Adultery

The ride home was a blur. The hum of the car. The swish of the wipers. The smell of my mom’s perfume and the new-store smell from the bags. Chloe talked about the fabric of her red bodysuit. My mom talked about the lace on her ivory set. I stared out the window. Their words bounced off me. All I could see were flashes of crimson lace, sheer blue fabric, the sway of hips, the clear outline of their nipples pressing against the thin material. My phone was a heavy, hot brick in my pocket.

I mumbled about a headache as soon as we got inside, pushed past a cheerful “Thanks for your help, sweetie!” from my mom, and went straight to my room. The door clicked shut.

I fell into my desk chair. My fingers opened a browser and typed in a porn site by themselves. I stared at the front page. A woman with neon hair was bent over. Her eyes looked fake and empty. I felt sick.

My heart, which had been thumping hard since the mall, started beating even faster. A crazy, electric idea exploded in my head.

There might be another way.

My hand went into my pocket. The phone was warm. I pulled it out. My thumb found the Omni App icon. The screen went totally black, just a faint, blinking cursor.

My thumbs hung over the keyboard. My room was dead quiet. I took a shaky breath.

I typed the words, slow and careful:

"Mrs. Stevenson sends me her nudes."

My finger hovered over SAVE. The cursor blinked.

Mrs. Stevenson is the hottest mom on our street. A total soccer mom, but like, from a porno. Blonde hair in a perfect ponytail, big blue eyes, a killer smile. She’s always in tight yoga pants or short shorts when she’s gardening. She has these huge, perfect fake tits and a tiny waist. Every dad on the block stares. I’ve jerked off thinking about her a hundred times.

I hit SAVE.

For a second, nothing. Just the quiet hum of my phone.

Then, a soft ping.

A notification. A regular text. From a number I didn’t know.

The preview on my lock screen showed two image thumbnails.

I opened it.

The image was a selfie of Mrs. Stevenson in her kitchen. She smirked at the camera, withoOne hand held the phone; the other was hooked under the hem of a white tank top, yanking it up to her throat. Her breasts spilled out, full and heavy, skin like polished cream. Pale, wide areolas with a faint, delicate grain. Nipples hard as pebbles, stark in the cool air. And in the blurry background, at the table, the oblivious back of Mr. Stevenson’s head, buried in his newspaper.

The second image was taken from a lower angle. She was still in the kitchen. Her tight little shorts were pushed down past her hips, bunched around her thighs. Her other hand was pulling aside a strip of black lace from her crotch, spreading her labia apart to give me a full, clear view of her pink, wet pussy lips.

A text message appeared below the photos.

Unknown Number: Hope you like the view, neighbor boy. Don’t be a stranger.

I thumb trembled over the screen. The two photos of Mrs. Stevenson glowed on my screen. My own ****, lonely fantasies weren't just real; they were a command line.

Self-control evaporated. It was ash.

I opened the Omni App. The black void was welcoming now. My fingers flew.

Mrs. Stevenson will meet me at the street and blow me in her garage.

I hit SAVE. I didn't even wait for a confirmation. I was already pulling on my hoodie, shoving my feet into sneakers without untying them. I crept out of my room, down the stairs, past the living room where the murmur of the TV told me Mom and Chloe were settled in. The front door closed behind me with a soft, fateful click.

The evening air was cool and damp. The street was quiet, bathed in the orange glow of the sodium-vapor lights. I stood at the end of my driveway, heart hammering against my ribs. I stared at the Stevenson's house, two doors down. Their garage door was shut.

For a long minute, nothing. Doubt, cold and slick, began to coil in my gut. Had I pushed it too far? Was there a limit?

Then, a side door next to their garage opened. A slice of warm, yellow light spilled onto the driveway. Mrs. Stevenson stepped out. She was dressed not in her usual pristine athleisure, but in a simple, thin grey v-neck t-shirt and black leggings. No makeup. Her blonde hair was down, loose around her shoulders. She looked over at me, her expression unreadable from this distance.

Then she lifted a hand and crooked a finger, beckoning me.

I crossed the two lawns like a sleepwalker. The sound of crickets was deafening. As I got closer, I could see her face. There was a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips.

"Get in here, quick," she said, her voice a husky whisper. She didn't sound like a soccer mom. She sounded like a conspirator. "You want this in my mouth, don't you? Better we do it in here. My husband's upstairs. He thinks I'm getting a bottle of wine from the garage fridge."

I slipped past her into the garage. It smelled of gasoline, cut grass, and her perfume—something floral and expensive. She closed the door, plunging us into near-darkness, lit only by a small, dusty window high on the wall and the faint LED glow of a freezer. The space was neat, with a black SUV parked on one side, tools hung in silhouette on pegboard.

She turned to me, not saying another word. Her eyes raked over me, and that smile widened. She stepped close, her body heat radiating through the cool air. One hand came up and pressed flat against my chest, right over my pounding heart.

"Well, sport?" she purred. "Saw my pictures and just had to have a taste of the real thing. You like the idea of your friend's mommy wrapping her lips around your cock?"

"I... I..." No words would come.

"Shhh," she said, her fingers drifting down, over my stomach, until they found the hard line of my erection straining against my jeans. "Just relax. Let this mommy take care of you, honey. Let me show you what these lips can do."

Her hands were deft, unbuttoning my jeans, pulling down the zipper. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet garage. She tugged my jeans and boxers down to my thighs in one smooth motion. My cock sprang free, already fully hard and aching.

She didn't hesitate. She sank to her knees right there on the concrete floor, a soft thump from her knees hitting the ground. She looked up at me, her blue eyes gleaming in the low light.

"You like that, don't you?" she whispered, her breath warm against me. "Seeing your friend's hot mom on her knees for you. Bet you never dreamed you'd get my full, pouty lips on your cock." Then, without breaking eye contact, she took me into her mouth.

A soft, gasping moan escaped me as her lips sealed around me, her tongue flattening against my shaft. Her head began to bob, slow and deep at first, establishing a rhythm. One of her hands cupped my balls, rolling them gently, while the other gripped the base of my cock, guiding her movements. Saliva dripped down my length, making slick, filthy sounds.

"F-fuck," I choked out, my hands falling to her shoulders, gripping the soft fabric of her shirt.

She hummed in response, the vibration traveling straight through me. Then, she took one of my hands from her shoulder and guided it to the back of her head, weaving my fingers into her soft blonde hair. She looked up, her eyes holding mine, and gave a slight, insistent push downwards. The message was clear.

I was already right on the edge, the tension coiling in my gut an unstoppable wave building after the insanity of the whole day.

"Mrs. Stevenson... I'm gonna..." I gasped, my fingers tightening in her hair.

She pulled back just enough to look up, her lips slick and swollen. "Do it," she whispered, her voice ragged. "Come in my mouth, boy. Show me how much you liked my cheating mouth. Fill it up."

That was all it took. With a strangled cry, I erupted. She took it all, her throat working as she swallowed, a few drops escaping to glisten on her chin. She didn't pull away until I was spent, soft and twitching against her tongue.

As the last pulses faded, a new, even more reckless clarity seized me. I was still inside her warm, willing mouth. This wasn't over. This was just the beginning. I fumbled in my hoodie pocket, my phone slick in my sweaty hand.

With my free hand still tangled in her hair, I opened the Omni App one-handed. The black screen was a portal to godhood. My thumb, trembling with post-orgasmic aftershock and pure, unadulterated power, typed.

*Mr. Stevenson will go for a run and not return for an hour.*

SAVE.

I didn't stop. My heart was a jackhammer. I typed the next line, my vision narrowing to the glowing letters.

*Mrs. Stevenson wants to fuck me on her bed.*

SAVE.

The effects were instantaneous. The languid, lingering attention Mrs. Stevenson had been giving me vanished. She took me fully into her mouth, her tongue a demanding, swirling pressure that left no room for hesitation.

At the same time, I heard a door open and close. A moment later, through the garage's interior door window, I saw Mr. Stevenson, dressed in reflective running gear, walk past with earbuds in, oblivious to the scene just feet away.

At the same moment, Mrs. Stevenson released me with a soft, wet pop. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand, but her eyes had changed. The playful conspirator was gone, replaced by a raw, hungry desperation. She surged to her feet, her breath coming in short pants.

"My God," she breathed, her gaze locked on my softening cock. "I hope you're ready to fuck me now." Her hand darted out, gripping me and giving a few firm pumps, her thumb swirling over the slick head before she leaned down to plant a hot, open-mouthed kiss on it. "Because I'm not done. Not even close."

She pulled my pants up just enough for me to shuffle, and then she was leading me, stumbling, through the interior door into her pristine, suburban home. We passed the kitchen island where she’d taken the selfie. The house was empty, silent save for our frantic breathing.

"So good my kids are out," she panted, pulling me towards the stairs. "Otherwise I'd have to be so quiet." Her voice was a giddy, conspiratorial whisper that sent another jolt through me.

She dragged me up the carpeted stairs, down a hallway lined with smiling family photos, and into the master bedroom.

It was a room from a catalog. A king-sized, upholstered bed with a white duvet. Sheer curtains. Everything was clean, calm, and achingly normal.

Nothing about her was calm. She pushed me towards the bed. "Get on," she ordered, already pulling her grey t-shirt over her head in one fluid motion. Her famous breasts, now bare and magnificent, bounced free. She shoved her leggings and the strip of black lace down her legs, kicking them away. She was completely naked, her body a sculpted fantasy in the soft bedroom light, every toned curve on display.

I scrambled onto the center of the duvet, fumbling to shove my jeans and boxers the rest of the way off. I was hard again, painfully so, fueled by sheer, impossible circumstance.

She climbed over me, straddling my hips, her knees sinking into the soft mattress on either side of me. She didn't wait, didn't ask. Reaching between her legs, she guided me inside her with one slick, sure motion.

She was so wet, so impossibly tight and hot.

"Oh, GOD," she cried out as she sank down, taking me to the hilt, her head falling back. A full-body shudder wracked her. "Yes. Finally."

And then she began to move. This wasn't love-making. This was a frantic, driving need. She rode me with a furious, pounding rhythm, her breasts swaying in a mesmerizing, heavy bounce with every thrust. Her perfect ponytail came completely loose, blonde hair flying around her flushed face. Her nails dug into my chest through my hoodie. The bedframe knocked a steady, urgent tattoo against the wall.

"Fuck me," she moaned, her eyes squeezed shut in concentration. "Fuck me, you young stud. Is this what you wanted? Huh?"

All I could do was grip her hips, my own thrusting up to meet her downward plunges, the slap of skin on skin filling the quiet room.

"Touch me," she gasped, her rhythm never faltering. "Please, baby, feel my breasts. Pinch my nipples. Now. Yes, do it! Harder!"

I obeyed, my hands leaving her hips to cup the full, heavy weight of her. I rolled her hardened nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, and she cried out, her back arching, her pace becoming wilder, more erratic.

"Fuck me, baby! Your dick is soooo good!" she chanted, her voice rising. "You're gonna make me—I'm gonna—"

Her words dissolved into a sharp, keening wail. Her whole body clenched around me, a vice of pure, pulsating heat. She ground down onto me, shuddering through her climax, her inner muscles milking me in relentless waves.

As her contractions began to subside, I felt my own peak roaring up, unstoppable. "I'm... Mrs. Stevenson, I'm gonna—"

"Come inside me," she commanded, her voice a wrecked, breathless whisper. She collapsed forward onto my chest, her sweaty skin slick against mine, but she kept her hips moving in slow, deep circles. "Do it. Fill me up."

That was all the permission I needed. With a groan that was half relief, half surrender, I erupted deep inside her, my vision whiting out at the edges. She held me there, buried to the hilt, until the last tremor passed.

For a long moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing. Then, she pushed herself up, looking down at me with a dazed, sated smile. A strand of sweaty hair was stuck to her cheek.

"Thank you, Mrs. Stevenson," I mumbled, the formality absurd in the aftermath.

She laughed, a low, throaty sound, and leaned down to kiss me softly on the lips. It was tender, at odds with everything that had just happened. "I think," she murmured against my mouth, her breath warm, "at this point, you can call me Jessica." She pulled back slightly, a wicked glint in her eye. "Unless... calling me by my husband's surname still turns you on."

The doorbell rang downstairs.

The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet house. She froze above me, her playful smile vanishing. All the color drained from her face.

"Oh, shit," she whispered.