November 1st
“Right, this is it,” I muttered to myself, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My name’s Marcus, I’m eighteen, and for as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with boobs and pussy. I’m usually pretty good at getting what I want, whether it’s a quick hook-up or just a session with my hand. I’m not proud of every habit, but I am who I am.
But this year, I swore I’d take the No Nut November challenge. A whole month. No sex, no masturbation, no orgasms. I’d seen it online, all the guys talking about it. Some said it made you feel amazing, super-charged. Others said it was hell. I figured I could handle hell for a month.
Mum was making breakfast downstairs. My mum, Sarah, is 51. She’s always been pretty, a little curvy. She likes her wine in the evenings. She’s a great mum, always has been. I never really thought of her in any other way. She’s just… Mum. She’s busty, a 34DD, which I guess I noticed in an abstract way, like “my mum has big boobs,” but never in a way way. Not like I think about other women. That would be weird.
“Marcus, eggs are ready!” she called up.
“Coming, Mum!” I shouted back, taking one last look at myself. Day one. Easy.
November 3rd
The first few days were fine. Annoying, sure, but manageable. I spent a lot of time distracting myself with video games and scrolling through Reddit, trying to avoid anything suggestive. It was harder than I thought, though. Every ad seemed to be for lingerie, every movie had a gratuitous sex scene. It felt like the world was actively conspiring against me.
I almost slipped up this afternoon. A girl from school messaged me, sending a flirty picture. My hand actually twitched, reaching for my phone. But I stopped myself. Deep breaths. Focus on the goal. This was a challenge, I reminded myself. Not a punishment. I needed to prove I had self-control.
Mum was in the living room, watching some rubbish TV show. She was wearing her usual comfy clothes, a baggy jumper. Harmless. I felt a sense of relief. At least I didn’t have to deal with any extra temptations in my own home.
November 7th
A week down. I was starting to feel it. The urges were definitely building. My sleep had gotten restless. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, feeling… full. Like a pressure cooker about to blow. I’d have to get up, walk around, splash some cold water on my face. Anything to clear my head.
I was more irritable too. Mum asked me to take out the bins and I snapped at her without thinking.
“Marcus! What’s wrong with you?” she’d asked, a hurt look on her face.
“Nothing, Mum, sorry. Just tired,” I mumbled, feeling like a dick. This challenge was making me an asshole.
That night, I saw her in the kitchen again. She was making tea, wearing a thin dressing gown over her pyjamas. I saw the outline of her chest as she reached for a mug. Nothing explicit, just a shape. But for the first time, I felt a flicker. A tiny, unwelcome spark of awareness. I quickly looked away, disgusted with myself. That’s your mum, Marcus. Get a grip.
November 11th
The hell had begun. Sleep was a joke now. My mind raced with images I desperately tried to suppress. Every passing woman on the street, every model in a magazine, they all seemed to scream at me. My body felt like it was humming with a low, constant thrum of unreleased energy. My balls ached.
I was avoiding my phone, avoiding TV, avoiding pretty much everything. I just wanted November to be over.
That evening, I was in my room, trying to read. It was about 9 PM. I heard the clinking of ice and glass from downstairs. Mum was having her evening wine. I tried to focus on my book, but my mind kept drifting. I was thirsty, too. A glass of water would probably help.
I padded silently down the stairs, trying to be quick. I didn’t want to disturb her, or linger. I just needed water.
The living room was dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of the table lamp. Mum was curled up on the sofa, a half-empty glass of red wine in her hand. She was watching some old romantic comedy, laughing softly to herself.
And then I saw her.
She was wearing a nightie. It was a short, silky thing, a deep sapphire blue. It barely reached her mid-thigh. The neckline was a soft V-shape, low, much lower than I’d ever seen her wear. My eyes snagged on it.
She had no bra on.
Her breasts, full and heavy, pushed against the thin fabric. As she shifted, taking a sip of wine, the fabric pulled taut across her chest. And for a split second, a tiny, dark shadow appeared just above the V-neck. The unmistakable peak of her nipple, briefly outlined, visible through the thin material.
My breath hitched. My heart hammered against my ribs. It was just a glimpse, a fleeting moment. But it was enough.
A jolt, like electricity, shot through me. I felt a sudden, intense heat bloom between my legs. My jogging bottoms, which had been loose moments ago, suddenly felt tight. Hard. Rock hard.
I froze in the doorway, my hand still on the banister. My mind screamed NO! but my body was unresponsive. My eyes were glued to her, to that soft, curved line of her cleavage, to the faint shadow I’d just seen.
Mum looked up, her eyes crinkling in a smile. “Oh, hey, Marcie. Just getting a drink?” She didn’t seem to notice my rigid posture, or the sudden flush on my face.
“Uh, yeah. Water,” I managed to croak out, my voice sounding foreign even to my own ears. I tried to pull my gaze away, to look at the TV, at the floor, anywhere else. But it felt impossible. It was like I was stuck, trapped by this image, this forbidden sight.
I walked into the kitchen, my body stiff. I gripped the countertop, trying to steady myself. The cold plastic of the water bottle felt good against my burning hand. I chugged the water down, trying to push the image away. It clung to me, vivid and sharp. The curve of her breast. The dark glimpse.
I couldn’t shake it.
November 14th
Three days after that fucking night. Absolute, unfiltered, mind-eroding torture. Every time I closed my eyes, she was there—silky nightie riding up, the deep V-neck teasing just enough to drive me out of my goddamn skull. My own mother. Should’ve been repulsive. Should’ve made me sick. But no. My cock twitched like a goddamn traitor every time the mental image flared in my head.
No Nut November had been rough before, but now? Now it was a warzone inside my skull. My brain, starved of release, kept digging deeper into the memory—her curves under that thin fabric, the way the silk clung to her tits like it was painted on. The shadow of a nipple. The dip of her waist, the way her hips swayed when she walked. I was losing it. Completely losing it.
I couldn’t even look at her without my pulse jackhammering in my neck. Every accidental brush of her fingers, every laugh that made her chest tremble—it was fucking obscene, the way my body reacted. She wasn’t even trying. She was just there. Existing. And I was a goddamn animal, salivating like some depraved fuck who got off on the wrong kind of taboo.
The shower didn’t help anymore. Cold water? Pointless. I’d stand there, fists clenched, cock hard as steel, fighting the urge to just grip it and fucking finish it. But no—I couldn’t. Not yet. Not when I was this close.
Fuck. Fuck.
November 17th
Mid-month. A hollow-eyed, jittery wreck. Sleep was a joke. Every time I shut my eyes, she was there—sprawled on the couch, wine-drunk and careless, that nightie riding higher, dipping lower. My dick was in a state of permanent agony, throbbing like a second fucking heartbeat.
Then, the inevitable. The clink of ice in a glass. The dim glow from the living room. My throat went dry. Stay in your room. Stay the fuck away.
But I didn’t.
Of course I didn’t.
I crept downstairs like a goddamn pervert, heart slamming against my ribs. And there she was—same nightie, same too-short, too-sheer, too-everything. Legs crossed, wine in hand, head tipped back in laughter. The neckline gaped. More than last time. Way more. Enough to see the full swell of her tit, the dark peak of her nipple pressing against the fabric.
A bolt of electricity shot straight to my groin. I was stiff instantly, pulse hammering in my cock like it had its own fucking heartbeat.
She caught me staring.
Fuck. Fuck.
“Everything alright, love?”
Her voice was too warm, too slow—dripping with wine and something else. Something dangerous.
I didn’t mean to say it. I swear to Christ, I didn’t. But the words tumbled out like a confession, raw and desperate.
“This No Nut November is killing me.”
Silence. Thick. Heavy.
Her smile slipped. Eyebrows arched. Then—fuck, fuck—her gaze dropped. Right to the tent in my joggers.
“Oh, is it, now, Marcus?”
I was drowning. My brain short-circuited, tossing up images I had no business thinking—her under me, legs spread, that fucking nightie shoved up around her waist. Me slamming into her, losing every ounce of control, spaffing off inside her like some degenerate animal.
Fuck. FUCK.
She took a sip of wine, eyes locked on me, then sighed like she was amused.
“Maybe you should go to the bathroom and… you know, sort it out.”
Closer now. Too close. She stumbled, wine-drunk, and sat next to me. Her thigh brushed mine. I burned.
Then she caught me staring at her tits again.
“It’ll never go soft if you keep looking at my… well, you know.” She rolled her eyes, playful, cruel. “You young boys are silly, trying to do this ‘no thingy’ November.”
I laughed—a broken, strangled sound. “You can say it, Mum. No Nut November.”
Her legs crossed tighter. Her cheeks flushed.
I was so goddamn close to failing.
“Do… do you want another drink mum,” I said picking up the wine bottle and pouring it into her glass.
“You trying to get your old mum drunk,” she hiccupped and smiled.
“You trying to get your old mum drunk,” she hiccupped and smiled.
My hand was still on the bottle, the neck cool against my fingers. Her eyes, hazy with wine, seemed to bore right into me. My heart was pounding like a drum solo in my chest. This was it. This was the moment. Every cell in my body screamed conflicting orders – run, stay, touch, don’t.
“Maybe,” I managed, my voice a dry croak. I didn’t look away. I couldn’t. Her smile widened, a slow, knowing curve of her lips that sent a jolt through my entire system.
“And why would you want to do that, Marcus?” she purred, leaning back into the cushions. That damn nightie shifted, clinging even tighter, the fabric stretching. Another sliver of nipple, darker this time, bolder. My breath hitched.
I took a shaky step closer, the wine bottle still in my hand, a useless prop. She was expecting an answer, but my mind was blank, filled only with the image of her, her body, the raw, aching need that had been building for days, for weeks, for a lifetime, it felt like.
“Because…” I started, then trailed off, swallowed by the sheer audacity of what I was about to do. Or what I wanted to do.
She waited, her gaze unwavering, a challenge, an invitation. Her hand, long and elegant, reached out and gently plucked the bottle from my grasp. Her fingers brushed mine, and my skin exploded with heat. A shiver ran down my spine.
“Because I… I want you to relax,” I finally blurted, the words tripping over each other. It was a pathetic excuse, and we both knew it.
She took another slow sip of wine, her eyes still on mine above the rim of the glass. “Oh, I’m plenty relaxed, love.” She lowered the glass, a suggestive glint in her eyes. “Maybe you’re the one who needs to relax.”
My chest tightened. I could feel the blood thrumming behind my ears. This was a game, a dangerous, fucked-up game, and I was losing my mind, but I couldn’t stop playing.
I took another step, then another. I was standing right in front of her now, looking down. The neckline of that nightie was a gaping chasm, revealing almost everything. My cock was rock hard, throbbing, a relentless pulse of pure desire. I could practically feel the heat radiating off her.
“I can’t,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Not when you’re… like this.”
Her eyes dipped again, down to my straining joggers. She saw it. She definitely saw it. A slow smile spread across her face, a knowing, almost wicked smile.
“Like what, Marcus?” she teased, her voice a low murmur, like rough velvet. “Comfortable? Relaxed? Your own mother?”
The last three words hit me like a physical blow. Your own mother. The rational part of my brain screamed. Wrong. So wrong. But the rest of me, the primal, starved, animal part, didn’t care. It was too late. I was too far gone.
I reached out, my hand shaking, and before I could even process what I was doing, my fingers were tracing the line of her collarbone, just above the silk. Her skin was warm, unbelievably soft.
She froze. Her smile vanished. Her eyes widened, a flicker of surprise, then something else. Something I couldn’t quite decipher. Fear? Excitement? Both?
“Marcus,” she breathed, her voice suddenly tight, strained. “What are you doing?”
My thumb brushed the soft swell of her breast, right where the silk began, just teasing the edge of the fabric. My heart hammered. This was it. The point of no return.
“I can’t… I just… I can’t stop thinking about you,” I confessed, the words torn from me, raw and desperate. My palm flattened against her chest, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin silk. I could feel her heartbeat, rapid and frantic, mirroring my own.
Her breath hitched. She didn’t push me away. Her hand came up, not to stop me, but to grasp my wrist, her fingers surprisingly strong.
“Marcus… this is wrong,” she whispered, her eyes wide, full of a mixture of shock and something else, something raw and vulnerable. “You know this is wrong.” Her voice was barely a breath, but I heard the plea, the warning.
But even as she said the words, her eyes were still locked on mine, and her grip on my wrist didn’t loosen. In fact, her thumb started to rub slow, almost unconscious circles on my skin. And then, a low, guttural sound escaped her lips – a moan. A soft, desperate moan that tore through my defences and shattered what little remained of my control.
“Mum,” I whispered, my voice thick with lust and desperation. I leaned in, my face close to hers, inhaling the heady scent of wine and her perfume, and something else, something uniquely her. My other hand went to her face, cradling her cheek.
Her eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, then opened, glazed over. She was still holding my wrist, still saying nothing, but her body was betraying her. The moan had been real. The subtle arch of her back into my touch was real.
I leaned in further, my lips brushing her ear. “Please,” I begged, the word a desperate prayer.
Then, she moved. Her head tilted, just slightly, her lips parted. It was an invitation. A silent, terrifying, exhilarating invitation.
I closed the distance, my mouth crashing down on hers. It was awkward at first, clumsy, but then a spark ignited, a firestorm. Her lips were soft, tasting of wine and something forbidden. She gasped into the kiss, her fingers finally letting go of my wrist, only to tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, deeper.
My hands were everywhere now, tracing the curves of her body through the nightie. Her breasts, full and warm, pressing against my chest. Her waist, the flare of her hips. Her legs were still crossed, but I could feel the tension, the slight tremor running through her.
The kiss grew more intense, desperate, hungry. My tongue explored the soft cavern of her mouth, and she met mine, tentative at first, then with a raw, shocking passion. Another moan rumbled in her throat, a deeper sound this time, a plea.
I broke the kiss, breathless, staring into her dazed eyes. “Mum,” I choked out again, needing to say it, to acknowledge the unholy taboo as I pushed the silk strap of her nightie off her shoulder.
“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice weak, but her fingers were already fumbling with the buttons of my shirt, her nails scraping against my chest. “This is… so wrong.” But her hips rose slightly, pressing into my erection, and the “don’t” dissolved into another soft, desperate moan that was all too clear.
My shirt was open, then off. Hers was next. I pulled the silken fabric up, over her hips, her waist, her breasts. The material parted, the soft glow of the living room lamp revealing her, naked, vulnerable, utterly breath taking. Her breasts were full, nipples dark and erect. My mouth found one instantly, sucking gently, and she cried out, a sharp, surprised sound that sent shivers through me.
She arched her back, her fingers digging into my shoulders. The couch groaned ominously under our shifting weight. “Marcus… oh god, Marcus…” she pleaded, her voice a broken whisper, her body responding to my every touch.
My hand slid between her legs, finding the warm, wet silk of her panties. Too much. Too many layers. I needed her. Now.
I tore off her panties, then my joggers, my boxers, the last barriers between us. My cock, aching and engorged, sprang free.
She looked down, her eyes wide, then back up at me, a mixture of fear and insatiable hunger in her gaze.
I didn’t ask again. I couldn’t. I positioned myself between her legs, pushing gently. She was wet, so incredibly wet, her body practically begging for me. Our eyes locked, a silent, primal understanding passing between us.
Then, I was in. A slow, agonizing push, and I was buried deep inside her.
She screamed, a gasp that was half pain, half raw pleasure. The ancient springs of the couch protested with a loud screeeeek.
“Oh god,” she whimpered, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me closer, deeper. “Marcus… Marcus, yes.”
The sound of the squeaking couch, a rhythmic, desperate protest, filled the quiet living room as I began to move. In. Out. Hard. Fast. I was no longer Marcus, she was no longer mum. We were just bodies, driven by a desperate, forbidden hunger. The sound of her moans, the frantic squeak of the couch, the taste of her skin – it all merged into a single, overwhelming sensation.
I was fucking my mother. On the squeaky couch. And I couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop. I was sucking her big tits while my hard cock pounded at her old snatch.
The squeaking of the old springs was a frantic counterpoint to the desperate, wet sounds of our bodies colliding. Every thrust was a loud admission, a violation broadcast by cheap furniture.
“Fuck,” I gasped, leaning down to bury my face in the soft, warm curve of her neck. She tasted salty, musky, and like the cheap wine.
“Harder, Marcus. Please, oh god, harder,” she demanded, her voice a ragged whisper right next to my ear. Her legs tightened around my hips, locking me in place, demanding depth.
I pulled back, staring down at her dazed face. Her eyes were still wide, reflecting the lamp light, full of a terrifying acceptance. My hand slid to the back of her head, pulling her face forward so I could kiss her again, savagely, tasting the lingering fear and the surging desire.
“You like this, Mum?” I choked out against her lips, pumping into her relentlessly. The couch screeched screeeeek… screeeeek.
She clawed at my back, her nails digging into my skin. “Don’t… don’t call me that while your… Just… fuck me, Marcus! Fuck me ahhh harder.”
The denial was a lie, a thin veil she was using to justify the sudden, shocking reality of our embrace, but the urgency in her voice was real. Her pussy gripped me like a fist, milking every inch of my throbbing cock.
I lifted her hips slightly, shifting my angle, seeking that grinding friction that made her twitch. She whimpered, a high-pitched sound of intense pleasure mixed with pain. The rhythm became a frantic, desperate pounding.
“Look at me,” I demanded, holding her gaze as I drove into her.
She obeyed, her head thrashing against the cushions. Her breath was coming in short, harsh gasps. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. It’s so… filthy.”
“But you want it,” I countered, feeling the slick rush of her wetness against my thigh. I pulled out of her pussy and I slapped the head of my cock against her tight, wet opening before sliding back inside her, driving in with punishing speed.
“Yes! Oh god, yes, I want it!” she finally screamed, her voice cracking, releasing the last thread of resistance. “I’ve wanted it for so long!”
That confession shattered something fundamental inside me. The knowledge that this wasn’t just my sickness, that she shared this forbidden, aching desire, was the most potent aphrodisiac imaginable. I felt a surge of raw, animal power.
I started hitting her harder and faster, abandoning all pretence of gentleness. My hips slammed into her lower belly repeatedly. The sound of wet flesh hitting flesh mingled with the desperate singing of the springs. Screeeek. Thwack. Screeeek. Thwack.
I kept my mouth clamped onto her breast, sucking and nipping at her dark, hard nipple. She cried out, her back arching so violently I thought she might throw herself off the couch.
“Marcus! Too much! Wait!” she begged, but her hips were bucking beneath me, meeting my savage intensity halfway.
I shifted positions slightly, forcing my cock deeper, aiming for the core of her heat. I felt the familiar, frantic flutter begin inside her—a rapid, rhythmic contracting that signalled the edge.
“You’re going to come for me, Mum,” I growled, my voice low and dark with lust. I pressed harder, using my weight to pin her to the cushion, denying her any escape from the sensation.
She shook her head violently, tears blurring the edges of her eyes. “No, stop! I can’t—oh, I can’t hold it!”
But I didn’t stop. I sped up, pistons driving into her soft core. My breath hitched in my own throat as I watched her facial expression dissolve into pure, agonizing pleasure.
And then it happened.
One final, deep thrust, and her whole body seized up, rigid as a board. A strangled cry tore from her throat, cutting off sharply as she tipped over the edge. Her eyes rolled back for a terrifying moment, and a torrent of warm liquid erupted from her pussy, soaking the cushions and the backs of my legs.
She gasped, a loud, sucking sound as she tried to pull air back into her lungs, completely breathless, the pleasure too raw, too overwhelming.
“Oh… God…” she whimpered, the sound ragged. Her hips twitched uncontrollably, still seizing around my shaft, bathing me in the hot, profuse gush of her climax.
The sensation of her squirting around my cock, the smell of her release, the sight of her utterly broken and trembling beneath me, was the ultimate trigger. My control snapped. Her climax pushed me instantly to the brink.
I didn’t slow down. I couldn’t.
“Yes! God, Mum, you’re so wet!” I shouted, my voice hoarse, digging my hands into the soft flesh of her hips and pulling her tighter against the final, crushing pressure.
I pounded into the flood, harder and faster than before, using the lubrication of her squirt to drive myself deeper than I’d ever been. Each thrust was a hammer blow inside her. The couch springs shrieked their final, desperate protest.
“I’m coming, Mum! I’m coming inside you!” I yelled, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in one last, agonizingly deep drive.
The pure, white-hot ecstasy detonated inside me. I felt the powerful spasms start in my chest and ripple down, gathering force. I gritted my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut as thick, hot ropes of cum shot out of me, filling her to the brim.
It was a flood, wave after wave of searing release, deep inside the forbidden cavern of her womb. My muscles knotted, my back bowed, and I roared—a primal, guttural sound of relief and total surrender to the filth.
I braced my weight on my hands, trembling violently, exhausted, still buried deep inside the warmth of her body as my final drops pulsed out.
The squeaking stopped. The only sound left was our ragged, desperate breathing, the moist, intimate friction of our skin, and the dull, wet squelch of my seed settling deep inside my mother.
I collapsed onto her chest, slick with sweat and her wetness, my head resting just above the frantic beat of her heart.
She didn’t push me away. Her hand, still shaking, settled gently on the back of my neck, pulling me closer.
“Marcus,” she whispered, her voice still weak from her own staggering climax. “Oh, my sweet boy, you failed the no nut November challenge. We shouldn’t have done this, Fuck.
My cock was still inside her softening, “wow mum. You ok. Don’t hate me but… that is the best pussy I have ever screwed.”
“Marcus!” she choked, a fresh wave of heat rising to her cheeks. She buried her face against my chest, her voice muffled. “Don’t… don’t say things like that. It’s disgusting. We shouldn’t have… oh god, what have we done?”
I stayed there for a long time, the weight of my own body, and the implications of what we’d just done, pressing down on me. Her hand on my neck was a fragile anchor in the storm of my thoughts. After a while, I slowly pulled myself off her. The silence in the room felt heavier than the sounds that had filled it moments before.
“Mom,” I started, my voice rough, “I… I don’t know what to say.”
She finally lifted her head, her eyes red-rimmed and weary, but there was no disgust in them, not really. Just a profound sadness, and something else… a quiet acceptance, perhaps. “Neither do I, Marcus,” she whispered, her voice cracking a little. “Neither do I.”
We lay there, side by side on the creaking couch, the reality of us settling in. The air felt thick, charged with unspoken questions and a shared guilt that was both suffocating and, strangely, binding. We didn’t touch, didn’t speak for a long time. The daylight started to creep in through the blinds, casting long shadows that seemed to swallow the room.
The days that followed were a blur of awkward silences and averted glances. We moved around each other like strangers in a shared space. Every interaction was strained, every word measured. The memory of that night hung over us, a constant, unwelcome guest. I tried to pretend it hadn’t happened, to shove it deep down and forget it, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. The guilt gnawed at me, but beneath it, a dark, insistent curiosity began to stir.
One evening, about a week later, I found her sitting on the porch swing, staring out into the darkening yard. I walked out and sat down beside her, the familiar creak of the swing a soft counterpoint to the quiet. We sat in silence for a while, the only sound the chirping of crickets.
Finally, she spoke, her voice barely audible. “I can’t… I can’t go back to how it was, Marcus.”
My heart hammered in my chest. I knew what she meant. I didn’t want to go back either, not entirely. The forbidden act had changed something fundamental in both of us.
“Me neither, Mom,” I confessed, my voice rough.
She turned to look at me then, her gaze steady. There was a raw honesty in her eyes that made me look away. “It was wrong,” she said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact. “We both know that.”
“I know,” I replied, my voice a low rumble.
She reached out, her hand tentative, and rested it on my knee. The simple touch sent a tremor through me. “But… it happened.”
And then, in that quiet moment, under the vast expanse of the night sky, something shifted. The guilt was still there, a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach, but it was no longer the only thing I felt. There was a strange, undeniable pull, a shared secret that had forged a new, twisted kind of intimacy between us.
Weeks turned into months. We never spoke of that night directly again, but the unspoken understanding between us grew. The awkwardness slowly faded, replaced by a tense, charged atmosphere that simmered beneath the surface of our everyday lives. We found ourselves seeking each other out, drawn by an invisible thread. Little touches lingered, glances held a fraction too long.
And then, one rainy afternoon, it happened again. The rain drummed against the windows, creating a private world within the house. The tension had been building all day, a silent acknowledgment of the pull between us. We found ourselves in the living room, the same living room, the same couch. The unspoken invitation hung in the air.
This time, there was no panic, no desperate protest. Just a quiet, almost resigned surrender. The fear was still there, a dull ache, but the desire, the forbidden longing, had become a more powerful force. We came together slowly this time, a hesitant exploration of the boundaries we had already crossed. The squeaking couch protested, but it was a softer sound, more like a sigh than a scream.
And that was just the beginning. The dam had broken, and there was no putting the pieces back. We found ourselves falling into a pattern, a clandestine rhythm that existed only within the four walls of our home. It was wrong, deeply wrong, and we both knew it. But in the strange, distorted reality we had created, it felt like the only thing that made sense. The guilt never fully disappeared, but it became a familiar shadow, a constant reminder of the forbidden path we had chosen, a path we continued to walk, again and again.