Real Pascal

Chapter 57 - Real Pascal

Pascal reached home and rushed toward his room. As he passed through the living room, he saw his stepmom.

She was still at it, laptop glowing on her thighs, fingers tapping slowly and deliberately like the night didn’t care what time it was. The blouse was doing all the work her posture refused to. Top two buttons left open, fabric stretched tight across the full, heavy weight of her tits, the soft inner curves pushing out every time she breathed. You could see the faint line where the underwire dug in, the way the material strained and then relaxed, the deep shadowed valley between them catching the lamp light and holding it.

Skirt had ridden up without her noticing—or maybe she had. High on those long, smooth thighs, the hem sitting just shy of the point where the flesh started to soften. One leg crossed over the other, the outer thigh pressing firm against the sofa cushion, the inner one shifting every few minutes so the fabric whispered across bare skin. When she leaned forward to type something, the blouse pulled tighter, the neckline dipping lower, the elegant line of her throat and collarbone leading straight down into that soft, heavy swell.

She wasn’t posing. She was working. But every small movement—shift of weight, quiet exhale, the way her spine stayed straight while her chest rose and fell—made the clothes look like they were losing the fight. The lamp light slid over the smooth skin of her cleavage, caught the faint sheen of warmth on her neck, and left the rest of the room in soft shadow.

Pascal’s gaze drifted over her body for a couple of seconds. She looked up from the screen. He immediately turned his eyes forward and continued up the stairs without a word.

He entered his room and slammed the bag containing the PS5 onto the bed. His mind kept drifting back to the image of his stepmom’s body. His dick began to harden.

He left his room and stepped into his parents’ bedroom. Everything was neat and orderly, with a faint floral fragrance lingering in the air. Every piece of furniture and decoration sat in its proper place, giving the room a calm, well-kept feel. On one wall hung a photograph of his biological mother and father. Beside it was another, showing his father with his stepmother

Pascal stepped into the bathroom and checked that no one was there. He opened the laundry basket and went through every piece of clothing until he found a dirty white thong, stained dark in the exact place where a pussy had rested against the fabric.

Just the sight of it made his cock harder. He left the bathroom, sat on the edge of his parents’ bed, pressed the thong to his nose with his left hand, and began stroking his shaft with his right.

Heat slammed through him like a fist to the chest. His fist never left his cock—tight, relentless, dragging the length of it even as he shoved himself up from the bed. The thong was still warm from her body; he wrapped the thin strip of fabric around the thick shaft and kept pumping, the soft material sliding wet against the head with every stroke.

He moved without thinking, bare feet quiet on the floorboards, out of the room and straight to the upper landing. One hand on the railing, the other buried in the thong, he looked down.

She was still there. Laptop open. Blouse half-undone. From this angle the loose buttons gave him a straight shot down the soft, heavy valley of her tits—pale, full, the inner curves pushed together by the tight fabric, rising and falling with every quiet breath she took. The lamp caught the smooth skin and made it look almost wet.

His eyes locked on them and stayed there. His fist sped up, the thong now slick and shiny, twisting over the swollen head with each hard pull.A low, broken groan ripped out of him as he came. Thick ropes pumped into the thin fabric, soaking the panty until it clung wet and heavy around his cock, cum dripping through the lace and onto his fingers. He kept stroking through it, milking every last pulse, eyes still locked on the soft white curves below.

Only when the last twitch faded did he turn. Pants tugged back up, thong still sticky in his fist—

And froze.

Someone was standing in the shadowed corner of the landing. Eyes wide and locked on him as she’d just watched a murder.

Mary.

The twenty-one-year-old new maid. Only two years older than him. Two weeks into the job and already staring at the son of the house with his mother’s soaked panties wrapped around his still-hard cock, cum running down his knuckles, while he’d been openly jerking off to his stepmom’s tits.

Tears welled up and spilled over before she could stop them. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out—just a tight, silent choke. Pascal stared at her like she was furniture. No panic. No shame. Just cold, bored eyes, as if getting caught with his mother’s cum-soaked panties in his fist was the most ordinary thing in the world.

He flicked his wrist.

The wet panty slapped hard across her cheek. Thick white smears streaked her skin, warm and sticky, dripping down toward her mouth. Mary recoiled on pure instinct, flinging the thing away as it burned.

“Pick it up.”

His voice was low, almost quiet, but the edge in it made her freeze, leaving no room for argument.

She dropped to her knees, fingers trembling as she pinched one slimy corner of the fabric. When she looked up again, his cum was still wet on her face. She could feel every streak. Smell it. Taste the faint salt when her lip brushed against it. She stayed locked in place, too scared to wipe it off.

“Clean this shit up,” Pascal said. “And if a single word of this gets out, you’re done. Finished. Understand? Talk to the head maid when you’re done.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just turned and walked away, leaving her on her knees with his cum drying on her cheek and his mother’s ruined panty dangling from her fingers.

Read up to 85 chapters on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/c/KDaddy935?vanity=user