Aunt's Breakfast

Dawn crept in pale gold through the blinds, painting stripes across the tangle of limbs and ruined sheets. Peter woke first, the way he always had after nightmares—spider-sense quiet, but heart still racing. Only this time, the warmth pressed to his chest was May. Her back curved against him, spine a soft arc under his palm, one of his arms trapped beneath her breasts, the other draped over her hip. Her brown hair spilled across the pillow and his forearm, smelling of vanilla and sex.

He shifted, and the movement dragged his half-hard cock along the cleft of her ass. The sheets beneath them were stiff in places—dried cum, her slick, the faint metallic scent of spent passion. May stirred, a sleepy hum vibrating in her throat. She pressed back instinctively, nestling closer, and Peter felt the slick heat of her cunt kiss the head of his morning erection.

“Morning,” she mumbled, voice husky with sleep. Her hand found his wrist, guided it lower, between her thighs. She was still swollen, still open from the night—inner lips puffy, slick with the remnants of his last release. When his fingers parted her, a slow trickle of thick white oozed out, coating his fingertips. May shivered.

Peter kissed the nape of her neck, tasting salt. “Hungry?”

“For you,” she said, and rolled onto her back.

The sheet fell away. Her breasts—full, heavy, nipples dark and peaked from the cool air—rose with each breath. A faint bruise bloomed on the curve of one, his mouth’s memory from hours ago. Lower, her belly bore faint red lines where his hips had ground into her. Between her legs, her cunt was a flushed, glistening invitation: outer lips parted, inner folds deep rose and slick, the small hood of her clit peeking out, already swollen.

Peter slid down the bed, settling between her thighs. He kissed the inside of one knee, then the other, working inward. May’s fingers threaded through his hair, guiding, not pushing. When his tongue finally touched her, she sighed—a long, broken sound. He licked a slow stripe from her entrance to her clit, tasting the mingled salt of them both. His cum still leaked from her in lazy pulses; he lapped it up, tongue delving inside, curling to scoop more. May’s hips lifted, thighs trembling.

He ate her like breakfast: slow, savoring, lips sealing around her clit to suck gently, then harder when her breath hitched. Two fingers slid into her easily—she was still stretched, still wet—and curled upward, stroking the spongy spot that made her toes curl. Each time he pressed, a fresh gush coated his chin. May’s moans grew sharper, thighs clamping around his ears.

“Peter—*inside*—please—”

He rose, cock aching, and notched himself at her entrance. One smooth thrust and he was home, buried to the root in the slick, clutching heat of her. May’s legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. He moved slow—long, deep strokes that dragged the head of his cock over every ridge inside her, that let him feel the way her cunt fluttered each time he bottomed out.

Their mouths met, lazy and filthy. She tasted herself on his tongue, moaned into the kiss. Peter shifted angles, lifting her hips so each thrust nudged her clit. The wet sounds were softer in the morning light—*schlick, schlick*—but no less obscene. May’s nails raked down his back, leaving heat in their wake.

“Close,” she whispered against his lips. “Come with me.”

He reached between them, thumb circling her clit in tight, fast strokes. May’s cunt clamped down—*hard*—and she came with a soft cry, inner walls rippling, milking him. A warm flood soaked his balls, dripped down to the mattress. Peter followed seconds later, hips stuttering as he spilled deep, pulse after pulse of thick heat painting her insides white again.

They stayed locked, trembling. When he finally slipped free, a slow river of cum followed, pooling on the sheet between her thighs. May laughed—breathless, delighted—and pulled him down for a kiss that tasted of morning and sex and *them*.

“Best breakfast I’ve ever had,” Peter murmured against her mouth.

May smiled, eyes bright. “There’s coffee downstairs. But first—” She rolled them so she was on top, hair curtaining their faces. “—round two. I’m still hungry.”