine, her moans echoing in his skull like a siren's call.
That night he jerked off three more times—once in the shower, hot water sluicing over his spent body as he fisted himself raw to the memory of her frustrated gasp; once in bed, sheets twisted around his hips, biting the pillow to silence the second release; once at dawn, half-asleep, humping the mattress to the ghost of her voice pleading "deeper."
**End Memory – Back to 4:31 p.m.**
The bedroom door clicks open with a soft, decisive snick—brass handle turning under Victoria's manicured fingers, the sound slicing through the humid silence like a blade.
She stands framed in the threshold, backlit by the hallway's crystal sconce that casts her in a halo of warm amber, turning the edges of her silhouette soft and ethereal.
The black silk dress—custom Armani, fitted like a second skin—has been unzipped halfway down her back, the fabric gaping loose to slip off one shoulder in a slow, deliberate cascade, baring the heavy, veiny swell of her left breast: skin pale and luminous, blue veins tracing faint, branching paths from the deep cleavage to the wide, dark areola that puckers tight around a nipple already elongated and glistening with a fresh bead of milk, the drop hovering at the tip like a pearl on the verge of falling.
Her eyes—hazel flecked with gold, sharp as shattered glass—lock on his immediately, dropping slow and deliberate to his cock: taking in the rigid curve, the throbbing veins, the steady leak of pre-cum that has left a small, glistening puddle at his feet, the way it twitches under her gaze like a living thing begging for her touch.
A slow, filthy smile curves her lips—red from the bite she gave them on the stairs, full and parted just enough to reveal the white gleam of her teeth—and she steps forward, the dress whispering against her skin as it falls further, pooling in a silken puddle at her feet with a soft, final rustle.
Beneath: nothing but sheer black stockings (nylon, thigh-high, lace tops biting soft into the creamy flesh above her knees) and a matching garter belt (thin straps taut across her hips, clips glinting silver in the light).
No panties—never panties when she knows he's near.
Her pussy is bared fully now: lips flushed a deep, swollen pink, outer folds thick and plump, parted naturally in invitation, the inner seam glistening with fresh slick that wells slow and steady from her entrance—a single, viscous strand stretching, quivering, breaking to fall warm against the inside of her thigh as she takes another step, the jiggle of her ass cheeks visible in the sway, soft flesh rippling like disturbed water under the garter's frame.
Milk drips from both nipples now—unbidden, from the mere sight of him, the anticipation coiling tight in her core—falling in thin, steady streams that trace deliberate paths down the inner swells of her breasts, over the faint blue veins, disappearing into the valley between before spilling sideways to run in warm rivulets down her ribs, her soft belly, soaking into the dark curls at her mound and leaving glossy trails that catch the sunlight like liquid gold.
Luke's cock jerks so violently it slaps against his stomach with an audible, wet smack—leaving a fresh, glistening streak of pre-cum just under his navel, the bead at his tip stretching into a long, clear string that dangles, sways, falls to splatter against the floorboards in another obscene plink.
His breath comes ragged now—audible gasps that saw in and out of his chest, heart slamming harder, balls throbbing with the need to unload, every nerve alight from the memory's echo and her approach.
Victoria's smile deepens—wicked at the edges, maternal at the core—and she closes the distance in three slow, swaying steps, hips rolling with deliberate grace, ass cheeks shifting and settling with each footfall, the stockings whispering faintly against her thighs.
She stops inches from him, close enough that her breasts brush his chest—soft, heavy contact that yields like warm dough, her nipples dragging faint, milk-slick trails across his sternum, the liquid warm and sticky as it soaks into his skin.
"I know you watched us," she says softly, voice a low, velvet murmur that vibrates through the scant space between them, her breath warm against his collarbone, carrying the faint floral of her perfume and the deeper, sweeter note of her arousal.
Her hand rises slow, manicured nails—deep crimson, filed to gentle ovals—trailing feather-light up his abdomen, tracing the faint ridges of his abs, the treasure trail of dark hair leading down, until her palm settles flat over his heart, feeling the frantic thunder there.
"I felt your eyes on me every time. In the doorway shadows. Behind the cracked blinds at the pool. Every stolen glance that made me wetter… made me moan louder… knowing you were there, listening, wanting what he never knew how to give."
Her other hand drops then—deliberate, unhurried—to wrap around his cock: fingers splaying wide, barely meeting around the girth at the base where vein pulses hot under her touch, the heat of him searing her palm like branded iron.
She gives one slow, deliberate stroke—from root to tip, the glide slick with his pre-cum that coats her fingers in glossy warmth, her thumb swirling lazy circles over the head to gather the fresh bead welling there, spreading it down the shaft in a shimmering sheen that makes the veins stand out even more prominent, blue and throbbing under the stretched skin.
Luke's knees buckle once—involuntary, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth—but he catches himself, hands fisting at his sides, knuckles blanching white from the effort not to grab her, not to thrust into that fist and spill right there on the rug.
Victoria leans in closer—lips brushing the shell of his ear, breath hot and ragged, breasts crushing full and heavy against his chest now, milk soaking through in twin, spreading circles that leave his skin sticky and sweet-scented.
"Today," she whispers, voice trembling with the same raw hunger that coils in his gut, her free hand sliding up to cup his jaw, thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, feeling the faint stubble rasp under her touch, "you don't have to hide in doorways anymore. No more fisting that beautiful cock in the shadows while I pretend not to hear your choked groans down the hall."
She pulls back just enough to meet his eyes—hazel locking on storm-blue, her pupils blown wide in the low light, tears of anticipation pricking at the corners—and guides him backward with gentle pressure on his hip, her other hand still loosely wrapped around his shaft, stroking once more—slow, torturous—from base to tip, thumb milking another thick bead of pre-cum that she catches on her fingertip and brings to her lips, sucking it clean with a soft, audible hum that vibrates through him like a promise.
His knees hit the edge of the bed—soft, yielding mattress dipping under his weight as he sits, the sheets cool against his heated skin, cock jutting up between them like an altar candle, twitching and leaking anew, the head brushing the underside of her left breast in a faint, slick smear that makes her nipple tighten further.
Victoria climbs into his lap without hesitation—straddling him slow, thighs thick and soft bracketing his hips, the stockings' lace tops biting faint indents into her flesh as she settles her weight.
Her pussy lips part wide over the underside of his cock—hot, swollen folds kissing the veined length from root to tip, coating him in her slick without taking him inside yet, the entrance fluttering against his shaft like a mouth begging to swallow.
She rocks once—deliberate, torturous—forward and back, letting the full glide drag her clit along his length, her slick smearing warm and abundant, mixing with his pre-cum in a glossy, obscene sheen that drips down his balls in slow, warm rivulets.
Luke's hands fly to her hips—fingers sinking deep into the soft, abundant flesh there, feeling the yield and jiggle under his palms, the faint tremor of her muscles clenching as she rocks again, slower, her breath hitching on a soft moan that ghosts across his lips.
"Please…"
It tears from him—single, broken syllable, voice cracking midway, eyes pleading up at her in the fading light, cock throbbing so hard against her folds it lifts her slightly with each pulse.
Victoria's smile is slow, filthy, maternal, victorious—tears slipping free down her cheeks now, not from sorrow but from the shattering relief of this, finally this.
She leans in, forehead to his, noses brushing, breaths mingling hot and ragged, and whispers against his mouth:
"Day one… gold star number one."
She sinks down in one slow, endless glide—taking the head first with a soft, wet pop as her lips stretch wide around the ridge, fluttering and gripping like velvet vise, then inch by agonizing inch: the thick shaft dragging against her inner walls, veins catching on every ridge inside her, filling the hollow ache she's carried for years with heat and stretch and him.
Her breath catches—sharp inhale through parted lips—on the halfway mark, thighs trembling around his hips, breasts swaying heavy to brush his chest, milk leaking fresh in response to the fullness, warm streams running down to mingle where they join.
Deeper still—three-quarters now, her clit grinding against his base in a single, perfect press that makes her sob—and finally, fully, her ass meeting his thighs with a soft, plush clap, buried to the root inside the pussy he's haunted since sixteen, the head kissing the mouth of her womb like a vow.
They both cry out—his a guttural groan that rips from his chest, hers a low, shattered moan that vibrates through her breasts and into his skin—the sound echoing off the paneled walls, raw and real and finally theirs.
Victoria doesn't move at first—just stays seated, full to bursting, rocking her hips in tiny, shallow circles that stir him inside her, feeling every throb, every vein, every pulse: the way her walls grip and release in fluttering waves, the obscene, wet squelch with each shift, the slow drip of milk from her nipples that falls to land warm on his shoulders, his chest, the sheets.
Luke's hands tighten on her hips—not forcing, just holding, fingers sinking deeper into the jiggle as she begins to rise—slow, torturous lift until only the head remains inside, her pussy clinging reluctant, a thick strand of their mixed slick stretching between them like a tether—before sinking back down with a wet, slapping sound that fills the room, her ass rippling against his thighs, tits bouncing heavy in the motion.
The rhythm builds inevitable—slow waves of up and down, each glide deeper, each bounce sending milk arcing in fine sprays, her moans rising to desperate pleas ("Yes… like that… fill me, Luke… give me everything") while his groans answer in kind, hips rolling up to meet her, buried to the hilt with every descent.
She comes first—slow, shattering, walls rippling in milking pulses that clench around him, slick gushing hot to soak his balls and the sheets, her sob muffled against his neck as she grinds down, chasing the sparks.
He follows—unloading thick, endless ropes that flood her deep, overflowing to run warm down her crease, the fullness pushing her into aftershocks that leave them trembling, joined.
Victoria reaches for the calendar on the nightstand—elegant leather-bound planner, pages crisp and waiting—and marks Day 1 with a little gold star, her hand shaking, cum-slick fingers leaving a faint smear on the edge.
"One down," she whispers, kissing him deep, filthy, possessive.
"Three hundred and forty-eight to go."
The sun dips lower outside, painting them gold.
And Luke knows—he'd burn the will tomorrow if it meant one more night like this.