2. His Pillow, Her Altar

You follow Mira up the stairs, phone in hand, recording.

Cum still drips from her pussy, leaving a wet trail on the hardwood.

She sways, robe abandoned, ass cheeks rippling with every step.

“Quiet,” she whispers, finger to lips. “Let him hear nothing… until he sees.”

The master bedroom door creaks.

Dad’s sprawled on his back, mouth open, snoring like a chainsaw.

Mira crawls onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress beside him.

She straddles his pillow, grinds her sloppy cunt across the silk case, smearing your load.

“Film this,” she hisses.

You zoom in.

Her pussy lips drag over Dad’s monogram, stretching, oozing thick white ropes.

She moans, low, “Mmm… your son’s cum on your pillow, honey.”

Dad stirs.

Mira freezes, then leans down, licks his cheek, whispers:

“Sleep tight, darling.”

He settles, oblivious.

She beckons.

You drop your shorts.

Cock springs free, veins pulsing, precum beading.

She grabs your shaft, guides you behind her.

“Fuck me on his side of the bed.”

You line up.

One brutal thrust.

Balls-deep.

Her walls clench, milking the cum already inside.

SQUELCH.

She bites the pillow to muffle the scream.

You grip her hips, pound.

Slap-slap-slap.

The headboard rattles against the wall.

Dad’s arm flops inches from her face.

She reaches back, spreads her ass.

“Spit on it.”

You hawk, land a glob on her puckered hole.

Thumb circles, pushes in.

She whines, “Yes… both holes for you, baby.”

You pull out, cock shiny with her cream, slam into her ass.

Tight. Burning.

She arches, tits dragging across Dad’s chest.

“Fuck Mommy’s shithole while Daddy dreams.”

You rail.

Harder.

Faster.

Ass cheeks ripple, red handprints blooming.

She fingers her clit, squirts across the sheets, soaking Dad’s thigh.

“He’ll wake up wet,” she laughs, breathless.

You flip her.

Face-up, legs over your shoulders.

Pussy gaping, ass leaking.

You slide back in, pounding her cunt while thumb-fucking her ass.

She grabs Dad’s limp hand, wraps it around her tit.

“Feel that, honey? Your son’s ruining me.”

Dad mumbles in his sleep.

Mira cums—hard.

Pussy spasming, squirting in arcs, splashing Dad’s face.

She screams your name: “HETO! BREED ME!”

You explode.

Thick ropes flood her womb, overflow, drench the mattress.

You keep thrusting, pushing cum deeper, marking her.

She milks you dry, shaking, tears in her eyes.

You pull out.

Gape.

Cum pours like a faucet, pooling under Dad’s hip.

Mira scoops a glob, sucks her fingers, moans.

“Taste us.”

She straddles Dad’s face, grinds her sloppy holes over his mouth.

“Drink your son’s load, darling.”

He snorts, swallows in his sleep.

She slides off, crawls to you, licks your cock clean.

“Round three in the shower,” she whispers, cum on her chin.

“Leave the phone running. Let him wake to us.”

End of Chapter 2