â â â âó ó ó ( ÂŽàœ` ) YOU LOOK HUNGRY â â â â â â mark actually makes it in time for dinner, but he thinks missing it wouldâve been less embarrassing than getting bricked up at your table.
â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â a.k.a â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â Amberâs Mom Has Got It Going On
â â â â â > all characters involved are 18 and older. the following fic contains â â â â â â mark grayson thirsting over someone at least 20 years his senior. â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â
warnings & tags | i guess it is implied the reader is poc. but idk if u are white just imagine amber is biracial (or imagine the one from the comics ig) đ€·đŸââïž inconvenient boners, the perverse mind of a sweet suburban boy (he's thirsty), mishandling of an embarrassing situation, male masturbation, scent kink, misuse of cow print panties. mark thinks of cheating on amber (spiritually?), you're not in on it <3 you are a baddie minding your business. reader is a good mom (serious). reader is said to have fat/pudge/curves at least once. mark is uncircumcised. the reader is referred to using titles that align with she/her/hers, you are considered Amber's 'mom'. PORN WITH PLOT i take the premise extremely seriously lol. 7.3k words.
yapper notes | i went to a music lounge and a young woman (very beautiful alt girl) sang a song dedicated to her ex called 'you look hungry' and i immediately got the idea for this fic . shout out to the big homie @on-hit for helping me every step of the way with it they are an AWESOME beta reader, and to my inspirations @sophsthebest @slutla @batsovergotham @nana-au @arieswritez who have been making me go CWAZY with their mark content. first fic is dedicated to yall <33 taglist | @zomqiez
ââk hungry.â His glass clinks off the wood of the table when you set it down, the sound snapping Mark back to reality.
Mark blinks out of his stupor, memories of the time and place rushing back to him. âIâm sorry Mrs. Bennettâwhatâd you say?â Smiling awkwardly, Mark realized then and there he should not have agreed to this. He should have found some way to tell Amber he couldnât make it. He should have bailed and asked mom to make some shit up so he didnât have to be seated across from you at this dinner table. The flu excuse was a classicâalthough, he hadnât seemed sick earlier that week. Scratch that, couldnât work. Food poisoning, though? He was sure that couldâve worked well enough to have kept him the fuck home.Â
He knows that Mom probably wouldnât have done it, though. Sheâd have gone on and on about honestyâsincerity. The things that make or break a relationship. He wouldâve had to tell Amber himself anyway.
He secretly hoped Cecil changed his mind about having reassigned him, but dashed the thought as quickly as he had it. Mark Grayson would never hope to be that lucky.
âYou look hungry.â Your emphasis. It draws out the grit in your voice; that saccharine drawl lances through his thoughts and spears him right in the chest. His heart pounds with the roar of a war drum, disconcertingly loud in his ears and youâre standing so closeâjust to pour his waterâthat he worries for a moment you can hear it too. He prays to God you donât notice how tense he is or how red his face has gotten since youâve stepped into his vicinity.Â
What is he so flustered by, anyway? Is it the smell of your perfume thatâs got him short circuiting? The faint tickle of your breath on his ear? The mere thought of you being anywhere near him?
The answer is D: all of the above.Â
Having come to this conclusion, it sets the facts in stone--
He really is fucked.Â
Heâd be surprised if he still had a girlfriend by the end of the night cause his eyes have been glued to you since you opened the door, caught on your every word. Amber was over the moon about it at first. Heâd been housebroken in five minutes tops; yes and maâam his two favorite words.
âHungry?â
It's hardly anything but you light up anyway, your shock giving way to a restrained excitement and in an instant your demeanor entirely made over. Your eyes became alive and bright, smile lines gentle crescents on your face as your grin spans ear to ear.Â
You have been doing most of the talking. He canât get his thoughts in a straight line when you look him in the eyes so instead of being tongue-tied, second guessing and editing every genuine reaction, he made himself set dressing; he was your coat rack in the corner, the ottoman that held your drinks, your plaid couch cushion. He observed the banter between you and Amber and acted like some stranger, or her shadow as opposed to âher little friend.â You had tried to coax him out of his shell.
Nudged his shoulder. A quick What do you think, Mark? just to see if heâll bite. He only nodded politely. Kept eye-contact but hardly emoted; you donât think this kid has blinked for the past five minutes. I think itâs just fine, maâam. No dice. Cool and calm, but it feels too curated. Contained.
You think he doesnât like you at first and that is entirely on him. The bit of sadness in your eyes and the odd glance from Amber fills him with dread, but ultimately he decides itâs worth it. It was far better than you getting too close and finding out he actually likes youâa lot more than he should. He feels the rage of his hormones itching at his hind brain; a stirring in his pants just because you brushed his shoulder.
During all your pleasantries he was preoccupied. Busy exercising dwindling self-restraint, jaw tightened and fingers dug into his palms so hard heâs sure he bled a bit.
Behind his eyes is his rational mind resisting the urge to ogle. Eye contact is the bane of him but so is your body, each curve and sharp edge unfortunately (mournfully, even) hidden beneath the threshold of your neck. He dared not look any lower.Â
Heâd done more than enough staring when Amber first showed him your picture. She brought up the whole dinner idea and flashed a pic of you offhandedly, said it was from your birthday.
He shouldâve called it there. He shouldâve wisened up and cut his losses, because this was a bad fucking idea.Â
He was staring for wayyy too long; being rendered slack-jawed in front of your girl for any amount of time by anyone whoâs not her is immediately and unignorably suspect. However, you are the girlâs mother, and Mark is praying Amber thinks he is in his right mind and does not jump to the conclusion that, briefly, he wondered what your tits looked like sans top.Â
âSheâsâŠâ Hot. âBeautiful. I see where you get your good looks from, babe.â Amber laughed at that, missing the single drip of sweat that had to have been sliding down his temple. She elbowed him, paltry laughter coloring her speech. âOkay good, cuzâ that was a test.â Mark squints at her, hands closing in at her waist and gently pinching her fat, teasing. âTesting me? What are you vetting for? Whatââ He had laughed from the nerves, picked at a loose thread on his jeans to diffuse his inner tension. âDo people say crazy shit about your mom to your face?â
Heâd been peering at the picture from beneath her thumb when she shook her head. âYouâd be surprised! Some people booold as fuck.â
Mark was busy looking, didnât respond right away. âYeah⊠thatâs, thatâs wild.âÂ
Did you get knocked up fresh out of highschool? There are some natural lines of age that accentuate your smile and reach your eyes, but none of that even matters; itâs like your aura is timeless, your confidence striking, he could feel your joy, and he smiles back at you like a dumbass.
âYou good?â Sheâs noticed it, the shift in the energy.Â
SOUND THE ALARMS! Heâs been caught. Itâs over. Amber hates his guts thinks heâs disgusting and is never going to speak to him againâ
âYeah! Iâm just super excited to meet her. She seems like a lovely woman.â When she smiles back, the flood sirens stop, hazard lights go out. âShe is! Mom of year material, swear to god.âÂ
â...yeah.â
Good grief, what the hell would his mother say? Catching him drooling over a woman twice his ageâhe hoped sheâd at least laugh before she smacked him upside the head.
But he feels as blameless as he does shameful.
Because look at you. As far as heâs concerned, dinnerâs already been served.
His mouth is dry by the time it catches up to his mind.Â
âYeah, I know that look man. Youâre starving.â You step back from around him and walk towards the oven, and he justifies his staring by convincing himself he was already looking over before you walked there. He gulps.
Your pants cup your ass so perfectly; two beautiful cheeks, teasing him from under thin denimâ âUh.. yeah, I guess I am. Thirsty, too. Thanks for the water,â he cheers at you and you shake your head, putting on cow print oven mitts. They match your apron, your drink coasters, and utensil grips. Thereâs a joke there somewhere: something something, mommies and milkies.
âDonât mention it! But sorry for the wait; dinner doesnât usually take this long to startâI have no idea what that girl is doing up there.â You open the oven. âOh! Before I forget: if you want anything other than water, or if you want seconds, just let me know sweetheart.â
He eats you up with his eyes, you donât know heâs already on his third plate.
Your voiceâsuave, smoothâsoothes and excites him. You speak with the cadence of a song, your expressive lilt or husky croons tickle his brain in just the right way. You are genuine, cordial, have been since heâs stepped foot into your home. Amber is always coming over with little lunches, post-it notes with squiggly hearts attached. You sign everything in the same flowy script, for my beautiful daughter; since you have learned of his existence, youâve tacked on and her little friend in parenthesis, packing the snacks Amber told you he liked.Â
Youâre attentive. Thoughtful. Youâd even gotten him a gift for his birthday before you even met in person. He refused to accept the present at first, but Amber said itâd be a bigger hassle to try and get you to give it back, from one of those shows Amber said you liked written on the card attached.Â
A limited edition shiny, which he canât fathom you found for any price cheaper than an arm and a leg. Amber said you had a friend and just thought he might like it.
It was really⊠sweet. How much you wanted them to work out. He senses that same sincerity in your every action. In every smile or wave, in the time you took to prepare him a beautiful dinnerâand youâre right, he actually is hungryâall in an effort to get to know him better. Youâre not some cougar, or some hyper-nymphomaniac slut whoâd try to seduce her daughterâs boyfriend. Which was unfortunate, for him.
You are just a good mom. A great one even, and a better host besides. Mark is just some fucking pervert.
While youâre pulling the trays out of the oven, he is glued to your every movement, tilting his head to get your best angles. Your spread is immaculate.
The gentle swing of your hips, and fuckâhe swears he can see the outline of it. The subtle flare of your pussy lips, shrink wrapped in your jeans. Either heâs imagining things, or your cuntâs just as fat as he thought itâd be.
Fuck dinner, he desperately wants to skip straight to dessert, peach juice dribbling down his chin. Heâd lick you up quickâyouâre liquid gold, too precious to waste a drop. â...sheâs probably getting cute for her little friendâŠâ You mutter to yourself, which cuts through the fog of perversion, and he takes a sip of his water in a futile attempt to cool off.
His final shame would be getting hard at your dinner table. Itâs not like youâre doing it on purpose, itâs just out of your control just like itâs out of his, in a way. You canât help looking good in your clothes! Thatâs why you buy them, for the way they cuddle your supple curves, snuggle between your folds, caressing your fat so well they had to have been tailor-made for you.Â
Youâd look good in his clothes, too.
His dick twitches at the thought, grip around his glass tightening.
âI shouldâve asked Amber what you like to eat but,â You start, still taking trays out the oven.âI guess the invitation was super last minute, so apologies if our meager dinner doesnât suit your highfalutinâ tastes.â He can hear the smile on the tip of your tongue, your jibes easing his wariness. âDonât even worry about that,â he reassures, thinking too hard about what to say next. âIt smells way too good in here for the food to not hit, yaâknow?â He facepalms internally.
âWell, arenât you a flatterer? Why thank you, Mark. Itâs nice to feel appreciated.â Youâre dramatic, palm to chest and flourishing with the flair of a broadway star, and it catches him so off guard he laughs. Youâre emboldened by his energy, moving around with an ineffable pep, almost like youâre dancing. Itâs silly frankly, watching you butter bread buns as you jam to an invisible concert.
Mark should have been laughing. Should have been prancing around the kitchen alongside you, playing The Good Boyfriend, collecting his brownie points by helping his girlfriendâs mother around the house. Just be a normal fucking person.
But heâs caught. Fish-on-the-hook, rat-in-a-trap, caught. On the swell of your hips, the twist of your spine, the expanse of your neck, the dimples on your back whenever your shirt rides up. The way your ass sticks out when you get on your tippy toes to grab something from a high shelf. Your body is intoxicating and Mark isnât the drinking type, but since time immemorial have there been exceptions. Heâs been making a lot, tonight, so whatâs another?
Everything about this is lovely. Thereâs fresh baked bread, rice and beans on the stove, baked mac and cheese set aside on a cooling rack, and the chicken⊠he sniffs.Â
âIs that cumin?â He asks, in an attempt to distract himself. You make a noise that sounds like surprise and glance back at him. âYeah! It is. Some nose you got on ya, Mark! You cook a lot or something? Or maybeâŠjust have an uncanny sense of smell.â You tap your nose, smirking, and Mark just shrugs. âI watch my Mom, she shows me how to cook some stuff from time to time. Or when I ask. But Iâm not exactly the greatest student, so I donât wanna waste her time you know.â He laughs. It makes an odd wheeze coming out, and on impulse he scratches the back of his neck as you sample a sauce. âNo worries about that, here. Iâm an excellent teacher.â Your smugness palpable, you crook your finger at him. âCâmere, Iâll show you a little something-something.â
And he canât just say no.
So, there he stands next to you, half-chubbed, in front of the stove. You two are hip-to-hip at your insistenceâyou canât learn standing all the way back thereâthe steam in his face not nearly as hot as he is under the collar. âVeggies with lotsa water are a bitch to cook so I donât even bother. Weâre doing cauliflower tonight. Something simple, sumnâ light. Now, the trick is to be loose with it, donât worry about whether or not youâre gonna fuck it up. Just let it rock,â You look over at him and he is stiff, like he has half a mind to let your hard work burn to a blackened crisp. You grab his hand to try help him stir and he starts to turn pink. You didnât think the kitchen was that hot. âTry and relax. Breathe in, breathe out. You got this baby.â Youâre fucking with him. You just have to be.Â
Are you really that sultry-toned, bedroom-eyed? Or is he seeing things, steam fogging up his thoughts. He begins, trying not to sound so nervous, âMrs. Bennettââ
âYou can just call me by my name, Mark.â You snort. He swallows. âOkay, maâa- Uhhh,â He stutters and you chuckle. âIf thatâs too familiar for you, you can always just call me Mom.â You wink and his heart flutters in his chest. âOkay, mom.â He has to keep himself from shivering as the word rolls off his tongue.Â
Heâs out of place next to you, a milk jug in the candy aisle, clown shoes paired with a cocktail dress. Your softness contrasts his on-edge, heâs surprised he hasnât cut you yet.Â
âTake a deep breath Mark, you donât need to overthink it. Weâre not doing rocket science.â You guide him. In and then out. Your hand crooks his wrist and he forces himself to relax. âGrab the handle of the pan.â Itâs easy to do whatever you ask of him. Heâs only waiting for you to say jump.Â
âNow stir in a slow continuous motion, loosen your wrists but keep your grip on the spoon tight.âÂ
Youâre training wheels falling away as the cogs in his brain start to turn again. He rotates his wrist and keeps going, stirring in time with your humming. The pale cauliflower change color from white to gold. He takes a peek out of his periphery to gauge how heâs doing, and the wry grin splitting your face makes him smile, too.Â
âSee? Youâre a natural when you put your mind to it. Or maybe you just needed a more hands-on kind of teacher?â you hum.Â
He short circuits a second. He doesnât even notice you snatching a simmering cauliflower out of the pan; you have a motherâs immunity to this kind of heat. âSample your work always. Never serve someone something you havenât tried yourself.â You blow gently on the piece you plucked and offer it to him.
âMy hands are sort of preoccupied, mom.â Saying that feels much better than it should. âI donât think I canââ Heat at his lips silences him.
âOpen.âÂ
Housebroken was right. He doesnât have to think about it, heâs blinked and the cauliflower is already grinding under his teeth. The tastes of garlic and onion bloom beautifully on his palette, not overbearing, just delicious.
âOh shit yeah,â He groans a little, then remembers himself, drawing back in. âSorry, pardon my language.â Try as he might to dissuade himself, a snake of a smile slithers onto his face. âItâs great.â Mark smacks his lips together gently as you look at him, expectant. He licks the residue of seasonings off his lip and tries not to imagine what you taste like. âIâm wondering if your tongueâs as sensitive as your nose. So whatâs the verdict? Give me a run down.â
He sucks his teeth. âGarlic. Onions. Or maybe shallots? Is there a difference? I just assumed they were just kind of smaller onions.â He can smell the difference but he likes the way you light up when he asks. âYeah, there is! Shallots are like⊠a distant cousin. Theyâre from a whole different family, Allum- something or other.â You reach in front of him to turn down the heat on the stove and you get far too close for comfort.
âGo on.â He thinks for a moment. âI thought I tasted,â You hold out your hand and he instinctively hands you the spoon. âHm. I donât know, I thought I tasted something spicy, a little sweet, maybe.â You nod. âThatâs what you call the spice of life: Paprika.â Que jazz hands.
âTwo outta three isnât too bad. Iâll make a chef out of you yet Grayson.â You beam and it is blinding, he has to look away. âYouâre shaping up to be an excellent pupil.â He full body perks up at your praise. If he had a tail, itâd be wagging. âDo me a favor Mark?â His dog ears perk up. âGet a cup from the cabinet above you. Then take the pitcher,â You gesture as you slide your oven mitts on. âAnd put it in the middle of the table.â
âOkay!â He nods so giddily at you that you canât help your laughter, rich as it flows from you. Youâre opening the oven when you say it. You donât even have the courtesy of facing him as you completely and utterly ruin his life.
âYouâre a real good boy, arenât you Mark?â Â
Everything is quiet thenâ
âSMASH!
The pitcher makes your teeth rattle when it shatters, your head darting to the side so quick itâs a miracle you donât snap your neck. Mark is standing there a few feet away from you, turned around, water and glass shards pooled at his feet.
âAre you okay?â The urgency in your voice pulls him out of his stupor. âUm. Yeah!â He chirps back, too fast. He is frozen in place.Â
âJust! Hold onââ You drop the flan on the counter and chuck your mitts.Â
Mark does not move.
His system is shot. All the blood has been evacuated from his brain, he can hardly focus on regulating his breathingânevermind the words coming out your mouth. âSweetheart..?â You try, brow arching. âWhat happened? Are you hurt?âÂ
âNo! Iâm fine.â He is on fire. Every muscle in his body coils tight as his fight or flight malfunctions. He freezes.
Heâs completely crashed.
Over two fucking words.
Mark is stock still for a second, rock hard dick trapped between his thigh and pants far too tight.
Youâre taken aback by his abruptness and quiet for a moment. âOkaaay. Well. Are you going to move over, at least?â You have something like a laugh lodged in between your words, riding closely behind irritation as your eyes follow the rolling stream of water beneath his feet.
âYes! Yeah, of course, sorry.âÂ
He doesnât mean to whimper like a kicked puppy, adorned with shame and all, and Mark hates the way you fold for him. The way you reassure him. Itâs fine, crooned in that same saccharine tone because you wholeheartedly give a shit about him. Which is the worst, because he does not deserve your concern. He does not deserve your daughter. He does not deserve you. Least of all your damn dinner.
He was right. He only wished he couldâve been happy about that.Â
Mark feels your laser eyes biting into his back, scoring over his skin as he moves out of the mess heâs made.
âThank you. Now, can you pass me the broom? Itâs in front of you.âÂ
He presses his palm to his mouth and eats his sigh. âOf course,â The throbbing in his pants is growing more insistent by the second but he canât look down. Canât acknowledge it or itâll become uncomfortably real. But itâs not like he can stand still forever. He walks forward and grabs the broom, quick as he turns and hands it to you. Youâre not even looking at him, too busy making sure youâre not tracking water underfoot. âIâm so, so sorry.â He starts, but you wave him off, leaning the broom against the fridge as you kneel to sop up the water.
âI didnât think you were the jumpy type.â You jibe, spritely even as you weave around glass splinter and shards, trying not to scrape your hardwood floor. âBut itâs fineâit happens to me too. Sometimes shit breaks,â you shrug. âPardon my french, but no point bitching about it! â You chuckle. âI am definitely gonna bully you about it, though.â You really, really shouldnât; he likes this pair of pants.
His shoulders loosen hesitantly, only to be agitated as he gauges the urgency of his real problem. He is tenting.
His jeans are more heavy duty than the suggestion you call clothing but itâs obvious if you know what to look for. The tautness in the material as his dick fills it out, darkening brought on by the precum crowning his tip.
âYeah, sorry. I guess I justâgot worked up.â Thatâs certainly a way of putting it. âI was worried about messing this whole thing up, but then I went and made a fool of myself anyway. Real classy, me.â He laughs as he scolds himself, scratching the back of his head. You donât see him while youâre bent over, cleaning, but heâs sure as hell seeing you. His conscience hits him with quick onset shame, but thereâs not enough blood circulating to his brain for it to keep up with his reservations; he ogles shamelessly.
He has to catch himself everytime he leans too far forward, but it canât be helped. He has a premium seat at the theatre and the main feature is your panty line, the poor excuse for a thong that creeps down the cleft of your ass, dipping below the horizon of your cheeks. He envies it.
âI had a feeling you mightâve been a little nervous,â Your voice snaps him out of his pervâs reverie. âBut donât worry, I like you plenty Mark. âM not expecting you to roll over or jump through hoops to impress me. Youâre not a dog.â you say, laughing, but you donât know.Â
You rise from where you were crouched on the floor and turn quicker than he was expecting, but itâs easy to play off his staring and meets you with a smile. It is returned. âYouâre good, right? Not wet or anything?â You give him a quick once over and he stops breathing.Â
You donât seem to find what youâre looking for, meeting his eyes once more. âYeah,â he says when he finds his voice, âNot anything, Iâm fine.â You nod, exhaling short through your nose as if to say okay.Â
âGreat.â You sigh, arms akimbo, as you look at the shattered glass, at the broom, then at Mark. âCome here.âÂ
Then youâre on top of him. Hugging him. Ruffling the hair on the back of his head, tits pushed up against his chest, hard nipples poking through your bra, hugging him. âUh, Mrs. Bennettââ
âWhatâd I say about calling me that?â You pull back, holding his shoulders while he stands with all the confidence of a wet cat, looking bewildered, then bashful. âAt least say Miss, it makes me feel younger.â You joke.
âMiss,â He canât help but comply. âWhat uh, what are you doing?â You squeeze his arms.Â
â...have you never been hugged before, Mark Grayson?â You tease, while he attempts to position his hips as far away from your anything as he can. âIâm doing the Mom thing, you know? Comforting you.â You can hardly keep your laughter in one second, and then the next youâre decadently soothing, voice barely above a whisper.Â
âYou didnât embarrass yourself, okay? Mistakes happen. Youâll give yourself an aneurysm if you keep stressing about making a good impression. As far as Iâm concerned, youâre already part of the family.â You snuggle into him, rubbing comforting circles on his back. He shudders at your touch.Â
Youâre just as soft as he imagined, just as plush and warm, but he canât hug you back, not in his state. You won't let him go.
âI can feel it, you know?â
His heart sinks. âUh? Whatâre you talking about?
âYour tension. Youâre stiff as all hell, man. You were sorta makinâ me nervous, cause you wanna look like youâre being held hostage.â He briefly looks at the arms girding him, then back to your babydoll face.
Wow. Youâre breathtaking. Pillowy lips, spiderwicked lashes, vibrant eyes. You smell softly of coconut, cocoa butter, vanilla, a hint of sweet almonds.Â
âJust relax man. Deep breath in, deep breath out.â He complies as his compulsion demands of him, and he, regretfully, relaxes in your arms. He relaxes to the feel, sight, and smell of you.
You made him too comfortable. He let out a sigh, eyes closed as he draped himself over your shoulder.
âThatâs it, big guy, just calm down.â You pat him gently. He returns the hug.
Mark knows when you feel it. He knows because it sends a nasty jolt through his entire body when you rub up against it. His body locks up and his eyes widen, mortified. He feels hot, the room almost set to spinning as his mind is overwhelmed; he startles himself, the tiniest groan escaping him, but that is not when you notice, no.
He doesnât say anything. He just leaves it be, cock throbbing as he tries to wade through the bog of his thoughts, trying not to rock himself against you.
Itâs only when you pull back that you see it. You had this half-smile on your face, hand propped on your hip, mouth open like you were about to speak and then,
you looked down.
On reflex. It was quick. Not even a half-a-second long. But then you double, triple take.
He wondered if you thought he was big, naturally, though the state of your face summed up everything youâd never say. The wide-eyed shock, inhale of breath, supple lips softly parted. Then confusion, a furrow in your brow, uncertainty as your eyes flick back to his burning face. A twinge of disgust, but itâs brief as you are quick to school your expression.Â
Heâs bigger than your husband, maybe, or youâre wondering if this dick has fucked your daughter.
(Heâs wondering if youâd take it better.)
If thereâs hunger in your eyes, he couldnât read it. Hell, he honestly canât look you in the eye long enough to try.
In reality, youâre only surprised his face is so red; youâd have thought all the blood went, wellâŠ
âOh.â You step away from him and tuck your hands behind your back. Neither of you speak for a moment, his wide eyes blinking at your indecipherable expression.Â
Then, you attempt to diffuse the tension. âWell. I'm... sure it happens to the best of us, Mark. Itâs no hard feelings, I mean!--â You seem to remember the broken glass then, the thing you should've looked at in the first place, and busy yourself begin cleaning it up.
He doesn't try to speak. The silence resumes.
Until eventually, you try again. âWhen I met my husband, he had an issue with getting âexcitedâ too, you know?â Around you? Color Mark unsurprised. âItâs only natural, especially for young men your age! Donât worry.â
 His face burns with shame, or is it irritation? If old boyâs not in the picture, then maybe he couldâŠ?
No, no, heâs getting ahead of himself again.
He eats up your sweetness, and his teeth rot alongside his dignity. âAmberâs not ready, so you can head up to the bathroom while I clean up in here and we never have to talk about it again. It can be our little secret.â You didnât have to whisper the last part. He swears youâre just mocking him now.Â
âReally?â He heaves sighs like mountains, eyes wily as they connect with yours. âYou wonât tell Amber?â
âReally really, Mark. Iâm sure she can live without knowingâŠthis,â You gesture to him with your palm and all five fingers. âEver happened. Especially after last time, sheâs probaby--â You touch on something you clearly didnât mean to, cutting yourself off before heaping refuse into a cow-print pail. âNevermind. Bathroomâs upstairs, second door on the left, sweetheart. There are some towels too, if you need to, umâŠ?â You trail off. âUh. Under the cabinet.â
âOkayâIâm gonna go now, if you donât mind, thank you so much maâamââ He stands and for some reason youâre not looking him in the eyes anymore.Â
âItâs no problem Mark, none at all.â You smile, quickly turning to dump the glass in the trash as he heads out. You catch the back of his head out of the corner of your eye, and let go of the chuckle you were holding onto as soon as you think heâs gone. â...just make sure you donât poke someoneâs eye out with that thing.âÂ
He doesnât know where his mind goes after that. Heâs hardly walked down the hall and heâs already played it over in his head five times. Heâs deluded, mind a broken record, cock trying to jump out his pants and it only gets worse the more your words play over in his head. He walks with great urgency, gait awkward as he skids to the far end of the hall and reaches the base of the staircase.
In the blink of an eye heâs at the top of the stairs and yet, he is not fast enough to miss your rose of a daughter. Amber looks surprised to see him. âYou came up to find me?â She was just touching up her makeup by the looks of it, blush renewed, baby blue eyeshadow reapplied, that artificial cherry gloss he likes. He could smell it from a mile off.
âYeah,â He lies reflexively, âYou were kind of taking foreverâŠwe thought you got lost on the way back or somethinâ.â Amber sounds so carefree when she laughs. He notices now how her face crinkles a lot like yours does, those same dimples and smile lines feeling intimately familiar now that heâs basked in your presence. She does a little flourish for him, stepping between him and the washroom and posing a little. âSo! How am I looking?â She pauses after she takes him in, his cheeks bleeding red, eyes flittering elsewhere.
âMark, you feeling alright? Youâre looking really⊠hot?â Mark blanks for a second thinking of what he ought to say before she glances down. Amber expression dwells somewhere between humored and pleasant as she stares, openly.
He is going to die.
âUhh, Iâm flattered Mark, but right now isnât really the best time,â she laughs. He sees now where she gets her humor from. âIâll make a mental note: deep necklines and low rise jeans got you whipped.âÂ
He has absolutely no rebuttal to that. You wear it better, though.
God thatâs so fuckedâ
âI, uh-- I can explain,â He starts, but Amber holds her hand up, fingers curling around his outstretched hand. âNo need.â He sighs in relief. âThe bathroomâs behind me. Iâll be with Mom. Iâve been gone for way too long, sheâll start thinking I died or something.â She smiles and heads towards the stairs.
âJustâgive me a few minutes. Donât wait up.â Amber says something thatâs muffled by the click of the bathroom door.
Finally.
He relaxes at the door, the roar in his mind quieted by the change in scenery.
Even the inside of your bathroom is cute. There is more bovine based decor bathed in warm yellow light. Everything from the soap dispenser to the rugs to the curtains are brown, beige, sand, pink or peach, and it smells utterly divine.
Itâs that perfume youâre wearing. Mark should be concerned he has already committed that scent to memory but heâs all bloodhound, thrown caution to the wind, sense on overdrive as he follows the trail to its end, X tucked behind the curtain of your bathtub.Â
âŠ
Itâs your underwear. He knows itâs yours on account of the cow spots. Not like he could imagine Amber in a number this racy anyway; the crotch is missing, blue frills lining the slit down the center and what he assumed were the leg holes. Modesty was certainly not something she inherited from you, he thinks, as he plucks this choice piece off the rack.
He has to hold it in both hands, feel the cotton under his thumb pad to believe itâs real. The fabric is soft to the touch. He can catch a whiff of the soap you used, the scent of your skin lingering just behind that. Heâs not even holding you close and youâre still so potent it makes his eye twitch and head hurt.
He imagines you in them. The smooth plane of your ass filling it out, the squish of your skin under the tension of the elastic.Â
He shouldnât even be entertaining the thought, and yetâŠ
âŠ
Soon heâs slumped over your toilet seat, arm laid up on the tank as his hand darts down to his pants and undoes the clasp. âFuuuuck me,â He groans, some of the pressure relieved as his tent pitches up, freed and now angrily demanding his attention. With your panties in his left hand, he pulls his boxers down with the other, his cock smacking against his stomach with a dull smack.Â
He knows heâs big but you mustâve done something to him, spiked his water, casted a spell, something, cause his tip is so red--so leaky, drooling and needy--and heâs soo fucking hard. His cock stands ramrod, twitching as he rubs the tip with a tentative index finger. He makes himself whimper, replaces index with his thumb, smearing his pre-cum in circles until heâs bold enough to curl his hand around the shaft. The slightest touch makes him buck, hips swinging upward as his balls clap against the back of his hand, his expression breaking off into a half dazed smile as his spine decompresses and his body begins to truly relax.
He goes slow, breath catching as he gets used to the feeling of doing this, relieving himself among your things, in your space, your fucking panties folded in his hand, but he canât care. He canât care when he feels this wired; canât care when the feeling of his foreskin dragging back and forth, up and down, and it feels mind-numbing, a match to his skin. He happily burns.
Propriety is dead; all he can think about is you. The way you sung his name and praises. The way your ass looked so perky in jeans. The way your tits bounce with your gait. âGod,â he could cum just thinking about it. Heâs already moaning, arm sliding up his shirt to cup his pec, the shlick, schlick of him hammering his fist filling the bathroom; heâs got a steady rhythm up and down his cock, his sensitivity feeling heightened from your affections. Heâs still thinking about the way you looked at it.
The way your jaw dropped, mouth hung open like a proposition. If youâd get on your knees to clean up the mess he made, what else could he make you kneel for?
âfuckââ
You called him a good boy.Â
Good boy?Â
Mark Grayson was everything, anything, but.
He certainly did feel like a dog, though. Panting, half bent over himself and jerking his dick so hard his toes are curling.Â
Mark gets himself worked up easily. When it smells like you, itâs easy to get lost in the fantasy, your precious hands wrapped around his fat dick and sucking it for all its worth. He wonders what kind of noise you makeâif you suck just as sloppily as Amber.Â
You seem like youâd have a tight throat. Tight pussy, too. Maybe he has to give it to you easy, treat you gentle and feed it in slow tilâ youâre squeezing on his dick like a vicegrip and mewling for him. Or maybeâ
âmaybe, he can just sliiiiiide right in. Fill you out all nice-like, leave you with a real good first impression. You would fit him like a glove, wet cunt soaking him to the bone.
And exactly how would he have you? Thereâs no shortage of options, just not enough time. Youâd live your whole life and never know a moment of peace again, if he got his hands on you.
Then thereâs your panties. He doesnât even know what to do with them, having left them limply dangling between his hand and his thigh as heâs beside himself, because you linger in his bones like bad cold, all ice and teeth and biting. He breathes heat into the air as he lets his head fall back, pretending the tightness of his fist is as good as the inside of your pussy. He imagines the way your ass would squish against his hips when he pounds you from the back. His balls would slap against your clit so good, have your eyes rolling back, ecstasy running a live wire through you, set your system to shock.
Heâd probably fold you in half, first, give it to you standing. Thinks about how easy it would be, to pull your hair, flip you around, bend you over.Â
He wants to Fuck. You. Up.
You look like a moaner too. He can picture it, your tits smushed up against his chest as he gets your legs slung over his shoulders and breaks your back in.
He can hear the way you whimper out his name, stitched together from the bytes of you heâs stored in his memory. Mark has you wailing, whining, scratching your nails blunt on the flat of his back.Â
You whisper his name in prayer.Â
Mark.Â
Mark.Â
Mark.
MARK!â
He feels his balls tighten, just as a fist hammers against the door.
âMaaark!âÂ
He cums to the sound of Amberâs voice; you two sound so, so similar. Like your voice, too, it snaps him back to reality. He was wholly unprepared for this moment. He canât stop cumming.
It shoots on to his tummy, thick white ropes of cum sticking to his abdomen before he can think to stop it, and Amber is still hammering on the door, couldâve been for the past five minutes and Mark could not have known. He canât speak for a moment, throat dry and gummed together at the same time.
â...Mark?â The knocking softens. âAre you okay?â
His cock throbs in his hand as it pumps another load and his mind is stuff chock full of fuzz, vision spacey as he comes down from seeing stars. He canât bask in the afterglow long, not to the sound of Amber knocking. Markâs eyes go wide as saucers, and his mind runs on instinct.
He reflexively wipes the cum off his stomach with your thong. His pupils dilate. UhâŠ
Guess he canât take it back now. He cleans himself off, catching the rest of his mess in the sponge of fabric.Â
The panties are properly soiled by the time heâs done.
Voice broken like heâd been crying (because he had shed a few tears), he calls back. âIâll be out in a second.â The knocking stops and the voice on the other end sighs. âWe thought you slipped and cracked your head dude; youâve been gone for a cool 15. Unless youâre taking a-â
Mark opens the door.Â
Heâs looking pristine; zen, subtle smile breaking his nonchalant demeanor. He looks down at her, expectantly. âYou gonna move over, or do I have to make you?â He jokes with a tilt of his head.
Amber quirks her lips at him, then backs up to give him space. He spills out of the bathroom and quickly closes the door behind him.Â
âIt always take you that long to freshen up?â Mark sucks his teeth as they begin to walk down the stairs. âYou canât talk. How long were you gone for again? Like thirty minutes? Just to put on blush?â She elbows him, giggling.
âItâs my house you dolt, Iâll go missing in it as long as I want.â They can laugh together, finally, and it surprises Amber, the first time sheâs seen him unwound the whole night. âWhat kind of peptalk did you give yourself to make your little problem go away, huh?â She asks at the last second; he uses them crossing the threshold of your kitchen as an excuse to keep mum.
âFound him, ma!â Amber presents him as he takes a seat at this godforsaken table.
Dinner is just fine. Perfect, you could say. Thereâs a light in Markâs eyes you havenât seen all night, his conversation lively and engaging. No more yes maâam, no maâam; no maâam at all for the rest of the night.Â
Thatâs not to mention the food itself. Itâs immaculate, meat fall-off-the-bone tender, beans seasoned and flavorful, garlic buttered bread so good itâs got his thighs squeezing together.
But he still canât help but think:
Youâd taste so much better.
FIN
LaterâŠ
Home.
At home, he can lock himself in his room and no nosy girlfriend will come knocking.Â
At home he can kick his feet up, play with his balls and beat off to the thought of you without interruption.Â
But itâs odd. He smells himself, the room around him. It smells like you still, somehow. Mark thinks heâs just caught on you, olfactory giving him false signals, but before he brushes it off as a red herring, he catches another whiff of you.
Then another.
And another,
Until heâs tearing up his room looking for the source of it. Until he finds himself staring at the pair of khakis he wore. Until heâs picking them up, and realizes the outside of the pocket looks greasyâor damp.
He slowly reaches in, revealing a sad, sad pair of panties, surely missing the ass that filled them out. At first he has the sensibility to be horrified, but while holding them, cum smeared and all, he sniffs. He stifles the little groan that slips from his lips.Â
Yup, thatâs you alright.
He looks around like heâs being judged by the shadows, the light filtering in through the curtains.Â
He closes them.
The world shouldnât have to bear witness to his depravity.
â â â â â â â â â all writtens are penned by ©ïžomniphilic !
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