My best friends gf woke me up and couldn’t help but see my morning wood

The scent of vanilla bean and browned butter still clung to my skin, a ghost of the night’s service at the patisserie. The house was silent, a stark contrast to the clattering heat of the kitchen I’d left an hour ago. My body ached for the familiar weight of my husband, Mark, against me, for the solid comfort of our bed. I slipped off my clogs at the door, the cool hardwood a relief against my tired feet.

I padded down the hallway, the only light spilling from the crack under our bedroom door. A smile touched my lips. He must have waited up for me. I pushed the door open slowly, the scene inside taking a moment to process, the pieces refusing to fit into the peaceful domestic picture I expected.

There, in our bed, was Mark. His head was thrown back against our pillows, his eyes clenched shut, a low groan rumbling in his chest. And there, kneeling between his legs, her back to me, was my mother. Her blouse was discarded on the floor, the elegant line of her spine taut, her shoulders working. Her head bobbed with a rhythm that was both practiced and fervent. The wet, slick sounds filled the quiet room, a vulgar counterpoint to the gentle hum of the night. I saw Mark’s hand tangled in her hair, not pushing, but guiding, his knuckles white.

I should have screamed. I should have thrown something. But a strange, cold calm settled over me. This wasn’t a violent, shocking intrusion; it was a secret ritual, one that had clearly been performed before. The intimacy of it was what stunned me into silence. This wasn’t a drunken mistake. This was… established.

I must have made a sound, a shift in the air, because my mother froze. Her head snapped up, her eyes, wide with panic, meeting mine in the dim light. Mark’s eyes flew open, and the look of sheer, unadulterated horror on his face was almost comical. He scrambled back, pulling the sheet over himself, while my mother fumbled for her blouse, her movements jerky and ashamed.

“Lena, my God, I…” my mother stammered, her voice a broken thing.

I held up a hand, my own voice surprisingly steady. “Stop.”

They both stared at me, frozen like guilty children. I let my gaze travel from my husband’s flushed, terrified face to my mother’s, which was a mask of shame and something else… a lingering heat. The air was thick with the smell of sex and her perfume, a floral note I’d known since childhood.

“Don’t stop on my account,” I said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. I took a step into the room, then another, my heart hammering against my ribs not with anger, but with a fierce, shocking curiosity. “In fact, I want you to finish.”

Mark’s mouth dropped open. “Baby, please, let me explain…”

“There’s nothing to explain,” I interrupted, my tone leaving no room for argument. I sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. I reached out and took Mark’s hand. It was trembling. I laced my fingers with his and gave a reassuring squeeze. Then I looked directly at my mother, who was still clutching her blouse to her chest. “Mum. Finish what you started.”

The silence stretched, taut and electric. My mother’s eyes searched mine, looking for the trap, the rage. She found only a quiet, intense command. Slowly, hesitantly, she let the blouse fall back to the floor. She didn’t look away from me as she moved back between Mark’s legs. He was still hard, the evidence of their interrupted passion standing proud and glistening.

I kept my hold on Mark’s hand, using my other to gently scratch the coarse hair on his chest, the way I knew he loved. “It’s okay,” I whispered to him. “Relax.”

My mother lowered her head, her lips parting. She didn’t break eye contact with me until the last second before she took him back into her mouth. This time, it was different. The secret was gone, replaced by a raw, exposed performance. I watched, mesmerized, as her lips stretched around him, as her throat worked to take him deep. Mark’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around mine. His eyes were locked on me, filled with a confused, desperate plea and a dark, burgeoning excitement.

I could see the skill in her movements, the little tricks she used that were different from mine. The way she swirled her tongue at the tip, the soft hum she made that vibrated through him. I saw the way his stomach muscles clenched, the telltale sign I knew so well. “He’s close,” I said softly to my mother, my voice husky.

She increased her pace, her hand working the base of his shaft in tandem with her mouth. Her other hand braced itself on his thigh, her nails digging in. I watched the muscles in her jaw work, the slight gagging reflex she controlled with a practiced ease that spoke of experience. Mark’s back arched off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. I felt the pulse in his hand, a frantic beat that mirrored my own heart. I watched, unblinking, as his release flooded her mouth, his body shuddering through the climax.

My mother stayed there for a long moment, her body still. Then, with a slow, deliberate swallow that made her throat work, she took it all. She pulled back, licking her lips clean with a slow swipe of her tongue, a gesture that was both submissive and utterly defiant. A single, glistening tear traced a path through her perfectly applied makeup, but her eyes, when they met mine again, held a new, unsettling understanding. The kitchen warmth had left me, replaced by a different, more primal heat. The night was no longer about rest. It was about a new recipe, one we had all begun to cook together.