Chapter 371 - Gareth Fapping Himself
Gareth blinked.
He stared at the closed laptop.
The room was dark except for the thin crack of streetlight under his curtains, and the sounds from upstairs were still happening, and his cock was still at full attention, and he had closed the laptop because closing the laptop was the correct and logical and morally defensible action to take.
He opened the laptop.
He told himself it was to close the tab properly.
The screen came back, and the tab was still there, and the image was still there, and the resolution was still that — still the impossible, tactile, three-dimensional wrong of a screen that had stopped behaving like a screen — and his hand moved to the trackpad and stayed there without clicking anything.
The woman on the screen was on her back.
Hands bound behind her. Both legs lifted and held — not by her, by the man above her — the thick, generous weight of her thighs pressed back, her body folded in a way that exposed everything to the angle the camera had chosen, and everything that was exposed was wet, visibly, completely, the slick shine of it catching whatever the camera was using for light.
Her hairy cunt fluttered.
He could see it flutter — the small, involuntary clench of swollen lips around the cock seated inside her, the inner walls visible at the stretched entrance, pulling inward with each pulse — and his own hand moved to his pants without him instructing it to.
"Yeah." He breathed it out, low, talking to himself the way he did when he was alone and something had gotten past his defenses. "Shit. That bitch in the garden just completely ruined my—"
He stopped.
He pulled his pants down.
His cock fell out already hard, already leaking, and he looked at the ceiling with the expression of a man who has lost an argument with himself and knows it.
"This is fine," he said. To nobody. "This is a video. This is a normal video on my laptop."
He looked back at the screen.
His hand wrapped around his cock and he started to stroke, slow, the way you start when you’re still pretending this might be brief.
PAH. PAH. PAAAH.
The sound came through the ceiling and through his earphones simultaneously, and for one terrible, disorienting second they synced — the slap on the screen and the slap above him arriving in the same beat — and something in his brain misfiled which was which.
He shook his head.
"Coincidence."
"HAANGH~!! H-hnn— AAAHH~!!"
Through the earphones.
A pause.
Then, muffled, through the ceiling above him:
"AAAHH~—"
Gareth’s hand stopped moving.
He sat very still for three seconds.
"Different woman," he said, firmly, to the room. "Completely different. Different register. Different—"
He started stroking again.
The woman on the screen was thicker than the actress he’d been watching before the resolution had done whatever it had done.
He had not processed this fully. He was processing it now.
Thick through the hips. Thick through the thighs where they were pressed back against her own body by the man holding them. The kind of softness that moved with impact — the jiggle of it, the give, the way the flesh distributed the force of each thrust and sent it outward in small, concentric waves through the body that received it.
The breasts.
He looked at the breasts and his hand sped up.
Heavy. Full. The kind of weight that meant they didn’t sit still for anything — hanging sideways with the woman’s position, shifting with each thrust in that specific pendulum arc he had been trying very hard not to think about since the garden—
"Fuck her harder," he said, quietly, to the screen, to himself, to the ceiling, to nobody.
He said it again, less quietly.
His saliva gathered. He swallowed.
His strokes had gotten less measured.
Upstairs, in Jennifer’s room:
The panty had been back in her mouth for ten minutes.
She could taste herself on it — old cotton, salt, the specific evidence of how her body had been behaving all day — and could do nothing about this because her hands were behind her back and the man between her legs was holding both of her thighs up with the casual, single-minded grip of someone who had decided where he was and was not discussing alternatives.
Her eyes were wet.
Running freely, actually — not sobs, just the continuous overflow of a woman whose tear ducts had been working since the garden and hadn’t been given a reason to stop — and through the blur of them she could see the room around her, the familiar geometry of her own bedroom, the dresser, the lamp, the framed photo of Gareth at thirteen.
And the mirror.
The full-length mirror on the wardrobe door, angled by some coincidence of positioning to reflect not her but the wall behind her — the wall that shared a surface with the ceiling above her son’s room — and within it, rendered in that impossible, liminal clarity of reflections that have been given access to things they shouldn’t be able to show, a shape.
A young man.
Seated at a desk.
Head down, earphones in, hand moving.
Her son.
Her eyes went wide.
She screamed into the panty.
The sound that came out was not a scream — it was a compressed, muffled shriek, "MMF—NNF—HNNGFF—" — and Raven, above her, did not stop.
PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"MMPPHH~!! N-NNGHF~!! HHMMF—!!"
She tried to close her legs.
He held them open with both hands, the grip easy and absolute, her thighs trembling against his palms as she struggled, and he looked down at her with the expression of a man reading an interesting document.
"You’re getting wetter," he said.
She shook her head. Violently. Tears running into her hair.
He rolled his hips — a slow, deliberate grind that dragged his cock in a deep, orbital sweep against the wall she could now identify by sensation, the one his cock had been visiting all day — and watched her face.
Her hips pushed back.
She hated them for it.
He shifted his weight.
He dropped into something lower — knees bent, a squat-adjacent position that compressed his body downward — and the angle changed.
The angle changed catastrophically.
The cockhead found her cervix.
Not nudged. Not pressed. Found it with the precise, unhurried certainty of something that has been mapped and is now arriving at its destination, the blunt tip pushing directly against the opening, and the pressure that bloomed from that contact had no clean category in Jennifer’s operational vocabulary, it was simply too much information delivered at once — pain and fullness and something that bypassed both and went directly to the base of her skull.
PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"MMPPHH~!! HIEEK~!! AAANGHFF~!!"
Her eyes rolled.
She saw the ceiling.
She saw the mirror.
In the mirror, her son’s hand was moving faster.
She sobbed into the panty — a genuine, broken, maternal sob that had absolutely no business sharing a body with the way her pussy was clenching around Raven’s cock, but they were both happening, simultaneously, in the same woman, in the same moment — and the pink insignia above her womb pulsed once, warm and entirely indifferent to her feelings about the matter.
"Aren’t you getting more wet," he said, same tone as before, "knowing your son is watching."
She shook her head.
He thrust.
PAAAH!
"STOP—" The panty muffled it to nothing. "NO—" Nothing. "PLEASE—"
Her thighs were soaked.
Her cunt was making sounds she could hear over her own muffled voice, wet and greedy and completely at odds with everything she was trying to say with her eyes and her hands and the shaking of her head.
The squirt arrived without warning.
It came from somewhere she couldn’t locate — some deep, overworked place that had finally exceeded whatever capacity she’d had — and it came hard, the sudden gush of it spraying forward and downward, and through the mirror, through the blur of her tears, she watched it happen:
The arc of fluid hit the floor.
The floor that shared a surface with the ceiling above her son’s room.
And through the mirror she saw the shape of Gareth — sitting at his desk, earphones in, hand moving — and she watched his head tilt back.
"PLEASE." Into the panty. "DON’T WATCH. PLEASE — GARETH — DON’T —"
The sounds that came out were moans.
That was what they were to him.
Just moans.
Downstairs:
Gareth’s second orgasm arrived before he’d fully processed having the first one.
He was not accustomed to this.
He was accustomed to one, clean, managed release followed by the reliable disappearance of interest that made the whole exercise tidy.
This was not tidy.
His cock had peaked, released, and continued being interested, as if the input hadn’t been fully addressed, as if the source was ongoing and his body had correctly identified it as ongoing and decided to remain engaged with the problem.
"Shit," he said, looking at his own hand. "What kind of—"