Floor Mattress

Author's Note

Some stories ain't clean. Ain't soft. This one came from a place of pressure--two people with too much history and nowhere to put it.

It's not about morals. It's about moments. Quiet ones. Fucked up ones. The ones you don't talk about but can't forget.

Appreciate you for reading. If you made it this far, you already know it's deeper than lust.

Chapter 1: Shared Bedroom, Late Evening

The room smelled like stress and dust. A little too warm, like the fan wasn't pushing enough air. Too many bodies had been up in here all week. A mattress on the floor. Clothes on the chair. Somebody's cousin passed out on the couch. And her -- standing in the corner near the window, bonnet sliding, hands on her lower back like she was trying to hold herself together.

"You need to tell yo' uncle he can't keep sleeping on the couch with his damn boots on," she muttered. "I'm tired of waking up to the sound of him snoring like a fuckin' freight train and my back feel like I got jumped by a gang of toddlers."

He didn't even look up from the floor. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched like it was permanent.

"You sure do a lotta complainin' for somebody that's the main reason we in this predicament," he finally said. Real slow. Real cold. "You don't like it? Do better."

She turned fast. Eyes sharp, wide with disbelief. "So it's my fault now? My fault I can't work as much 'cause I'm havin' a complicated pregnancy? My fault for tryna get some shit ready for my baby before they get here? For takin' on a car note I already gave back? Shit happens, okay? I ain't perfect -- but neither the fuck are you."

He pushed off the wall. Not fast, not aggressive. Just fed up. "None of that 'shit happens' got nothin' to do with me. That ain't my baby, that wasn't my car, and now I'm outta my apartment, on Granny floor, all 'cause you can't be a responsible fuckin' adult."

She flinched like he slapped her. Then grabbed the closest thing -- a water bottle -- and hurled it at his chest. It bounced off him and came back to her like a frisbee.

"Man, fuck you! You selfish-ass bitch!" Her voice cracked hard on the last word. She turned away before he could see the tears fall, adjusting her bonnet with shaky fingers. Climbed into bed, curled up with her back to him.

"I hate you," she mumbled through the pillow. "I can't wait to get my own fuckin' crib. And keep that same fuckin' energy when my baby get here too."

He didn't move. Didn't blink.

"I don't give a fuck," he shot back, barely audible.

Later. Past Midnight.

The room was silent now. Somebody's phone buzzed in the distance. Rain started slow -- tap-tapping the window glass like it was tryna come in.

She shifted under the blanket. Turned, eyes open, staring into the dark.

Then she tapped him.

"Come get in the bed with me."

He didn't move. "I'm good. How we both gon' fit in that little-ass bed anyway?"

She sucked her teeth. "You not good. I know your back hurt -- it's 'bouta rain. And I know you had one of them dreams again too. I ain't tryna argue but I'm not bouta beg you either. I'm already aggravated."

"I ain't ask you to," he snapped. "Shit, we both aggravated. It ain't always about you."

She rolled her eyes so hard it damn near made her dizzy. "You know what? Whatever. Fuck it. Fuck you. I don't even give a fuck."

She turned over again. Back to him. Again.

He stayed sitting on the floor, staring at nothing. Jaw clenched, fists in his lap, storm rolling in outside -- and between them.

Scene: Bedside

"Twin..." he whispered.

She stirred, cracked one eye, voice scratchy. "What?"

The dim glow of a streetlamp snuck through the blinds, just enough to paint her silhouette in soft, grainy gold. She half-turned toward him, eyes bloodshot, bonnet askew, breath uneven. Without thinking, she tossed the blanket back a little -- just enough to expose her undersized t-shirt clinging to her chest, and the dark cotton of her panties stretched over her hips. Her belly out like trash on a Thursday.

She scooted over.

Small-ass bed. No room. No privacy. Just shared heat and tension, soaked into every thread of the sheets.

He hesitated.

Then slid in behind her.

Their backs touched.

That first contact? Static. Like touching a socket with wet hands. Warmth rushed through them both, unnatural and shameful -- the kind that makes you feel dirty without doing anything. But they didn't move. They couldn't. That heat spread too fast. Too easy.

His shirt was off. Her ass brushed against his lower back. Their backs arched together like a puzzle piece.

No words.

Breathing matched.

Physical tension bled into something stickier. Curiosity.

He could feel the shape of her -- her round hips, her lower back, the slight dip near the top of her ass crack. He wasn't trying to think about it. But his body did anyway.

She couldn't sleep. The baby was kicking light, more like a nudge than a jab, but the dull ache in her belly made her toss. She turned -- now facing his back.

Then, slowly, she curled up into him.

Her arm draped over his waist. This was nothing new to them. Something they did since forever, but this time it felt different. Her tits pressed against his bare back, warm and full. He stiffened. The feeling of her all over him, he was used to. It's what he felt inside that made his heart riot.

That feeling?

It landed in his stomach like a drop of hot grease. Guilt. But also... comfort mixed with something else.

She liked the weight of him. That stillness. That heat. She didn't even think about what she was doing until she felt his back muscles flex under her breasts. The friction made her tingle, and she didn't understand why. They had spent their whole lives cuddled up under each other. What was so different now?

He was hard. Half-hard, but unmistakable. The slow rise of his breath, the shift of his hips -- all of it said the same thing.

She saw the bulge in his shorts. Froze.

Should've looked away.

Didn't.

Swallowed hard, eyes wide. Her hand stayed on his back. Fingers twitched.

Her body moved on instinct, not logic. Just need. Raw and unmet.

Her palm slid lower, over the curve of his spine, toward the waistband.

She hesitated. Then brushed against it.

He flinched -- not violently, just enough to say he felt it. Wasn't asleep. Wasn't stopping it, either.

Neither said a word.

His breath caught. Heavy.

He shifted again. His arm ended up slung backward -- lazy -- but his hand landed between her thighs. Not grabbing. Just resting there.

For a second, nothing.

Then slow, grazing touches. Her thigh. His shorts. Her underwear.

They moved like they were under a microscope -- afraid of getting caught, not knowing if the other was all-in.

Her heart was pounding so loud she thought it would wake the whole house.

His head dropped back against her chest now.

She wrapped her arm around his shoulders automatically. Held him. His bulge still pointing into the open darkness. His hand still touching her, fingertips trailing lines that made her thighs quake.

They didn't speak a word.

Didn't breathe too loud.

They were on the verge of going to a place they'd never been before. At least not with each other.

Until--

The door creaked.

They broke apart faster than a wine glass hitting the ground.

Both rolled away from each other, breathing hard, facing opposite walls, wide-eyed.

Their cousin stood in the doorway, just long enough to see the tension.

"... Y'all good, twins?"

"Yeah."

"Yup."

"Alright then."

Door shut.

Silence.

Chapter 2: THE KITCHEN

Granny's house was too quiet. A rare occasion.

Old floorboards creaked under bare feet. Morning light pushed through the slats in the blinds -- yellow, sharp, and too bright too early.

She stood at the counter, bonnet still crooked, his too-big hoodie hanging off her shoulder. One hand stirred her coffee. The other held her swollen belly like she was trying to ground herself.

He came in behind her, shirtless again, fresh from the shower. His eyes were puffy, lips dry, and he didn't look her in the eye when he passed. They hadn't spoken. Or even made eye contact.

She felt him.

Before he even got close, she felt him.

Then it happened.

His arm reached up -- just to grab a cup from the cabinet -- but in doing so, he brushed against her. His chest pressed lightly into her back. His hand slipped around her, accidentally, palm landing right on her belly.

Time stopped.

Her breath caught. His did too.

Neither moved.

She leaned back slightly, instinctively, right into his lean. His knuckles grazed the underside of her breast.

Too close.

Too real.

Too much.

"Aye--" a voice called from the hallway. "Twins?"

They jolted apart like the kitchen floor had caught fire.

He coughed, stepped back. She spun around, fast, stirring her coffee like she was doing something important.

The moment passed. Barely.

Once they were alone again, she didn't look at him. Just mumbled:

"Whatever this is we doing... gotta stop. It's weird. It's inappropriate as fuck."

He stayed quiet. Face blank. But guilt crept in like smoke under a door.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I ain't mean to... It just happened."

She turned toward him, eyes softer now. Not angry. Confused. Frustrated. Mentally, emotionally, sexually. All the -ally's.

"It ain't just you," she admitted. "We both did it. We both was being weird. Doing inappropriate shit. We both stressed out, but that ain't it. But it's over now. It never happened."

He tilted his head. "What never happened?"

"Exactly."

Then silence.

Neither of them bought it. Not for real. But pretending felt safer. It felt like the right thing to say. Do.

She stepped forward for a quick hug -- but they both second-guessed it, laughing awkwardly mid-step, and turned it into a clumsy fist bump instead.

They laughed again, tension dissolving just long enough to hide what was still there -- what neither of them could name yet.

But it was growing.

And it wasn't going away.

Chapter 3: NIGHTSHIFT BLUES

She was already half-asleep when he came in -- bonnet crooked, whole bottom half exposed, blanket thrown off like it never really belonged to her. The room smelled like sleep and cocoa butter, soft with shadows. Almost instantly, he started getting hard.

He moved quiet, but not silent. The kind of tired that made your bones feel loose, your soul slow. His boots hit the wall with a soft thud. Keys dropped on the table. She shifted slightly at the sound but didn't wake up.

He stripped down to his tank and boxers, then stood at the edge of the floored mattress, looking down at her. That little bed that barely held one of them, let alone two. Every night, they ended up twisted into a pretzel. And lately, it wasn't an accident.

He got in, slow. No excuses. No fake stretches or middle-of-the-night stumbles. He laid down facing her back, close enough to feel her warmth, not quite touching.

Then he did it -- gentle, nervous -- rested his hand on the curve of her pregnant belly.

She shifted.

He froze.

But she didn't pull away.

She pressed back into him.

Slow. Soft. Like she'd been waiting for it.

His breath caught in his throat.

He spooned her fully now. Arm around her middle, hand open, rubbing the firm swell of her stomach like it was his job. And in that moment -- it felt like it was.

He didn't say nothing for a while. Just breathed her in. The mix of her hair oil, her skin, and something warm and maternal he couldn't explain. His hand splayed wider across her bump.

Then her fingers slid across his wrist and held it there.

That simple move made his heart beat.

"I've been thinking," he whispered, low like he didn't want the walls to hear it. "You know, I'm gon' be like your baby dad, right?" He stopped. "Like... do all the dad type shit. We ain't never really had one."

She didn't say anything right away.

Then her voice, soft and cracked: "Yeah."

"Yeah. Like... I meant that. I ain't perfect or nothin', but I can try. I can be better than what we had."

"You don't gotta say that just 'cause I'm carryin' this baby and you feel bad."

"I don't feel bad. I feel... real. Like, this baby matter. You matter, twin. You all I really got. All we really ever had was each other."

She sucked in a breath. It wasn't dramatic, but it was shaky.

Then she turned her head slightly toward him. "I don't want you to do it just 'cause you feel sorry for me. This not your responsibility."

"I ain't sorry. I'm here. And it is."

She broke -- just a little. A sniff. The kind you try to hold in but can't. She wiped her face with the sheet.

He held her. His hand on her belly. His lips pressed to the back of her neck like a quiet vow.

Nothing else mattered.

But everything had already changed.

Chapter 4: BACK TO CHEST

He laid still for a long minute, arm still wrapped around her middle. Her breathing had evened out, but he could tell she wasn't all the way asleep. Neither was he.

Not with her body pressed back against him like that. Not with that belly rising and falling steady under his palm.

Slowly, carefully, like each move might set off a landmine -- he slid his hand upward.

Past her ribs.

Until he found the soft weight of one breast.

He held it.

Barely moved.

Then he cupped it fully, letting it fill his hand -- heavy, warm, too full. She didn't flinch. Her breath just hitched the tiniest bit, like her lungs were confused about what was happening.

He moved his thumb. Just once. Over her nipple.

She let out a tiny sound -- the kind you could mistake for a sigh if you weren't this close.

And then, like a chain reaction, her hand reached behind her. Slow. Careful.

Found his thigh. Then higher. Up to where he was already hard, tenting his boxers with an ache he didn't know how to carry. Her fingertips grazed his balls, hesitant, like she was checking if he'd stop her.

He didn't.

Her touch was unsure. Gentle. Almost... curious. She rolled her palm slow, like she wasn't even in control of it.

Then came the softest sound -- her lips pressing a kiss into her own shoulder. Then another.

Then a muted moan that barely made it out her throat.

They still didn't say a word.

His hand slid across her chest again, then down -- down her belly, warm and tight with tension. He found her belly button and circled it lazily, absentmindedly, like he was trying not to drift lower even though they both knew where he wanted to go.

She twitched.

Then shifted her hips.

She was wetter now. She could feel it. Could feel the heat coming off both of them like their bodies were whispering confessions their mouths didn't dare say.

He leaned forward. His nose brushed her neck. His breath caught in his throat.

And hers.

They laid there -- tangled in guilt and heat, scared to take it further but terrified to stop. His hand hovered just below her navel. Her fingers were still on him, soft and barely moving, but enough to make him throb.

A floorboard creaked down the hall.

They froze.

Then slowly.

Painfully.

They peeled apart.

Her heart was pounding. So was his.

But neither one looked at the other.

She faced the wall again. He rolled to his back.

Breathing hard in the dark.

And the space between them suddenly felt cold.

Chapter 5: TOO MUCH

She didn't want to stop. Not really.

Her body was on fire -- everywhere. Her skin felt too tight for how much sensation she was holding in. Her nipples were already hard under her shirt, and she could feel his breath still clinging to them like a memory.

So she turned.

Faced him in the dark.

They didn't speak. Not with words.

She just looked at him for a long second -- half-shame, half-need -- then leaned in and pressed her mouth to his.

A real kiss. Deep. Slow. Not rushed, not forced. Just heat and breath and uncertainty.

His hand came to the side of her face. Cupped her jaw, thumb on her cheek.

Then his lips left hers, and he made his way lower.

He kissed under her jaw, then down her neck -- open-mouth, wet, tender kisses that burned.

Her breath hitched.

When he got to her chest again, he didn't rush it. Just nuzzled there, slow. Let his tongue flick over the curve of one breast through the cotton of her shirt.

She gasped -- soft, but sharp.

He pulled the shirt up. Exposed her. Full, sensitive, swollen from pregnancy. He paused -- stunned by how beautiful she looked like that. Then he kissed her again, lower this time.

His mouth found her nipple and stayed there.

Not sucking. Not licking.

Just holding it between his lips like something sacred. Then, gradually, he drew it in. Wet and warm.

Her mouth dropped open. One hand went to the back of his head, not guiding, just there.

His tongue circled slow, like he was learning the map of her.

Then down again. His kisses got lower. Slower. He moved across her belly, letting his lips trace the tight curve of it like it was something he'd never seen before. He paused at her navel, breathed her in.

Then -- without thinking -- he licked it.

Once.

She flinched. Her whole body tensed like lightning had hit her spine.

He did it again. This time slower. He fucked her belly button with his tongue, gently, experimentally, tasting her sweat and soft skin.

Her fingers tightened in the sheets.

But when he started moving lower--

"No," she whispered, voice shaking.

She tugged him back up. Not rough, not angry -- just scared. Shaking her head. Her breathing was too fast.

"That's... that's too much," she said, eyes wet.

He nodded immediately. Didn't push.

They laid there again. Face to face. Inches apart.

He didn't ask why. He didn't need to. She was right.

And she didn't explain.

She just rolled back to her other side, shoulders stiff, emotions scrambled.

But this time when he wrapped his arm around her again -- she didn't stop him.

And they fell asleep like that.

Back to chest.

Breath for breath.

Doing the unthinkable, but unable to stop. Doing what you'd read about in a Literotica story and tell yourself "nah, not me."

Except it was. And they weren't done.

Chapter 6: CAN'T STOP NOW

It was late -- maybe 2 a. m. -- and quiet enough to hear the ceiling fan tick with every slow rotation.

Her head was at the foot of the bed, belly cradled in a pillow, one leg bent up for support. He was at the top, stretched long and tired, scrolling on his cracked phone. Their eyes kept meeting.

Neither said a word.

They were facing each other. The room smelled like cocoa butter, sleep, sweat, and tension.

She shifted, her shirt sliding up just enough to show the underside of her stomach. He noticed but kept his eyes half-lidded. Trying not to stare. Trying not to make things more awkward than they already were.

Her foot grazed his thigh.

Not on accident.

He glanced down at it, then back at her face.

Still, no words.

He moved his hand toward her leg -- slow, testing the waters -- and let his fingers brush the back of her knee. Her skin twitched, but she didn't pull away. She actually inched closer. That was all the green light he needed.

He leaned in, hand sliding up her thigh, past the hem of her shorts, dragging soft across the curve of her ass. Her breath hitched, but she didn't stop him.

"Close the door," she whispered.

He got up, shut it softly, then climbed back onto the bed, this time on his knees. She scooted to give him space, head still at the foot. He leaned over her, eyes locked.

"You sure?" he asked, voice low.

She nodded once.

That's when he slid his fingers up the inside of her panties. Warm. Soaked.

"Damn," he muttered.

She tugged them down, awkward and slow, belly getting in the way. He helped. Kissed the stretch marks as they appeared, his tongue dragging over her hip, then her thigh, then down to the dripping heat between her legs.

Her hands flew to his head. "Wait--" she hissed. "You can't--what if they hear us?"

"I'll be quiet," he said, already sliding his tongue flat across her pussy, slow and wet. She gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth. The sound of it made his dick twitch in his boxers.

He licked her again -- long, heavy, from clit to hole. She bucked.

"Oh my fucking--" she tried to whisper but choked on her breath.

Her thighs clamped around his head, grinding against his mouth. His tongue circled her clit, then flicked it, sloppy but focused, like he was trying to figure it out as he went. Clumsy. Eager. Horny. She guided him with tiny rolls of her hips.

He was moaning now -- faint, deep sounds that vibrated against her. Her pussy clenched.

She pulled at his head, arched her back. "Wait--wait--I'm about to--"

Too late. She came hard, straight into his mouth. Loud, messy, sudden.

He flinched but didn't stop. Even when she squirted. His face was soaked. Her thighs were trembling.

They stared at each other in shock.

"Shit," she whispered, breathless. "I told you..."

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark. "Damn, Twin."

Then she pulled him up by his boxers. Kissed him, tasting herself.

She climbed on top of him -- quick, shaky -- and pressed his tip to her opening. Her pussy still fluttering, still slick. He eased in slowly.

Both of them groaned.

Her body jerked. The stretch made her toes curl. He was thick, and she was still pulsing from her orgasm. It was too much -- but not enough.

He fucked up into her, hips shaky at first, both of them panting into each other's mouths.

"Shhh," she whispered, gripping his arms.

"I know," he said, eyes squeezed shut. "But you feel too fuckin' good."

He started thrusting faster. Blushing. Laughing. The bed squeaked. Her moans turned into gasps. Her nails dug into his shoulders.

They were sweating. Sliding. Tangled.

He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her down. Her boobs bouncing off of his forehead like basketballs, every thrust.

"Fuck me like you mean it," she whispered.

He snapped his hips and dug deep inside her. Her pussy splashed.

"Like that?"

"Just like that."

They moved together -- better now. In sync. His rhythm found hers. Her hips rolled to match his thrusts. Their bodies slapped wet in the dark, breaths hot and urgent.

He was close.

She was right there again.

They came together -- his dick pulsing deep inside her, her legs locked around his waist, mouth wide open, eyes shut tight.

Then silence.

Just heavy breathing.

Sticky skin.

And the faint sound of footsteps outside the room.

They both froze.

"Shhh," she whispered again, wide-eyed.

"Fuck," he mouthed.

He pulled out quick. She grabbed a blanket. They pretended to sleep.

But they were both still breathing too hard. Too fast.

And smiling.

Because they knew they were gonna do it again.

Chapter 7: THE SHIFT

The next morning was heavy. Thick with unspoken things. Sweat-drenched sheets still clung to their bodies, even though they were on opposite sides of the bed now.

The sun was barely up. Birds chirping. The box fan still clicking on every third spin.

She woke first. Belly tight. Pussy sore. Head full.

She rolled over, looked at him -- mouth open, one arm above his head, breathing slow like he had nothing on his conscience.

But she knew better.

She slid out the bed, slow. Careful not to wake him. Pulled his hoodie off the chair and padded toward the door.

She needed air.

When she stepped into the hallway, it hit her: this wasn't just sex anymore. It wasn't just heat and hormones and fucked-up timing.

Something had shifted.

And she couldn't tell if that made her feel better or worse.

SCENE: BACK PORCH. EARLY MORNING.

She sat on the rickety porch swing, hoodie wrapped around her belly like armor. Mug of lukewarm coffee in her hands, staring at nothing.

Behind her, the screen door creaked.

He stepped out barefoot, shirtless again. Hair wild. Eyes half-open.

"You couldn't sleep either?"

She didn't look at him. Just took a sip.

He sat down beside her. Not touching. Not speaking.

The silence grew fat.

"You mad at me?" he asked finally.

She sighed.

"No."

He looked at her, eyebrows tight.

"Then what?"

She turned to him, slow. Face tired. Bare.

"I'm scared."

"Of what?"

She looked down at her belly. Then back up at him.

"Everything. What we doin'. What we already did. What it mean. What come next. Who we even are now."

He rubbed his jaw. Stared at the ground.

"I don't got all the answers, Twin. I barely got any. But I know last night ain't no accident. It wasn't random. It wasn't no mistake either."

She blinked. Hard.

"It feel like a mistake."

"Only 'cause we scared. And cause people say it's supposed to be. But if it wasn't supposed to happen, why it feel like that?"

She didn't respond.

He leaned in a little.

"You still feel it now, don't you?"

She hesitated. Then nodded.

Barely.

His hand slid over hers. Warm. Careful.

"So what we gon' do?" she whispered.

He squeezed her fingers.

"Take it slow. Be smart. Be real. But we don't gotta pretend like it didn't happen. Or like we don't want it to happen again."

Her chest rose. Fell. Rose again.

The wind picked up -- light, but steady.

She didn't pull her hand away.

SCENE: LATER THAT NIGHT. SHARED BEDROOM.

Same bed. Same fan. Different tension.

They laid there in the dark, not touching, but not far either.

He reached out first this time. Just his pinky, brushing hers.

She hooked it with his.

They stayed like that.

No words. No guilt.

Just connection.

Small. Quiet. Growing.

Like something dangerous blooming in secret.

And neither one wanted to stop it.