The monitor flared to life and the room filled with the low, unmistakable thump of bass-heavy moans.
Melissa didn't fully touch her cunt yet.
She lounged back in Harold's chair like a queen on a throne made for sin, thighs splayed obscenely wide, knees hooked over the leather armrests so every inch of her was on display.
Her tits--full, heavy, impossibly perfect, rose and fell with each slow breath, the weight of them shifting, swaying slightly whenever she moved.
They were a mature woman's breasts, soft yet proud, the pale skin marked faintly with the blue rivers of veins beneath, the areolas wide and dark rose, nipples already thick and jutting like they'd been sucked for hours.
One hand cupped the left one possessively, fingers sinking deep into the plush flesh, lifting and squeezing until the nipple bulged between her knuckles.
She rolled it slowly, cruelly, twisting until it darkened even more, until her back arched off the chair and a low, animal growl vibrated in her throat.
Her other hand rested just above her cunt, palm flat on the soft rise of her lower belly, fingertips barely brushing the trimmed strip of black hair.
She was massaging herself in lazy, claiming circles--not inside yet; just spreading the slick that had already leaked from her, painting it over her mound, down the creases where thigh met groin, until the insides of her legs gleamed wet and obscene in the shifting screen-light.
Phei's mouth went dry. His cock throbbed so hard it hurt.
On screen: a woman who could have been Melissa's twin bent over a desk, skirt rucked up, getting railed from behind by a boy young enough to be her son. The caption burned white: "Auntie needed a real man after Uncle left for his trip."
Melissa's breath caught. She pinched her nipple harder (twisted it viciously) until the fat tit distorted in her grip, until her hips jerked involuntarily and her cunt gave a visible, hungry clench.
A thick bead of wetness welled at her entrance and slid slowly down toward her ass.
She clicked again.
A stern professor on her knees, tits spilling out of a half-unbuttoned blouse, begging a smirking student to feed her his cock.
Then another: a family friend bent over her own kitchen island while the neighbor's quiet son finally took what he'd been watching for years.
Every video the same filthy truth--older, powerful women broken open and begging for the one thing they weren't supposed to want: younger, dominant boys who looked exactly like the one hiding in the shadows right now.
Her tits heaved faster now, nipples so stiff they cast tiny shadows in the monitor glow. The hand on her mound pressed firmer, rubbing broad, slow circles over her clit without parting her lips yet, just teasing, tormenting herself in time with the on-screen thrusts.
"Fuck," she rasped, voice shredded. "Yes… just like that, you little bastard…"
Another click. The one that made her freeze.
Thumbnail: "Step-aunt finally breaks." The woman on screen had same heavy, perfect tits swaying as she was bent over, same dark hair gripped in a cruel fist. The boy behind her was all sharp bones and merciless rhythm, slamming into her so hard her breasts bounced painfully, nipples dragging across the desk.
Melissa laughed--low, filthy, delighted. "God, yes."
Only then did her hand finally slide lower.
Two fingers parted her cunt like curtains, spreading herself wide open for the screen--and for Phei.
She was drenched, swollen folds flushed dark and glistening clit fat and protruding, inner lips slick and clinging to her fingers as she held herself open. A soft, wet sound filled the room when she exposed the shiny pink inside, the entrance fluttering greedily around nothing.
Her other hand abandoned her breast (leaving the nipple red and abused) and joined the first.
Four fingers now stroked through her mess in slow, filthy figure-eights, coating themselves, spreading her wetness up over her clit and back down to her hole, never pushing in, just teasing the edges until her thighs shook.
Her tits--God, those tits--bounced with every ragged breath, heavy and hypnotic, nipples so hard they looked like they could cut glass. Sweat gathered in the hollow between them and slid down the undersides in slow, shining trails.
Phei had never been this hard. His cock leaked steadily, a growing wet patch cooling against his skin, balls drawn up tight and aching. He tasted blood where he'd bitten his tongue to stay quiet.
Melissa's hips started rolling in tiny, desperate circles, chasing her own hands. Her cunt made greedy, wet noises every time she spread herself wider, as if begging to be filled.
A broken whine tore out of her as the on-screen aunt started coming, tits swinging, mouth open in a scream.
Melissa's fingers pressed harder, circled faster, thighs trembling so hard the chair creaked.
Phei stoodfrozen in the dark, pulse roaring, cock throbbing in time with her heartbeat.
He waited.
Ready.
The video had shifted to the hardest scene yet.
On screen: a woman was pinned face-down on a dining table, wrists bound behind her back with her own silk blouse. The boy (nineteen, maybe twenty) stood behind her, one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.
He was fucking her with brutal, deliberate strokes, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, making her heavy tits scrape across the wood with every thrust. The caption burned at the bottom: "Mom's best friend learns who owns her cunt now."
Melissa's head fell back against the chair, throat exposed, lips parted on a broken moan.
Her right hand finally plunged.
Two fingers speared straight into her soaked cunt —no teasing, no mercy—curling hard on the first stroke and dragging out with a loud, filthy squelch. They came out shining, webbed with thick strands of her arousal, then slammed back in to the knuckles.
Again. Again. Faster.
Her palm slapped against her clit with every thrust, the wet smack echoing off the bookshelves like gunshots.
Her pussy swallowed her fingers greedily—lips flushed dark, swollen, clinging to every ridge of her knuckles. Each time she pulled out, her hole gaped for a heartbeat, pink and dripping, before she fucked herself again.
Clear fluid coated her hand, her wrist, ran in rivulets down to her asshole and pooled beneath her on the leather. The chair was ruined and she didn't care.
"Fuck—yes—harder—" she gasped to the screen, voice shredded raw. "Take it, you little bastard, take what's yours—"
Her left hand mauled her own breast, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks, twisting the nipple until it was purple-red and obscene. Her back arched so violently the chair groaned.
In and out. In and out.
Three fingers now— stretching herself open with a wet, obscene sound. Her cunt made greedy, sucking noises every time she withdrew, like it didn't want to let go. Her clit stood out hard and slick, flushed almost purple, jerking with every slap of her palm.
Thick ropes of slick hung between her fingers and her pussy, snapping and reforming with every brutal thrust.
She was close —so close— hips bucking off the seat, thighs shaking, toes curled against the desk's edge. Her moans climbed higher, animal, desperate, nothing like the ice-queen who ruled the house by day.
Phei was dying.
His cock throbbed so hard he could feel his pulse in the slit, pre-come pouring out of him in steady pulses, soaking through denim. His hands were fists at his sides, nails cutting bloody crescents into his palms.
Every fiber in his body screamed two opposite commands: run—bolt from the room before she saw him and ended him—or charge forward, shove those fingers aside, and give her what she was begging the screen for.
He swayed on his feet, vision tunneling, breath sawing in and out through clenched teeth.
Melissa's head was still thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open on a silent scream as her fingers pistoned relentlessly.
Squelch. Slap. Squelch. Slap.
Her pussy clenched visibly around her plunging fingers, another thick gush of fluid spilling out over her hand.
The air itself had weight: thick, humid, laced with the copper-salt smell of her cunt and the darker, animal heat rolling off her skin.
Every breath Phei dragged in tasted like sex (raw, wet, obscene). The spiced cloud of her perfume had burned away hours ago, replaced by the sharper reek of sweat and pussy that coated the back of his throat and made his head swim.
Sound was worse.
Her fingers drove into herself with a relentless, wet schlick-schlick-schlick that ricocheted off two stories of books like gunfire.
Each thrust ended in a filthy, sucking pop when her cunt tried to keep her from pulling out. The leather beneath her ass made crude, sticky peeling noises every time her hips bucked, like tape ripping off skin.
Her palm smacked her clit with a sharp, wet crack that cracked louder than the porn's bassline.
The chair groaned under her, old wood protesting the way she was fucking herself into it.
Phei took one single, trembling step out of the shadows.