Hours Ago....

"You're… so beautiful…" Her voice cracked, eyes glassy, tears spilling down her cheeks, salty on her lips, breath hitching.

"My baby… my man… how did you get so… perfect…"

I smiled, slow, warm, no teasing now, voice soft, warm. "So are you."

She blushed deeper, eyes flicking back to my face, then down again, unable to stop, gaze lingering on the bulge, lips parting, tongue darting out to wet them, tears glistening. "I… I shouldn't… but I can't…"

"Look all you want," I said, voice soft, hands sliding up her thighs, thumbs brushing the crease where leg met hip, feeling her tremor, the wetness seeping from her pussy, scent rising—sweet, musky, hers. "I'm yours, Mom!"

She reached out, hesitant, fingers brushing my chest, tracing a scratch, nails light, shivering, feeling the heat, the pulse under my skin, tears dripping onto my chest.

"You're… perfect…" Her voice cracked, eyes glassy, tears threatening, fingers trembling as they traced the bite marks, the bruises, lingering on the V of my hips, thumbs brushing the sweatpants. "My baby… how did you get so… beautiful…"

"You," I said, simple, true, voice warm, thumb brushing a tear from her cheek. "You made me; raised me to become this."

She smiled, shy, sweet, tears spilling, leaning in to kiss my collarbone, soft, reverent, tongue flicking a water droplet, tasting salt, me, her, tears mixing with sweat. "Eat with me," I said, voice gentle, no teasing. "Just breakfast. Like always. But better."

She nodded, shy, reaching for a pancake, tearing it in half, feeding me a piece with trembling fingers, syrup dripping on my lip, sticky, sweet, warm.

She leaned in, kissed it away, slow, sweet, tongue shy, tasting butter, sugar, me, lingering, soft, warm, tears dripping onto my chest.

"Like when you were little," she whispered, voice cracking, feeding me bacon, eggs, coffee from her mug, our fingers brushing, eyes locked, shy smiles, soft laughs, tears glistening in her eyes, scent of milk, syrup, her rising. "Only… not."

I smiled, chewing, thumb brushing a tear from her cheek, feeling the warmth, the salt, the love, the pulse under my fingers. "Better than little."

She fed me slowly, eyes never leaving my face, my body, drinking me in like wine, fingers lingering on my lips, wiping syrup, sucking it off her thumb with a shy giggle, eyes flicking to my bulge again, cheeks burning, tears dripping.

"You're… too much," she murmured, voice soft, awed, breath hitching, tears glistening. "Too beautiful… too mine…"

I kissed her forehead, slow, warm, lingering, feeling the tremor in her skin, the love in her breath, the pulse under my lips. "Always yours."

No words about the shower. No need.

Just Mom. Just me. Just breakfast.

And the taste of milk, syrup, her—lingering on my tongue, in my soul, forever.

**

The sun had crawled across the sky like a lazy god, bleeding gold into orange, then violet, then black.

We'd started in the kitchen. Morning light spilling through windows, the smell of pancakes and bacon filling the air, Linda standing at the stove in nothing but one of my old t-shirts.

She'd made breakfast with trembling hands, kept looking at me like she couldn't believe I was real—scratches down my back, bruises on my hips, the evidence of what we'd done written across my skin.

I sat on the counter, bare-chested, watching her cook. When she brought the plate over, she didn't give it to me—she fed me. Fork to my lips, syrup dripping, her eyes tracking every movement of my jaw, my throat, my tongue.

She blushed crimson when I pulled her close and kissed her, tasting butter and maple and her.

"You're beautiful," I'd said.

She'd cried. Actually cried. Standing there in my kitchen in nothing but a t-shirt, tears running down her face because I called her beautiful.

The counter had become sticky with syrup and milk by the time we finished. Her t-shirt rode up when she leaned against me, and I felt her—warm, bare, still wet from earlier. She stayed there, curled in my lap, head on my shoulder, breathing me in like I was oxygen.

That's when I told her about the harem.

She'd frozen. Gone completely still except for her fingers clutching my chest.

"Twenty-three women," I'd said quietly. "All mine. All chosen."

I'd kissed her temple—soft, reassuring—and felt her relax by degrees.

We moved to the couch. Sunlight spilling through blinds, dust motes dancing in the air. She curled into me, t-shirt pushed up, and I kept talking. Told her about the orgies—two days straight, fifteen women scattered across the estate's living room like battlefield casualties.

She trembled against me, pussy getting wet on my thigh, and I kissed her breast—slow, reverent, tongue finding the nipple that was still leaking. The milk was warm and sweet and hers, and she moaned, fingers in my hair, pulling me closer.

She turned, straddled me, kissed me deep—hungry and needy, tongue sliding against mine. She came just from grinding on my lap, pussy gushing, and I held her through it.

By afternoon we were on the patio. Sun high, breeze warm, sandwiches and lemonade forgotten on the table. She sat between my legs, back to my chest, completely naked, skin golden in the light.

I told her about the estate and what happened there, the whole harem there. Her worry about what Emma and Sarah were seeing but I reassured her that it was fine and they did not see anything.

Her cute disappointment that Emma and Sarah knew so much and she did not and they did not tell her either.

She laughed—disbelief and wonder mixed together—and turned to kiss me. Tasted like lemon and salt and love.

Another shower. Water hot, steam thick, glass fogging. I washed her—slow and gentle, hands soaping her breasts, her belly, her pussy. Fingers sliding inside, curling, finding that spot that made her gasp.

She came on my fingers, milk spraying the glass, and I bit her shoulder while she shook.

Dinner was pizza and wine in bed. Candles flickering on the nightstand. She fed me crust, cheese stringing between our lips, and I told her about ARIA—her reach, her limits, the property even she couldn't find.

Linda laughed, tipsy and loose, and kissed me slow. Tongue tasting pepperoni and wine and me.

Evening found us on the balcony. Stars above, city lights below, breeze cooling the sweat on our skin. She sat on the railing—naked, fearless—legs wrapped around my waist, pussy dripping on my cock.

I fucked her slow and deep, hands on her ass, thumbs in her stretch marks, and told her about tomorrow.

"I turn seventeen and this was my birthday; the best," I said.

She came silently, tears falling, and kissed me desperate—tongue deep, hands in my hair like she was afraid I'd disappear.

Now we were back in the kitchen where we'd started. Her in my lap, skin warm and soft and wet, my arms around her, her head on my shoulder.

I kissed her lips—soft, slow, deep. Tongue sliding, tasting wine and pizza and tears and love.

"I told you everything," I said quietly. "The harem. The orgies. The estate and everything it hides. All of it."

Almost all of it.

I didn't tell her about Emma. Or Sarah. Or Patricia—her best friend who was also mine now. I didn't tell her about the systems, about the powers, about what I really was. Not even my escort job or the wellness center or other unnecessary info.

She wasn't ready for those truths. Maybe she'd never be ready.

But she believed what I'd given her. Every word, every kiss, every secret I'd shared.

And she loved me anyway.

"My son," she whispered against my neck. "My man. My everything."

I held her tighter, kissed her slower, deeper.

The longest day was ending. Tomorrow I'd be seventeen. Tomorrow the world would keep spinning and the empire would keep growing and the harem would keep expanding.

But tonight—tonight was just us.

No more secrets.

Not the ones she could handle, anyway.

Not yet.

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