Chapter 236- Jenny’s Mom
The bathroom still dripped.
Steam clung to the tiles like a second skin as Cruxius rolled his neck, the vertebrae cracking in a slow, satisfied chain down his spine.
He stretched his arms wide behind him, muscles pulling taut across his broad back, sweat and other things still glistening along every ridge of him.
Jenny lay exactly where he left her, flat on the cold bathroom floor, legs barely shut, chest rising and falling in shallow, ruined heaves.
"I must say." He didn’t even look back at her. "You really have very little immunity. Or endurance."
Her jaw tightened.
Her teeth pressed together hard enough to ache, and she kept her eyes shut because opening them meant seeing that expression on his face, that flat, unbothered assessment of her like she was a exercise that had come up short.
She said nothing.
There was nothing to say.
Her body simply refused anything beyond existing, limbs sore and heavy, her insides still leaking warmth from places she couldn’t think about without her face flushing bright red.
He stepped over her legs without ceremony.
The stairs creaked once under his weight.
He came down them entirely naked, damp hair raked back, cock hanging thick and half-lazy between his thighs, still carrying the smell of her on him.
He moved like a man coming down for coffee.
No urgency. No shame. Just bare feet on hardwood and the casual drag of knuckle across jaw as he reached the bottom landing and turned the corner into the living room.
He stopped.
She was on the sofa.
Long legs crossed at the knee, a deep glass of red wine tipped just slightly in her fingers, the other hand resting loose over the back cushion like she owned the air around her.
She was older than Jenny by a clear margin, but the kind of older that didn’t apologize for itself.
Dark hair pinned up at the nape of her neck, a few loose strands falling at her collar. Full lips. Eyes that had seen too many things to be impressed by any one of them.
She watched him come down the stairs the same way a woman watches a wine label she hasn’t tried yet but already knows the vintage.
She lifted her glass.
"I must commend you." Her voice was low and unhurried, pouring her wine with one easy tilt. "You went quite long up there. And quite hard, from the sound of it."
Cruxius blinked once.
He walked toward her at the same unhurried pace, cock swinging free, and a low chuckle built in his chest before it came out.
"I must say." He stopped a few feet from her, tilting his head. "You’re quite a bitch for not being embarrassed by a naked man walking into your living room."
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t look away from his face. Didn’t look down either, which somehow made it worse than if she had.
"I’ve seen more men naked than your age, boy."
The ’boy’ landed with the precision of a thrown knife.
His eyes narrowed just a fraction.
"Now I know why." His voice dropped quieter, cooler. "How exactly did you manage to get that photo of your daughter."
It landed.
Her expression didn’t shatter but it shifted, something snapping behind the composure for exactly one second before the smirk came back.
She uncrossed her legs.
Her fingers dipped to the waistband of her underwear, stretching it slowly aside with two fingers.
What she offered him was not shy about itself.
Full, heavy outer lips, darkened and puffy, the kind of cunt that had been lived in and owned itself completely, a mature spread that parted with just the pull of her fingers to show him the wet pink interior with zero apology.
"Come here." Her voice didn’t raise. "And lick it."
Her smirk sat on her mouth like it had been born there.
Cruxius looked down.
Then back up.
"Do you actually think," his voice was dry as bone, "that I’m going to do that?"
She said nothing for a moment.
Her free hand traveled down her own abdomen slowly, fingers tracing below her navel until they dipped low, dragging back up slick, and then she raised those same fingers to her lips.
She sucked them clean while watching his face.
"Your little guy isn’t agreeing with you."
His eye twitched.
He looked down.
Nine inches of him had made a liar out of him without a single word of consent, fully hard, curved upward with the fat vein running the full length of the shaft throbbing visibly with his pulse.
He exhaled through his nose.
"It always disappoints me."
"What about women?" she asked simply.
He walked toward her.
"Ask your daughter."
He stopped directly in front of her, hardened cock level with her eye line, and she looked up at him with that same expression, utterly unintimidated.
Her hand reached up, fingers wrapping around the base.
He caught her wrist before she could move it.
He leaned down slowly until they were nearly at the same level, her seated and him bent at the waist, and he spoke low and deliberate.
"Let me tell you what you’re going to do."
Her mouth opened.
And then she simply took the cockhead between her lips with the flat suction of a woman who understood the anatomy of the action, sealing clean around the crown and pulling with her cheeks hollowed.
"Urgh—" The grunt left him before he could catch it. "Now that’s—"
She was already working.
Her name was Vivienne.
And Vivienne did not suck cock the way her daughter did.
There was no panic in it. No wide, overwhelmed eyes or shaking jaw.
She used her hand first, thumb rolling slow circles against the thick underside vein while her lips worked the first few inches in a wet, measured drag.
Her tongue pressed flat against the ridge of his cockhead, circling the crown with deliberate, unhurried strokes that mapped him.
’Thick.’ ’Heavier than expected, the weight of it sits different on the tongue, more commanding.’
Her palm kneaded his balls with patient pressure, not teasing, reading, gauging the tightness and weight the way a woman checks if fruit is ripe.
She pulled back until just the tip sat at her lips, and then swallowed him deep in one smooth, unhurried descent.
He felt the soft clench of her throat around his head and his hand moved without his permission to the back of her pinned hair.
She let him rest there for a long second.
Then she pulled back and went again.
Her eyes never left his face.
The clock on the wall marked time quietly.
She took him deep and held it until her eyes watered slightly, then dragged back with her lips sealed and her tongue dragging the full underside length.
She repeated it without variation in rhythm, varying only the angle of her head, the tilt of her wrist on his shaft, the way her palm cupped and rolled below.
Her throat opened for him.
Her saliva had him soaked to the base now, thick and warm, his cock gleaming under the living room light.
He stood with one hand loosely at the back of her head, the other braced on the back of the sofa above her shoulder, and he gave nothing.
No buck of hips. No tightening grip. His expression was controlled and flat.
She swallowed him to the root and held, nose brushing his lower abdomen, until she needed air.
’The stretch of him against the back of my throat is its own kind of thing.’ ’Full in a way that makes the jaw ache and the eyes leak but the body want more of it.’
She released with an obscene, wet sound.
Looked up.
His face was the same.
Thirty minutes.
She set the wine glass down in the twenty-third minute.
Her jaw was beginning to ache and her fingers were slick to the wrist and his cock was still pulsing, still hard, and still utterly without precome.
Not a single drop.
She pulled off him with a slow, deliberate release.
Her gaze moved to the clock.
Then back to him.
"It’s already been half an hour." Her voice was lower now, textured from the work, a slight rasp in it she didn’t bother to hide.
"And you haven’t even given a drop."
Cruxius looked down at her.
The expression on his face was somewhere between boredom and mild curiosity, the same way a man looks at an instruction manual that isn’t working.
"Your mouth." He said it plainly. "Too used. Feels loose."
The silence that followed was a different kind.
Vivienne’s lips closed.
She looked at his cock.
Then at his face.
Her mouth twitched once, the fine line of a woman whose dignity had just taken a measured hit and chosen not to accept it.
She closed her eyes.
’Loose.’ ’He said loose.’
’I will make him leak.’ ’I will make him beg with his hips and hold my head and forget his own name before I’m finished.’
Her eyes opened.
She grabbed the base of his cock in a grip that had no gentleness in it.
And then she drove her face forward with a force that rang the back of her own throat, pulled back, and began moving her head up and down with a speed and pressure that finally, finally snapped through his practiced stillness.
His grip in her hair tightened.
His hips shifted forward.
One degree. Involuntary.
PAH!
Her face met his base, chin knocking his balls with a wet crack, and she dragged back with her lips sealed so tight the suction was audible even over the room.
PAH! PAH!
She didn’t stop.
Her hand worked the base in a twist on every forward plunge, her throat taking the tip every time without flinching, her tongue pressed flat and working the underside with every drag back.
PAH! PAH! PAH!
The clock kept ticking.
Vivienne’s eyes were open.
Watching his face.
Waiting.
’His jaw had moved.’
’One small, almost invisible clench.’
’But she saw it.’
And she thought, with absolute calm and absolute hunger,’You are gone now... kid.’