Memory

Chapter 78 - Memory

Mike stared at the blue screen and felt pure shock settle over him. Thirty minutes to get a blow job. The demand made no sense in a hospital room. He was still confined to the hospital bed, with thick bandages wrapped around his head and an IV running into his arm. Even sitting up was difficult, and whenever he tried to move more than a few centimeters, a dull ache spread through his skull, forcing him to settle back against the pillow.

He carefully turned his head and looked around the dimly lit hospital room. Night had already settled outside, leaving only the faint glow of the corridor lights filtering through the glass door. The hallway was unusually quiet, and no nurses had passed by for several minutes. With the room this empty, there was no one close enough for him to attempt something like Seducer’s Touch without being noticed. His eyes shifted toward the clock on the wall, and his expression tightened when he saw how little time remained. Whatever he was planning, he couldn't afford to waste another minute.

His eyes slowly moved around the room until they finally settled on the figure sitting beside his bed. Nancy had fallen asleep without realizing it, her body slumped forward as exhaustion finally caught up with her. Her head rested on her folded arms near the edge of his blanket, with a few strands of hair falling loosely across her face. One hand remained close to the blanket, as if she had been sitting there intending to keep watch over him but had eventually lost the fight against sleep.

The dim light from the bedside lamp cast a soft glow across her face, making the dark circles beneath her eyes more noticeable. She looked completely different while asleep—quiet and defenseless compared to the worried expression she had worn earlier. Each breath lifted her shoulders slightly before they slowly fell again, the steady rhythm almost blending with the faint beeping of the monitor beside the bed.

Mike watched her for a few seconds without moving. She hadn't left.

Even after everything that had happened, she had stayed beside him until exhaustion forced her to sleep.

Mike lifted his hand and patted the top of her head twice. A sudden thought crossed his mind. What if Nancy blew him off? The idea flashed and he rejected it at once. She was his aunt. The whole suggestion felt wrong.

Yet his gaze drifted downward, slow and deliberate, tracing the full length of her body like a hand that couldn’t quite resist. She sat there in that loose home dress—soft, worn fabric that hung without structure—yet it still failed to hide a single curve. The material clung just enough where it mattered. With every quiet breath her full breasts rose and pressed against it, the soft give of flesh pushing the cloth outward in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.

Below that, her waist dipped in sharply, a clean inward curve that made the contrast even sharper before the fabric flared again over the round, heavy swell of her hips. Even slumped in that tired, unposed position she looked fucking unreal—mature, lived-in beauty that didn’t need to try. The kind of body that pulled the eye and refused to let it go, thick and soft and completely aware of its own power without ever asking for attention.

Mike’s dick started to throb hard under the thin hospital sheet, the fabric doing nothing to hide the sudden, heavy pulse that kicked up against his thigh. The ache came on fast, thick and insistent, like his body had decided to ignore the sterile room and the fucking IV lines and just go straight back to the past. Old memories rose without permission, slamming into him with the force of something that had never really left. He was eighteen again—raw, horny, stupid with it—the first time he really saw Nancy. Not just noticed her, not the polite family version, but actually saw her.

She had walked into the kitchen that summer in a simple dress, nothing fancy, just soft fabric hanging off her, and the second she stepped through the doorway, his eyes locked on and refused to move. He hadn’t been able to look away. Not from the way the dress sat on her tits, not from the shape of her under it, not from the casual way she moved like she had no idea what she was doing to him.

The crush hit him hard and stayed, dug in deep and refused to let go. After that it was constant. Many nights he had locked himself in the bathroom, hand already down his pants before the door even clicked shut, and wasted so much fucking sperm thinking about her body—stroking himself raw, spilling over and over while his mind stayed locked on every curve he’d seen that day, the memory of her walking in still vivid enough to make him come hard and then keep going until his balls ached.

One night the thirst hit him like a fucking knife in the throat. He woke dry-mouthed, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, the kind of deep, raw need that doesn’t care what time it is or who’s sleeping where. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of settling wood. He swung his legs out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor, and padded down the hall toward the kitchen without turning on any lights. He knew the layout by muscle memory.

The living-room door stood half open, a thin vertical slash of dim light leaking into the hallway. He almost walked past. Almost. But something made him slow down, made him stop, made him look.

Nancy and his father were on the couch.

Bodies moving together in the low light from the single lamp they’d left on. Not soft. Not gentle. His father’s thick back was to the door, pants shoved down around his thighs, hips driving hard and steady into her. Nancy was under him, one leg hooked high over his hip, the other foot planted on the cushion for leverage. Her blouse was open, bra shoved up, one of his father’s big hands clamped on her tit while the other braced beside her head. Every thrust made her soft flesh bounce. Every thrust made a wet, filthy sound that carried clearly in the quiet house.

He saw the exact moment she tipped her head back and bit her lower lip, the way her eyes fluttered half-shut in pure animal pleasure. He saw the sheen of sweat on her throat. He saw his father’s cock—thick, glistening—pull almost all the way out of her cunt before slamming back in. He saw the way her body took it, greedy, open, rocking up to meet every stroke like she couldn’t get enough.

The sight burned into him. Branded itself behind his eyes so deep he knew he’d never scrub it out. The woman he loved—Nancy, his Nancy, the one whose laugh still made his chest tight and whose body he’d jerked off to a hundred lonely nights—was getting fucked stupid by his own father right there on the family couch. And she was loving every second of it. Moaning soft and broken under her breath, nails digging into the older man’s shoulders, whispering shit he couldn’t quite make out but didn’t need to. The tone was enough. Filthy.

His cock was already rock-hard in his boxers, throbbing so hard it hurt. He stood frozen in the doorway for one more endless second, memorizing every detail like a sick, starving animal: the slap of skin, the wet suck of her cunt around that thick cock, the way her free hand had drifted down between them so she could rub her own clit while she got railed. Then the shame hit like a second wave, hot and nauseating, and he forced himself to turn away.

He went back to his room on legs that felt like someone else’s. Locked the door. Dropped onto the edge of the bed. Shoved his hand into his boxers and gripped his cock hard enough to bruise. He was already leaking, slick and desperate. He stroked himself rough and fast, the same brutal rhythm he’d just watched his father use on her, and the tears came almost immediately—hot, silent tracks down his face while his fist flew. Guilt and lust twisted together so tight he couldn’t tell them apart.

He was crying because the woman he loved was getting her brains fucked out by another man. He was crying because that man was his father. He was crying because the image of her face in that moment of pure pleasure was the hottest, most devastating thing he’d ever seen, and his body was responding like a fucking traitor.

He came hard, biting down on his own forearm to keep quiet, spunk striping his stomach and the sheets while the tears kept falling. Even after the last pulse left him shaking, the ache stayed. Sharp. Hollow. Permanent. He wiped his hand on the sheet, lay back in the dark, and stared at the ceiling, replaying every filthy second until sleep finally dragged him under.

The memory left his dick fully hard now. Mike’s breathing turned uneven. He reached out again and tapped Nancy’s head, harder this time, trying to wake her.

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