My son's friend has been fucking me everyday for the last two months now.

I knew it was wrong the second I locked the bathroom door behind us at my son’s birthday party. The bass from the music downstairs thumped through the floor, but all I could hear was the ragged sound of his breathing as I dropped to my knees in front of him. His cock was already hard, straining against his jeans, and my mouth watered just looking at it. “You’re gonna have to be quiet,” I whispered, pulling him free. He bit his lip as I swallowed him whole, his fingers tangling in my hair, hips jerking forward like he couldn’t help it.

Two months later, and he still can’t help it.

Every day after class, he’s at my door, backpack slung over one shoulder, that hungry look in his eyes. He doesn’t even say hello anymore—just pushes me against the nearest surface and takes what he wants. The couch, the kitchen counter, bent over the washing machine while it shakes with our rhythm. He fucks me like he’s starving for it, like my body is the only thing that matters in the world. And God, I let him.

I’m always naked now. Even when he’s not inside me, his hands are everywhere—pinching my nipples until they ache, dragging his tongue over my thighs, teasing my pussy until I’m begging. He loves watching me squirm, loves the way I gasp when he slaps my ass hard enough to leave marks. “You’re mine,” he growls, and I believe him.

He’s filled every hole I have, over and over. My pussy is sore, my ass still throbs from last night, and my throat is raw from taking him so deep I gag. But the worst part? I love it. I love the way he groans when he comes, the way his cock pulses as he empties himself inside me. I love the sticky mess he leaves between my thighs, the way his cum leaks out of me for hours afterward.

But then reality crashes in. The missed pills. The way he never pulls out. The way my son laughs when he talks about his friend, completely oblivious. The fear is there, gnawing at me—what if someone finds out? What if I end up pregnant? But then he texts me, “Be there in 10,” and all I can think about is how badly I need him to ruin me again.