Blow That Load For Mommy Ch. 03

Chapter 3

Hunger won.

It always does. A man can lock himself away from anything on earth except his own stomach and by noon Charlie's had been growling at him for two hours straight. He'd lain on his bed with his headphones in, phone face down on the nightstand, scrolling through nothing on his laptop because every social media feed was a minefield of bikini photos and suggestive reels and girls from sixth form who'd discovered summer and low cut tops at roughly the same moment. He'd closed the laptop. Opened a book. Read the same paragraph four times. Closed the book.

His stomach growled again.

He pressed his palm flat against it. Told it to shut up. It did not shut up.

The house below him sat silent. He'd heard his mum moving around earlier, footsteps in the kitchen, the kettle, the radio going on and then off again. Then nothing for a while. Maybe she'd gone out. Maybe she was in the garden. He thought about the garden and then stopped thinking about the garden because the garden contained a sun lounger and the sun lounger contained potentially his mother in that green bikini and that was a road his mind could not afford to go down. Not today.

He swung his legs off the bed. Sat on the edge. Rubbed his face with both hands.

His cock was half hard. It had been half hard for most of the morning. Not because of anything specific, just because it was half hard now all the time like some low grade background hum his body had decided to run without his permission. Two weeks of nothing. No porn. No hand sneaking under the covers at midnight. No quick one in the shower. Nothing. His balls felt full and heavy and tight, a constant dull ache that sat behind everything he did like a second heartbeat. He could feel them when he walked. He could feel them when he sat. He could feel them right now pressing against the inside of his thigh through the cotton of his boxers.

Twenty grand.

He stood up. Pulled on grey joggers. Grabbed the hoodie from the back of his desk chair and put it on but left it unzipped because the house was warm and if he zipped it all the way he'd sweat through it by one. He checked himself in the mirror above his dresser. The joggers were loose. Good. Loose was good. Loose was safe. He adjusted himself, tucking to the left and the brush of his own fingers against the shaft of his cock sent a jolt through him that made his jaw clench.

Don't.

He pulled his hand away. Wiped it on the hoodie like it was contaminated.

Downstairs.

He took the stairs one at a time, each step a reconnaissance mission. Kitchen on the left. Living room straight ahead through the open archway. He paused on the bottom step and listened. Radio off. Telly off. No sound of running water from the downstairs bathroom. The French doors at the back of the kitchen stood open to the garden and a warm breeze carried through the house, pushing the smell of cut grass and hot paving stone.

"Mum?"

Nothing.

He padded into the kitchen. The breakfast table still had a placemat out from this morning, his mum's coffee mug sitting on it, lipstick print on the rim. He opened the fridge. Grabbed a packet of ham, some cheese, the bread from the counter. Built himself a sandwich with the quiet focus of a man defusing a bomb. Four slices of ham. Two of cheese. Brown sauce. Cut it diagonal. He did not know why he cut it diagonal. His mum cut her sandwiches diagonal and he'd been doing it ever since he could hold a knife.

He ate standing at the counter, one hip pressed against the edge, chewing methodically. The house sat quiet around him. Warm. Still. The kind of still that felt deliberate.

He made a second sandwich. Ate that too. Drank a glass of water. Put the plate in the dishwasher because if he left it in the sink his mum would say something and conversation with his mum right now felt like walking through a room full of tripwires.

This morning.

He pushed the thought down. It floated back up. He pushed it down again.

His mother eating a banana. His mother talking about things being backed up. His mother bending into the fridge in that dress that wasn't a dress, in that white thong, the fabric pulled tight between the round cheeks of her arse and the way her spine had curved and her legs had straightened and the sound she'd made when she reached for the orange juice, that little mm of effort that wasn't effort at all, that was something else, something he couldn't name because naming it would open a door he had welded shut at the age of fifteen.

His cock twitched against his thigh.

Stop.

He closed the dishwasher. Dried his hands. Walked into the living room.

The sofa. The Xbox. Safe territory. He dropped onto the middle cushion, reached for the controller from the coffee table, thumbed it on. The television came to life and the Xbox logo pulsed green and white and familiar. He grabbed his headphones from where he'd left them on the arm of the sofa, pulled them on with one cup off his right ear so he could hear if someone came in. The game loaded. Football. Something mindless. Something that required his hands to be on the controller and his eyes to be on the screen and his brain to be anywhere other than where it wanted to be.

He played.

The house breathed around him. Warm air moved through the open French doors. A bird sang outside, repetitive and insistent, the same three notes over and over.

He scored a goal. Started another match. His shoulders loosened by increments. The controller felt good in his hands, solid and mechanical and the game demanded enough of his attention to keep the other thoughts at bay. After three matches he was doing alright. The half erection had subsided to a quarter. He was going to be fine. He was going to sit here and play Xbox until teatime and then he was going to eat whatever his mum made and then he was going to go back upstairs and read and then he was going to sleep and then he was going to wake up tomorrow and do it all again and he was going to win this bet and Jules Hartley was going to give him twenty thousand pounds and he was going to put it toward a car or maybe toward uni or maybe he'd just stack it in his savings and watch the number grow. Twenty. Thousand. Pounds.

He started a fourth match.

Footsteps upstairs. Soft. Moving from his mum's bedroom toward the landing. He heard the bathroom door. Running water. The bathroom door again.

Then the stairs.

He kept his eyes on the screen. Thumbs working the sticks. A defender closed down his striker and he pulled off a drag back, pushed past, shot. Saved. Corner kick.

"Don't mind me baby. Just need to stretch. Back's been killing me."

Her voice came from behind him, from the archway between the kitchen and the living room and it was light and breezy and completely fucking ordinary. Like she was commenting on the weather. Like she was telling him she'd put the kettle on.

"Mm," he said.

He didnt turn around. He selected the corner kick taker. Adjusted the aim. Pressed the button. The ball swung into the box and a defender headed it clear.

Footsteps behind him. Bare feet on carpet. He could hear the soft pad of them, the faint adhesion of skin on fabric and then something else. A rustling. The sound of something being unrolled. Laid flat. Smoothed down. He heard the familiar thwap of a yoga mat being snapped out onto the floor.

The yoga mat landed on the rug.

He knew this rug. It sat between the coffee table and the fireplace, directly in front of the television. Three feet from the screen. You could not look at the telly without looking at the rug. It was a physical impossibility. The rug was in the screen's eyeline and whatever was on the rug would be in his eyeline and his mum was rolling out a yoga mat on it.

He paused the game. Turned his head.

Oh no.

Heather stood at the far edge of the mat, adjusting her ponytail with both hands raised, elbows out, face tilted up. She'd changed since this morning. The white sundress was gone. In its place she wore a pair of black shorts, the kind that were not shorts really. They were four inches of clinging fabric that sat so high on her thighs that the crease where her legs met her hips was visible on both sides. The seam ran up the centre, bisecting the fabric between her legs, pressing into her. The waistband sat low on her hips, below the shallow dip of her navel and above it her stomach showed, tanned and flat and leading up to a cropped top that ended just below the swell of her breasts.

The crop top was thin. Black. No bra under it. He could tell because the fabric sat flush against her breasts and the shape of her nipples pressed outward, two distinct points pushing through the cotton and when she lowered her arms from fixing her ponytail, the bottom of the crop top lifted and a crescent of underboob showed on each side. The heavy, tanned undersides of his mother's tits, visible and bare, framed by black cotton that didn't quite cover what it was supposed to cover.

Her hair was up. Ponytail. Loose strands framing her face. Bare feet. No makeup. She looked like she'd just rolled out of bed and thrown on the first thing she'd found except nothing about this outfit was accidental. Everything about this outfit was a weapon.

"Mum can you maybe do that upst..."

"Two minutes sweetheart." She dropped into a standing position at the top of the mat, feet together, palms pressed. "You can pause it. Mummy's body needs this."

Mummy's body.

Mummy's body needs this.

She said it like she was talking about a shoulder knot. A tight hip flexor. She said it like Mummy's body was a medical concern and not the thing that was going to kill him.

"Right." He thumbed the controller. Unpaused. Tried to find where he'd been in the match.

She started.

The first position was fine. Standing. Mountain pose or whatever they called it. Just standing still, arms at her sides, breathing. He could handle standing. Standing was nothing. He focused on the game. A midfielder picked up the ball in the centre circle and he pushed forward, working the play.

She moved into a forward fold. Feet planted, torso bending, hands reaching for the floor. He saw it in his periphery. Her ponytail swung down. Her back flattened. The crop top bunched up around her shoulders and the full length of her spine showed, vertebrae pressing against tanned skin and the shorts pulled tight across her arse. She held it. Breathed.

He passed the ball wide. Tried to overlap with the full back.

She stepped back into something. Plank maybe. Down on her hands and toes, body a straight line from her heels to her head, arms locked. The position put her facing away from him. He could see down the length of her body from the sofa. The curve of her back. The round jut of her arse, elevated, the black fabric of the shorts straining across it. The dimples at the base of her spine.

He lost possession. The computer's team counter attacked and scored. He didn't care.

"You alright back there?"

"Fine."

"Not blocking the telly too much?"

"No."

"Good boy."

Good boy. She called him good boy like he was ten years old and he'd just put his plate away. She called him good boy and she was on all fours on a yoga mat in shorts that had disappeared into her arse.

She transitioned. Dropped her hips. Pushed up. Downward dog.

And now he could see everything.

She was facing away from him. Hands flat on the mat. Feet flat on the mat. Hips pushed high into the air. Her arse, round and full and tight in those shorts, pointed straight at the ceiling, straight at him and the shorts had ridden up. They'd pulled and bunched and climbed and the black fabric now sat gathered in the cleft between her cheeks, exposing the lower curve of each one. Smooth. Tanned. The muscle underneath flexing gently as she adjusted her position, walked her feet in a half step, pushed her heels down.

The seam.

The centre seam ran from the waistband at the back, down between her legs and it pressed into her. It divided her. From this angle, from above and behind on the sofa he could see the seam bisecting her, pulling the fabric tight against the softness between her thighs. The shorts had ridden so far up that the fabric was barely a strip now, a dark line cutting through the pale skin of her inner thighs and the shape of her underneath it was visible, soft and full and pressed together.

His mouth went dry.

He looked at the television. The AI was taking a goal kick. He had no idea what the score was. He could not remember what team he'd chosen. The controller in his hands was doing nothing because his thumbs had stopped moving.

She held the pose. Ten seconds. Twenty. Pedalled her feet, one heel up, one heel down, alternating and each pedal shifted her hips and made the shorts ride a little further and he could see the crease of her thigh now, the fold where her leg became something else and a thin band of paler skin that meant her bikini line, that meant she wore something smaller when she sunbathed, that meant he was now looking at skin his mother showed nobody.

Down. She dropped to her hands and knees. Hands under shoulders. Knees under hips. Her back was flat.

He exhaled. His lungs had been full for he didn't know how long.

Cat cow.

Her back arched downward first. Stomach dropping toward the mat. Head lifting. Shoulder blades pulling together. The crop top rode up and hung away from her body and from the sofa, from his angle behind and above he could see through the armhole gap. Could see the heavy swing of her breast inside the fabric, full and round and loose, the nipple hard against the cotton, dragging across it as she moved.

Then up. Her back curved the other way. Rounding. Head dropping. Spine pushing toward the ceiling. The movement pulled the shorts tight across her arse again and the bottom of the crop top rode up her ribcage and showed the full curve of her waist, the narrowing above her hips that flared out to the round swell of them.

Down again. Head up. Tits swinging. She rolled her shoulders and her breasts shifted inside the top, heavy and natural and unrestrained and he could hear her breathing. Slow exhales through parted lips. Controlled. Deliberate. The sound of a woman feeling her own body move.

He wanted to leave. He should leave. He should get up and walk out of the room and go upstairs and lock the door. But getting up would mean standing and standing would mean she'd see him and seeing him would mean seeing the thing that was happening in his joggers, the thing that was beyond his control now, the thing that had gone from half to three quarters to fully hard in the space of two downward dogs and he could not let his mother see what his cock looked like when it was hard, not in grey joggers, not from six feet away, not in afternoon light.

He stayed on the sofa. Pulled his hoodie forward. Rested his forearms on his thighs, controller in both hands, a posture that was meant to look casual and hunched and absorbed in the game and was actually a posture designed entirely around concealment.

She moved through the sequence. Sun salutations. Standing, folding, stepping back, low push up, upward dog, downward dog. Each transition fluid. Each one offering a new angle, a new flash of skin, a new way for those shorts to climb and bunch and cling. When she came up into warrior pose, arms out, front knee bent, the stretch pulled the fabric so taut across the front of her hips that he could see the jut of her hip bone. When she twisted into triangle pose, the crop top fell away from her chest and he could see the full underside of her left breast, heavy and hanging, the skin there lighter than the rest of her, untouched by the sun.

She turned on the mat. Ninety degrees. Facing sideways now. He could see her profile. The flat plane of her stomach. The forward push of her tits, straining the cotton. The muscle in her thigh as she lunged.

"God that's tight." She reached overhead, stretched. Her ribs expanded. The crop top rode up past the underside of her breasts and for a half second he could see the lower third of them, full and round, before the fabric settled back down. "Should do this more."

He grunted something. An acknowledgment. A sound with no words attached because words required thoughts to be organized and his thoughts were not organized. His thoughts were a car crash. A pile up on the motorway. Smoke and twisted metal and the distant wail of sirens.

She flowed into bow pose. Face down on the mat. She reached back with both hands, caught her ankles and pulled. Her chest came off the mat. Her thighs came off the mat. Her body curved like a drawn bow, back arched, head thrown back, hair coming loose from the ponytail and the arch of her spine pushed her chest forward and up and the crop top pulled tight as a drum across her tits and her mouth opened on a long, slow exhale that sounded, from the sofa, from six feet away, from behind a controller and a pair of headphones he was not listening to, like something else entirely.

"Mmmmh."

The sound hung in the room. She held the pose. Her body trembled with the effort. The muscles in her back stood out in long ridges beneath her skin. Her thighs quivered. And her face, tilted back, eyes closed, lips parted on that moan, looked like a woman who had just been touched.

His cock pulsed. A distinct, heavy throb that he felt from base to tip. Precum leaked. He could feel it, warm and slick, dampening the cotton of his boxers and he pressed his wrists harder against his thighs and stared at the television and saw nothing.

She released the pose. Let go of her ankles. Sank down onto the mat. Lay flat on her stomach for a moment, face turned to the side and breathed.

Good. Done. She was done.

She was not done.

She rolled over onto her back. Lay flat. Looked up at the ceiling. Drew her knees up. Placed her feet flat on the mat, hip width apart and he could see the front of those shorts now, the way the fabric sat against the mound between her legs, the seam pressing a visible line through the centre.

Her hands reached for her knees.

She drew them up. Wider. Wider.

Happy baby.

She gripped the outsides of her feet and pulled. Her knees opened past her ribs, pushed toward her shoulders and her legs spread wide and high and open in a position that he had only ever seen in one context and it was not yoga.

The shorts pulled tight.

The fabric, what little of it there was, stretched and strained between her legs, riding up on both sides until only a strip of black cotton covered her. The strip was narrow. Two inches. Maybe less. It pressed into her, conformed to her, moulded itself around the shape of what was underneath. He could see the outline of her pussy through the fabric. The full, soft press of her lips, divided by the seam, pushed against the cotton on both sides of it. The fabric was dark, darker than it should have been, darker in the centre and the darkness meant dampness and dampness meant wet and wet meant...

No knickers.

She wasn't wearing knickers under the shorts. He could tell because there were no lines, no edges, no secondary layer. Just one thin sheet of cotton pulled taut over the most intimate part of his mother's body and the cotton had ridden so deep between her folds that the shape of her was unmistakeable. The outline. The contour. The cleft. He could see where the fabric had been pulled into her, between her lips, absorbed by the soft flesh on either side and a faint crease ran vertically through the stretched cotton where the fabric had sunk between them.

The shorts moved.

Not a lot. A tiny adjustment. The fabric shifted as she pulled her knees wider and the strip of cotton between her legs slid a fraction to the left and for one impossible second the edge of the fabric pulled free of her skin and he could see the very beginning of her, the pink edge where cotton met flesh, where covered became uncovered and then the fabric settled back and it was gone.

He made a noise.

Small. Involuntary. A click in the back of his throat. A strangled, swallowed sound that didn't make it past his teeth. But the room was quiet and the television was muted because he'd muted it at some point without knowing and the headphones weren't playing anything and the sound, tiny as it was, carried.

Her head tilted back on the mat. Upside down. Looking at him.

Green eyes. Wide. Big. Innocent in a way that was not innocent at all.

"Baby." A smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. "Are you staring at Mummy?"

"No."

The word came out flat. Dead. Stripped of everything that might make it convincing.

"You are." She giggled. The giggle moved through her body. Her stomach flexed. Her thighs trembled where they were held open. She didn't close her legs. Didn't move. Stayed exactly as she was, knees at her shoulders, feet in her hands, pussy outlined by damp cotton, looking at him upside down with a grin that belonged to a girl half her age. "That's a bit rude isn't it?"

"I wasn't..." He looked at the television. Looked back. Looked at the television again. Her spread body occupied the lower third of his vision no matter where he pointed his eyes. "Mum you're literally in the middle of the..."

"Hey. Hey, settle down." The grin softened. She released one foot and reached out toward him, an open palm, a calming gesture. "Can I ask you something?"

"What."

She rolled out of the pose. Slowly. Knees closing, feet coming down, legs extending until she lay flat on her back on the mat. Then she sat up. Then she stood. Brushed off her knees. Adjusted the crop top, pulling it down, which accomplished nothing because the fabric sprang right back up to where it wanted to be, below the swell of her tits, showing the tanned strip of underboob on both sides.

She stood in front of him. Two feet from the sofa. Hands on her hips. Hip cocked. Weight on one leg. Ponytail messy. Face slightly flushed. Breathing a little harder than normal.

"Do I look fat?"

"What?"

"In this." She gestured down at herself. The shorts. The crop top. The expanse of bare skin between them. "Honestly. Do I look fat? Debbie said I'd been putting it on round the middle and I can't tell."

"You don't look fat."

He said it to the television. He said it fast. He said it the way you say something you want to be done with, a stamp on a form, a box ticked.

"You haven't looked properly."

He had looked properly. He had looked so properly that the image of her in happy baby pose was now seared into his retinas like a flash bulb and he would be seeing it when he closed his eyes tonight and tomorrow night and probably every night for the rest of his natural life.

She turned. Slowly. A quarter rotation, presenting her side. Her right side. Hand on her hip. Chest pushed out. The crop top stretched across her breasts in profile and the shape of them was obscene. Full. Heavy. Round at the bottom, sloping upward, the hard point of her nipple pressing a distinct shadow through the black cotton. They moved when she breathed. A subtle shift, a lift and settle, a lift and settle, the kind of movement that only happened with breasts that were real and soft and unrestrained.

"This bit. Honestly." Her left hand came up and cupped underneath her right breast. Lifted it. Held it. Her fingers pressed into the soft flesh, dimpling it and the crop top rode up over her knuckles and now he could see the underside of the breast she was holding, tanned and full and pushed upward by her own hand. "Are these saggy?"

"Mum."

"Because I feel like they've started to go. Gravity you know. Thirty six and it's all downhill." She bounced her hand, just once, a small upward motion and her breast bounced with it, heavy and loose inside the crop top and the movement sent a visible ripple through the fabric. "What do you think?"

He didn't think. Thinking had stopped. The part of his brain responsible for rational thought had looked at the situation, looked at his mother cupping her own tit and asking him to evaluate it and had simply walked out of the building. Handed in its keys. Gone for a long lunch and not come back.

"They're fine."

"Fine." She dropped her hand. Pouted. "Fine like okay or fine like good?"

"Good. They're good. Can you just..."

"One more thing."

She turned the other way. Completed the rotation until she was facing away from him. He saw her back, the ridge of her spine, the wings of her shoulder blades, the dip above the waistband of the shorts. She bent. Slightly. At the waist. A gentle lean forward that pushed her arse out toward him and the shorts were right there, right at eye level from where he sat on the sofa, close enough that he could have reached out and put his hands on her hips without fully extending his arms.

She looked back over her shoulder. Green eyes. Mouth curved.

"And my bum. Be honest. Is it dropping? Debbie said it was. I want to know if spin class is actually doing anything."

He looked at her arse. He was looking at her arse. There was nothing else to look at. It filled his field of vision. Two round, tanned, firm cheeks barely contained by four inches of riding, clinging, damp black cotton. The shorts had pulled up again, exposing the lower curve of each cheek and the fabric had settled into the cleft between them and the thin strip of material that ran between her legs was dark with moisture and he could see the outline of her pussy from behind, the soft swell of her pressed against the cotton and she was asking him if her arse was dropping.

Her arse was not dropping. Her arse was a masterpiece. Her arse was five days a week of spin class and genetics and the kind of body that made her son's mates go quiet when she walked through a room. Her arse was the reason Jules Hartley had climbed over the fence yesterday. Her arse was currently the only thing preventing Charlie Jones from forming a complete sentence.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

She held the pose. Bent forward. Looking back at him. Waiting. Patient. Like she had all the time in the world. Like she was standing in a fitting room asking a friend about a pair of jeans and not bending over in front of her son with her pussy visible through her shorts.

She held it.

And held it.

His cock was so hard it hurt. It pressed against the inside of his joggers, trapped, bent at an awkward angle by the fabric and he could feel his pulse in it, a thick, heavy throb that pushed against the cotton with every heartbeat. Precum had soaked through his boxers. He could feel the slick warmth of it against the shaft of his cock, lubricating the friction of fabric against skin and every micro movement he made on the sofa sent a jolt through him. He gripped the controller so tight his knuckles went white.

Then, still bent over, still looking back at him, she reached behind herself with one hand and hooked two fingers into the crotch of her shorts. Pulled the fabric. Adjusted it. Drew it up out of the crease where it had settled between her lips, peeling it free of damp skin and for one full, devastating second the shorts pulled to the side and he saw her. Not the outline. Not the shape through cotton. Her. The pink. The soft, flushed, wet pink of his mother's pussy, the lips slightly parted from being pressed together, a thin strand of moisture bridging the gap between fabric and skin as she pulled the shorts free.

Then she let go. The waistband snapped against her hip. The fabric settled back into place.

"Sorry." She straightened up. Smoothed the shorts down her thighs, a useless gesture since they immediately rode back up. "Riding up."

She turned to face him.

His hands moved faster than his brain. He dropped the controller, grabbed the nearest cushion, a blue velvet thing his mum had bought from TK Maxx and slammed it into his lap. The cushion landed with a soft thump and he pressed it down with both hands, covering himself, covering the tent, covering the rigid outline of his cock that had been visible through his joggers, that had been pointing up and to the left like a flagpole, that she had already seen because her eyes had been on his lap when she turned around and the gap between turning and grabbing the cushion had been long enough. Too long. A whole second of him, exposed, hard, tenting the grey cotton.

She didn't look down. She looked at his face. She smiled.

"Thanks baby." The words came out warm and easy and completely normal, like nothing had happened, like she hadn't just given him a flash of her cunt, like he wasn't sitting there with a cushion over his cock and his knuckles drained of blood and his jaw clamped so tight his back teeth ached. "You always know how to make a girl feel good."

She picked up the yoga mat. Rolled it under her arm. Stepped past the coffee table, past the end of the sofa. She was next to him. Close. He could smell her. Sweat and something floral, shampoo or body lotion and underneath it something warmer, something thicker, something that he recognized on a level he refused to access because accessing it would end him.

She leaned down.

Her lips pressed against the top of his head. A kiss. Soft. Her breath warm in his hair. Her tits pressed against the side of his face, the heavy warmth of them pushing against his cheek and his temple through the thin cotton of the crop top and he could feel the hard point of her nipple drag across his ear as she leaned in.

Her mouth moved to his hair. Close to his ear. Quiet.

"Mummy was just teasing."

A pause. Her breath tickled the shell of his ear.

"You can move the pillow if you want." Her voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. "I don't mind."

The warmth of her against the side of his face. The weight of her breast on his cheek. The smell of her, all around him, in his nose and his mouth and his lungs. Then she pulled back. Straightened up. Walked past the sofa with the yoga mat under her arm and her hips swaying and the shorts riding up and the underboob showing and she went through the archway and he heard her feet on the stairs and he heard her bedroom door open and close and then there was silence.

Charlie sat on the sofa.

The cushion was in his lap. The controller was on the floor where he'd dropped it. The headphones hung around his neck, one cup resting against his collarbone. The television showed the pause menu. The game had been paused for twenty minutes.

He did not move the pillow.

He stared at the screen and did not see it.

His cock was harder than it had ever been. Harder than he'd known a cock could be. It strained against his joggers, against the cushion, a rigid bar of heat that throbbed with every heartbeat. The head of it was slick, coated in the precum that had been leaking steadily since the first downward dog and the shaft was so engorged that he could feel the veins pulsing, could feel the blood trapped in it, a heavy, aching pressure that radiated outward into his groin, his stomach, his thighs. His balls were tight and full and drawn up close to his body, loaded and the ache in them had gone from background noise to a sharp, specific pain that sat in the pit of his stomach like a fist.

He wanted to touch himself.

He wanted to wrap his hand around his cock and pump it three times. That's all it would take. Three strokes. Maybe two. Maybe one. He was so backed up, so swollen, so primed by two weeks of nothing and thirty minutes of his mother's arse in his face that one stroke would finish him. One stroke and he'd cum. Thick, heavy ropes of it, fourteen days worth, soaking through the cushion, through his joggers, onto the sofa and the relief would be blinding, nuclear, the single greatest physical sensation of his entire life and it would cost him twenty thousand pounds.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Bit it hard.