Page 10 of My Mom's Man
Because of me?
It’s stupid and unrealistic and horrible of me to think such a thing. Yet, the man who’s been denied sex for far too long, imagines she’s wishing it were my fingers touching her throbbing clit.
I bite on my bottom lip and do the unthinkable. With jerky movements, I shove my hand into my shorts and free my cock. It’s heavy and thick in my calloused hand. I stroke it roughly, wishing for a smaller, smoother hand instead. Each time she whimpers, I nearly climax right then.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This is so wrong.
I need to just fuck Amara tonight so I can get over this forbidden need coursingthrough me.
Every thought of Amara, naked and writhing beneath me, transforms into Emma. I can’t force her out of my mind, no matter how hard I try. I’m outside the bathroom door as she showers, jerking off to thoughts of fucking her.
I bet she’s tight and juicy.
I’d tear her in half with my fat cock. I’d bruise her insides with every stab of my big dick.
“Oh fuck,” I mutter, voice shaking.
The water shuts off and I’m frozen. Silence fills the air. Do I bolt? No. I continue stroking my dick as I imagine her standing there wet and naked. A small groan escapes me as a soft splatter of cum hits the door. I jerk hard and fast, eager to expel all this illicit need for a girl younger than my own damn son.
Once completely spent, I rip off my shirt and carefully swipe it off the door. Then, I hold the wet material to my still-throbbing cock as I stumble toward my room. I’ve barely closed the door when I hear Emma’s voice.
“All yours now.”
The shower.
She means the shower.
Not her.
I yank my shorts up over my dick and then stuff my shirt into the hamper. I’ll have to do the laundry today to hide the evidence of my sick episode a few moments ago. The thought of Amara finding my cum-crusted shirt and demanding answers makes my stomach roil.
What did I just do?
Shame coats over me like black, sludgy oil. I want to scrape it off of me, flinging it as far away as possible. What I just did isn’t me. I’m not a cheater or some perv who checks out young woman. I’m a good man, dammit.
Good men don’t fuck their hand outside the door of their girlfriend’s daughter while she showers.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Nothing happened. It was a quick, reckless moment, but it’s over. I had to satisfy my sexual craving in a safe way, and I did. No one got hurt. Everything is fine.
Cheater.
Guilt threatens to swallow me whole.
Is it cheating to have a fantasy?
What I did feels worse than cheating or some harmless fantasy. It feels like wearing sickness and shame like a second skin. Like lust and sin twisted into a sick lollipop I just greedily ran my tongue over. Disgusting.
I’d desperately wanted Emma.
Only a door separated me from doing something unforgivable.
What if there were no door between us?
It can’t happen again.
