1. The Robe Slips

You are Heto, nineteen, muscles still humming from the drive. The lake house door clicks shut behind you. Dad’s stuck in the city—some “emergency merger.” You know the truth: he’s golfing with clients while you’re here, alone, with her.

Mira stands at the kitchen island, backlit by the late-afternoon sun. Her silk robe—pale blue, threadbare—clings to every curve. The knot at her waist is loose, threatening to give. Raven hair is twisted into a messy bun, a few strands stuck to the sweat on her neck. She pours two glasses of wine, doesn’t look up, but you catch the smirk.

“Dad’s not coming,” she says, voice like warm honey. “Just us, baby.”

She turns. The robe parts.

No bra. No panties.

Heavy tits sway, nipples dark and stiff. A neat landing strip of black hair points straight to swollen, glistening lips. Your cock twitches in your shorts.

You step closer. She doesn’t flinch.

“Been thinking about this all week,” she murmurs, setting the glasses down. One hand slides between her thighs, fingers spreading slick folds. “Your father’s asleep upstairs… or pretending to be.”

He is.

You heard the snoring on the drive in. Mira planned it—texted him to “rest” after the flight, slipped a little something in his scotch. He’s out cold.

She unties the robe. It falls.

Fuck.

Golden-brown skin, stretch marks on her hips like battle scars, ass round and heavy. She backs against the counter, lifts one leg onto a stool.

Pussy open. Dripping.

“Touch me, Heto. Right here.”

Your hand moves on instinct. Two fingers sink in—hot, wet, clenching. She gasps, head falling back, tits jiggling.

“Deeper,” she hisses. “Like you hate him.”

You curl, pump, thumb circling her clit. She squirts—a sharp jet that splashes your wrist, the floor.

“Good boy,” she moans, grabbing your wrist, forcing you faster. “Now taste what your daddy never gets.”

She pushes your head down.

You drop.

Tongue flat, you lick from her asshole to her clit, sucking the swollen nub. She grinds on your face, smearing her juices across your cheeks, your nose.

“Fuck yes… eat Mommy’s cunt while he dreams.”

Your cock throbs, leaking through your shorts. She notices.

“Stand up.”

You do. She rips your shorts down. Your 8 inches slap against her thigh—veiny, angry, dripping.

She wraps her hand around it, strokes slow, spits on the head.

“Look at me.”

You do.

Her eyes—dark, hungry—lock on yours.

“This is what he’ll never have again.”

She guides you in.

One slow push.

Tight. Wet. Burning.

Her walls grip like a fist. She bites your shoulder to muffle the scream.

“Fuck me, Heto. Fuck me like you own me.”

You grab her hips, slam.

Hard.

Deep.

The counter rattles. Wine glasses tip, red spilling like blood.

Her tits bounce, slapping your chest.

“Harder,” she snarls. “Make me forget his name.”

You lift her, spin her, bend her over the island.

Ass up.

You spread her cheeks, spit on her hole, slide back in.

Squelch. Slap. Squelch.

She reaches back, spreads herself wider.

“Film it,” she pants. “I want him to see.”

You grab her phone, prop it on the counter.

Recording.

You pound—balls slapping her clit, cum already leaking down her thighs.

She looks back at the lens, smirking:

“Sorry, honey. Your son’s cock fits better.”

You feel it building.

She clenches, milks you.

“Inside,” she demands. “Breed me.”

You explode.

Hot. Thick. Endless.

Ropes of cum flood her, overflow, drip onto the marble.

She squirts again, shaking, screaming your name.

You pull out.

Cum pours from her gaping pussy, pooling beneath her.

She turns, drops to her knees, licks you clean—slow, filthy, eyes on the camera.

“Round two in his bed,” she whispers, standing, cum running down her legs. “Bring the phone.”

End of Chapter 1