Pervert for Life

I heard myself ask it and I hated how quiet it came out.

She did not look at me. She looked at the sink. At her own hands. At anything that was not the place between her legs that would not close. The dress was still bunched at her hips. The lace was still hooked aside. I could see the way she kept stretching around nothing, wet and open, and then I could see the next pulse shove into her and make her rise onto her toes like the floor had dropped.

"It’s a cramp," she said.

It was not a cramp. I had her slick on my fingers from the towel. I had watched her come while I was kneeling two feet away. I had felt her shake. A cramp does not leave a woman standing in a locked bathroom with her pussy split and dripping down her thighs.

I stayed on my feet this time. If I knelt again I was going to put my mouth on her. I knew that the same way I knew I should have already walked out.

"Then let me get the dress on you," I said. "You’re going to fall."

She nodded like that was a normal thing to agree to. I took the dress off the lid and stepped in behind her because I did not trust her knees. My chest touched her back. She was burning. I felt it through my shirt. I felt the next slow shove go through her body and land in mine.

"Easy," I said, and it sounded like concern if you did not look at my hands.

I lifted the dress and fed her arms through it. She moved when I moved her. When the fabric dragged down over her breasts she made a sound she tried to kill in her throat. The hem caught on the wet and stuck there. I put my palms on it and smoothed it down because that was the excuse. Over her stomach. Over the heat between her legs. The cloth darkened under my hands.

She grabbed my wrist.

"Don’t."

I stopped on the outside of the dress. I did not take my hand away.

"You’re soaked through already," I said. "If anyone sees you in the hall they’ll think you pissed yourself."

Her fingers tightened. Then they loosened. Not because she wanted them to. Because the thing inside her rolled and her whole body forgot what it was doing. A thick line ran down the inside of her thigh and hit the tile. I heard it. She heard it. The bathroom was too quiet for either of us to pretend we had not.

I turned her toward the mirror.

I made her look.

She saw what I saw. Her face wrecked. Her mouth open. The front of the clean dress already mapped with a dark patch between her legs. Under that patch her hips kept making these tiny helpless pushes, like she could get away from a cock that was not even visible.

"Mom," I said, watching her in the glass. "That is not water."

"I know."

The words came out small. After them she had nothing.

I slid my hand under the hem because the stain was spreading and I told myself I was checking how bad it was. My fingers met bare skin. Hot. Slippery. I found the edge of her and she was still stretched around that empty air, still taking something I could not see, still leaking around it in slow filthy pulses. My middle finger rested against her clit without me deciding it would. She jerked. Her ass hit my cock through my pants and stayed there.

I should have moved back.

I did not.

"You’re going to come again if I leave my hand here," I said.

She shut her eyes.

"Then take it off."

I did not take it off. I rubbed once, slow, the way you would soothe a cramp if a cramp lived in a swollen clit and not in a muscle. The tongue I could not see sucked at the same time I touched her. She folded forward over the sink and came with her mouth open and no sound at all, just a long hard clench around nothing and a fresh spill over my fingers that ran down my wrist.

I held her up through it.

When it eased she was panting against the porcelain. I could feel my own pulse in my hand. I could feel how hard I was against her ass and I knew she could feel it too because she had gone very still in that particular way people go still when they notice something they are not supposed to mention.

Downstairs a plate clicked against another plate.

That was all. No name. No one at the door. Just the house remembering we existed.

"We can’t stay in here," I said into her hair. "They’ll come up if we do."

She nodded into the sink.

I pulled my hand out from under the dress and I did not wipe it. I put that same hand on her hip and walked her to the door. She moved like her insides were still being used, because they were. Every step made a wet sound against the dress. At the threshold she stopped and looked at me for the first time since I had asked her the question.

"Lucas." Her voice was wrecked. "When we walk out. Don’t look at me like that."

"Like what."

She swallowed.

"Like you know."

I unlocked the door. The hall was empty. I put her in front of me so my body blocked anyone’s line of sight if a head turned at the wrong second, and I walked her out with my stained hand hidden against the small of her back.

We made it four steps.

Then the thing inside her drove up so hard her knees went, and the only reason she did not hit the floor in the middle of the hallway was because I caught her around the waist and hauled her against me, and the sound she made then was not a sound you can explain as a cramp.

I hauled her back into my chest and held her there until the shake ran out of her legs.

The hallway was still empty. That was the only luck we had. Her mouth was open against my shirt. I could feel the next slow shove go through her, deep enough that her whole body lifted into me like she was being picked up from the inside. The dress between us was already wet. It clung to my forearm where I had it locked around her waist.

"Walk," I whispered. "Just to the room. That’s all."

She tried. One step. The second one folded her again and I had to take most of her weight. We moved like that down the hall, ugly and slow, her hips hitching every time the thing inside her decided to bottom out. I kept my body between her and the stairwell. If anyone came up they would see a son helping his mother. They would not see my hand under the front of her dress, two fingers split around her clit, holding her together so she did not scream.

She came again before we reached the door.

Not loud. Worse than loud. A broken pull of air against my collar and a sudden hot flood over my fingers that soaked through the dress and ran down her thighs onto my wrist. I felt her hole clench around nothing in hard helpless pulls. I felt how empty that nothing was and how full she still was. I got the bedroom door open with my other hand and got us through it and kicked it shut with my heel.

The lock I did not touch yet. I should have. I was too busy getting her onto the bed before she hit the floor.

She landed on her back. The dress rode up to her waist by itself. I stood over her and I looked because there was no version of me left in that doorway that was going to look away. Her pussy was a mess. Open. Shiny. Pulsing around air. Cream on her ass, on the inside of both thighs, on the bedspread already. Her clit was so swollen it looked painful. Every few seconds her hips gave a small helpless roll like the cock had just dragged out and shoved back in.

"Lucas." She had an arm over her eyes. "Get out."

"I just carried you in here."

"Get out."

I did not get out. I sat on the edge of the mattress because my own legs were not as steady as I wanted them to be. My wet hand rested on her knee. I told myself I was keeping her from sliding off the bed. My thumb drew a line through the slick on her skin without asking me first.

"What is it," I said.

She shook her head under her arm.

"You felt it," I said. "In the hall. I felt it too. It moved when I held you."

That made her arm come down. Her eyes were blown and wet and angry in a way that was not only anger.

"Don’t say that."

"It’s true."