somerealnerd

  After that day, John became a near-daily fixture at the Calhan estate for a whole week, slipping through the gate like it was his own backyard. He and Tyler, the hulky guard, had gone from icy gres to a rough-edged familiarity—Tyler’s early urge to pound John’s face was softened by the steady drip of two-hundred-buck tips John slipped him, always with that cheeky, “Worker looking out for worker.” By now, they could share a smoke and shoot the shit without Tyler twitching for his gun.

  Today, before heading in to see Camil, John leaned against the gatepost, lighting up as Tyler stood a few feet off, his hulking frame casting a shadow over the gravel. Their usual “man talk” kicked off.

  “Sly, level with me—how’s it going with Mrs. Calhan?” Tyler asked, flicking ash from his cigarette. Sly was his nickname for John, a jab at his slippery charm. “No offense, man, but you keep this up, Bryce’ll catch us both. Risk’s too damn high.”

  John exhaled a slow, curling smoke ring, his grin sharp and unshaken—Tyler’s worry was clocked, but his mind was already three moves ahead. “Big guy, real talk—Bryce, that dumbass, will figure it out eventually. But chill—I’ve got a way out mapped, one that keeps all three of us clean: you, me, Camil.”

  “But how…” Tyler started, his brow creasing, unease tugging at his wide jaw. John cut him off, eyes locking hard—steady, unflinching, a glint of command in them. “Trust me—I clean my own messes. Won’t let you take a hit. Just do what I say when it’s time.” His tone was firm, a quiet authority that shut down the thread—Tyler’s shoulders eased, sensing the topic was a dead end.

  The air tightened a notch, so John pivoted, fshing a sly smirk to loosen it up. “Alright, big guy—tell me. Bryce got Camil on such a short leash, but why’s he cool with a beefcake like you guarding her? Never once crossed his mind you might make a move? And—don’t tell me you’re a log—no log’s pumping out that much testosterone to stack muscles like yours.” He nodded at Tyler’s bulging arms—tree-trunk thick, etched with that faded army tattoo—his tone edged with real curiosity, a puzzle he’d been chewing on.

  Tyler smirked back, a rare crack in his stoic wall. “You’re so damn sharp, Sly—how’s a brain like yours stumped on something this easy?” He paused, reading John’s arched brow, then shrugged, voice low and grudging. “I’m gay.”

  John let out a simple, “Oh,” flicking his cigarette butt to the ground, his face bnk.

  Tyler blinked, thrown—that’s it? In this world, where fertile men were gold dust, women loving women made sense; supply was short, demand sky-high. But a guy “wasting” himself on guys? That was a sin against the grain—rare, reviled, a middle finger to the system. Tyler braced, staring at John’s sharp mouth, waiting a jab or a sneer.

  John caught the look—those hard eyes boring in—and tensed, one hand darting to cover his ass. “Big guy, what’s that stare? I’m warning you now—don’t get any fucking ideas about me!”

  Tyler’s face went ft—pure, unfiltered are you serious?—and he snorted. “Not even my type, you dick.” But curiosity lingered, and he pressed, “How come you’re not shitting on me like everyone else?”

  John shrugged, casual as hell. “Big deal? You wanna be gay, be gay—your life, your call. Long as you’re not trying to fuck me, I’m good. I mean, picture me when you’re beating it if you want—just keep it to yourself, don’t let me know, okay?” He waved a zy hand, “Later,” striding toward the house.

  Tyler flicked his smoke to the dirt, throwing up a middle finger with a gruff, “Narcissistic asshole,” as John’s shadow vanished inside.

  Before stepping inside, John ran through the past few days with Camil in his head. After that first meeting, she’d wrapped herself up tight—no more flimsy silk robe, just yers hiding her skin. He could still clock her killer figure—curves begging to bust out—but not a scrap of flesh peeked through anymore. Bad news, real bad.

  The not-so-bad? She hadn’t changed much around him—still cool, not exactly warm, but lighting up like a damn professor when she lectured him, no hint she gave a shit about his “shooting” tease that first day.

  The good news, though? She hit Tammy’s SubOnly page daily, probably hunting for new uploads—none came—and then binged other clips, never lingering long. John saw it in the data: her frustration, her pent-up itch, growing by the hour. A few more days, he figured, and she’d crack—bring up the “shooting” thing herself.

  Her voice snapped him out of it, sharp and bored. “Why’re you here again?” Camil stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a beige high-neck sweater clinging to her frame—tight as hell, no give, but it couldn’t hide her. The knit hugged her chest, the faint outline of her bra pressing through, nipples just a shadow under the weave, her hips fring wide beneath snug jeans. Wrapped up, sure, but that body still screamed through the yers.

  “Investment—making you a partner, as always,” John said, fshing his investment-manager grin, all teeth and bullshit.

  Camil knew he wasn’t legit—days ago, she’d called SubOnly, and no “John” worked there. She hadn’t called him out, though. She’d pegged him quick: this sly fuck wanted in her pants. Fine by her—she could use him to kill the boredom, fuck him to blow off steam, then kick him to the curb when she was done. No skin off her back.

  She waved a zy hand, motioning him to sit, and they slid into their routine—her pying teacher, him the eager student, cpping like a kid when she nailed a point, that grin lighting up his face.

  Inside, Camil was seething. Why hasn’t this prick made a move after all these days? Doesn’t he want me? Is it because I’ve covered up—no way I’m some slut fshing skin for him. Or—shit—has he sized me up close and decided I’m not worth it? He’s drooling like a dog over that SubOnly whore, but me? What, too old? Not hot enough? Jealousy—something she’d barely felt growing up—mixed with a flood of self-doubt, cwing at her. John had her hooked, and that was his win.

  Fuck this coward, she thought. Finish this “pn” today, then tell him to fuck off. She flicked her hand, voice ft. “John, grab me a bourbon. Let’s wrap this shit up—you’re out after.”

  That was his cue. She’d never touched a drink during their talks—now she was pissed, tired of waiting. It’s harvest time. He paused, then ambled to the bar, pouring slow, amber sloshing into the gss.

  “So,” he said over his shoulder, “how much you figure out, about what I’m actually doing here?”

  To Camil—that line was a boner-killer. It might as well have been, “You know I wanna fuck you, right?” Nine times outta ten, it’d get a “Yeah, I know—and no chance, asshole.” Dumbest py he could’ve made. Sounded like he didn’t give a fuck at all.

  Her st thread snapped. “What’re you on about?” she barked, waving her phone, John’s clip gring on the screen. “That you’re no SubOnly manager, or that you wanted me to find your shitty porn?” Her chest heaved with each word, the high-neck sweater stretching tight, breasts bouncing under the knit. John’s eyes flicked down—fuck, that’s hot—but he wasn’t done stoking the fire. He needed her raw, real, stripped of that prissy rich-bitch mask. The prize? Her walls down, and of course, a rage fuck.

  He sank back onto the couch, cool as ice, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled as he grinned, mocking. “Impressive—you tracked that down? How long’d it take you?” That cocky drawl was back, pure gasoline.

  “You fucking with me? You think this is a fucking game, you prick? Fuck you!” She yanked off a heel and hurled it—John dodged, the shoe smacking the wall—and she lunged. She stomped onto the coffee table, then leapt to the couch, pnting her feet wide on the cushions, towering over him in that high-neck sweater, her chest heaving inches from his face. “You little shit!” she roared, swinging hard—whack—her palm cracked across his cheek, the sound echoing sharp. “Dodge that, asshole!” She swung too wild, foot slipping off the edge, and John caught her waist, yanking her down. She nded hard, ass smming onto his p, face-to-face, her thighs pinning his.

  John didn’t flinch from the sp—still grinning, eyes glinting with taunt and tease. Camil froze, clocking their position—too close, too fucked-up. She shifted to bolt, but John’s hands cmped her waist, locking her there. His penis pressed against her crotch—hard, obvious, digging in through his scks.

  Wait—he’s… Her anger flickered, dipping for a split second. But John wasn’t eating that sp for free—he’d fan the fmes higher. He tossed out the two lines women hate most: “Hey, you done throwing a tantrum? Be reasonable. Knock it off.” Her jaw dropped, rage roaring back.

  Then, with a shrug and a meh smirk, “You’re fuckin’ heavy.”

  That did it. Camil reared back, smming her forehead into his nose—pain exploded, his eyes watering, vision blurring. Shit, too far, he thought, wincing, regretting the jab. But then her teeth sank into his lip—hard, vicious, blood sharp on his tongue. Pain seared through him, and he knew—he’d won. Today’d be a wildfire, lit by her fury and lust.

  John tried leaning in to kiss her, but Camil gave him no shot—her teeth cmped his lip harder, hands gripping his hair like a vice, pinning his head to the couch’s back. Pain and lust smmed him together—his hands twitched, itching to yank her hair and rip her off his face, but he held back.

  Fine, I’ll let you fuck me first.

  Their face-to-face lock made it tricky—his hands fumbled, roaming her ass, back, waist, groping through the tight sweater. Her jeans were a fortress, no give, so he slid up under the knit, working her bra. The damn sweater hugged too close—he cwed at the csp, frustration spiking with the ache in his jaw. Fuck it—he gripped the back and ripped, fabric tearing loud, splitting down her spine. Camil jerked up, hair-pulling hands still locked, gring down at him—then crack—another sp stung his cheek.

  “What? You wanna fuck my mouth like you did that SubOnly whore?” She loomed over him, thighs straddling his p, and parted her lips slow—spit drooled out, a thin, glistening thread stretching down toward his mouth.

  Come on, you crazy bitch—let it all out.

  John opened wide, catching it—swallowing the mix of her scent and bourbon’s bite. Camil’s eyes lit up, a wicked grin spreading.

  “Good boy—like the taste?” John didn’t answer, stumped for words.

  “Oh, shy now, lover boy? I saw you cradle that slut at the end—pretty gentle, huh?” She smirked, shimmying her jeans off—peeling them down to reveal thick, creamy thighs, a bck thong slicing between them, her round ass spilling out as she tugged the string. It snapped back with a soft twang. “Well? Like it?” John nodded hard, throat dry.

  She cupped his face, cooing, “Good boy—here’s your treat.” She shrugged off the shredded sweater, straddling him again. Her bck bra strained, cupping her tits—big, round, spilling over the edges. She yanked the straps down, baring them—full, flushed, nipples stiff. “Come eat Mommy’s titties, you filthy dog.” John’s pulse roared—those words torched him. He dove in, one hand per side, sucking each greedily—wet, loud pulls, swapping fast as her moans spilled out, throaty and raw, “you fucking dog—ah.”

  Not enough—he mashed them together, cramming both nipples into his mouth, tongue thrashing, her flesh hot and heavy against his lips.

  “Fuck, good boy—ahh, love Mommy’s titties that much?” She yanked his head up by the hair, locking eyes, then sp—another crack across his face. Her tongue flicked his swollen lip. “Pants off—Mommy’s gonna fuck you raw.”

  John fumbled his scks down, thinking, If this psycho stops spping me, this would be perfect—her dirty mouth’s unreal.

  “Move it, dumbass!” She shoved him back against the couch, peeling her thong off—bare, glistening—and climbed on. Her hand gripped his something, guiding it to her entrance. The tip brushed her pussy—juices trickled down, slicking him up—and with a soft roll of her hips, she sank, taking him in one smooth slide.

  “Ah, fuck—this is so damn good. Ahh.” A deep, sated moan tore from her as she settled. She rocked slow at first, grinding to adjust, then braced her knees on the cushions—riding him front-to-back, steady and hard.

  “How’s that, Johnny boy? Like Mommy fucking you?” John’s head spun—fucking unreal—he hadn’t pegged her for this “Mommy” kink, but it was driving him wild. No words—she snapped, “Dirty dog, won’t talk? Put that tongue to work.” She hefted her tits—fat, heavy, swaying—shoving them into his face. John lost it, sucking like a starved man, lips smacking, hands kneading her ass—pinching, cwing, digging in.

  Ten minutes of that, and Camil wasn’t done. “Johnny boy’s a champ—still so hard. Mommy’s gonna fuck your brains out.” She pnted her feet on the couch, thighs—thick and juicy—flexing as she smmed down.

  “Fuck yeah!” she bellowed, voice cracking the air, then another— “Take it, you filthy dog!”—each drop cpping her fat juicy ass against his legs, a wet smack ringing out. She picked up speed, chasing it—John felt it too, the edge closing in. She looped her arms around his neck, panting, “Wanna kiss Mommy’s mouth while you fuck your Mommy? Bet you’d love to suck my tongue, huh?” Her lips crashed into his—tongue plunging, sloppy and fierce.

  They hit it together—she pulled off just before, scooting back to his knees, trembling through her climax, hips twitching, a low groan ripping out. John couldn’t hold either—his cock pulsed, spraying up—thick streaks spttered her belly, chest, a spsh hitting her chin.

  She colpsed beside him on the couch, gasping, “You filthy dog—look at this mess.”

  After maybe a minute, both slumped against the couch, breaths steadying. Camil cupped her face, still buzzing from the madness—satisfaction flooded her, every pent-up knot in her chest finally unraveled. This John’s not bad—could use him a few more times, another day maybe, she mused, already plotting a smooth excuse to ask him to leave.

  Then arms snaked around her neck. She dropped her hands, blinking up—John loomed over her, feet pnted on the couch, his cock twitching inches from her face. She stared, dumbfounded.

  How? How the fuck? It pulsed—balls tight, veins popping, tip swollen—still slick with her juices and his fresh cum, glistening wet.

  “John, what’re you—” She didn’t get to finish the question as he shoved it in her mouth, down her throat.

  “Hey, Mrs. Calhan, you’re the wife—clean the mess. Start with this.”

  She cwed and scratched his thighs, nails digging in, but John didn’t budge—just grinned, thrusting fast.

  “Mrs. Calhan, this is what freedom tastes good. Like it?” The shift hit too fast—his dumbass dirty talk, half-joking, half-hot, muddled her head. That Video of John fucking mouth fshed back—her fear spiked, but lust also fred.

  Time blurred—she thought he’d never stop, but then realized he had stopped. Actually, e’d stepped down the couch, standing on the floor, watching. She was the one moving—bent over on the couch, head bobbing, sucking and licking like a fiend. Her eyes flicked up, locking with his, mouth still on that cock—John smirked, “You’re a good wife, huh, Mrs. Calhan? I tried to pull out—you wouldn’t let me. Gotta make me clean.”

  Yeah… pretty damn clean, she thought, looking at his cock, cringing at the awkwardness.

  She’d been pyed again. Before she could snap, John yanked her legs, fttening her on the couch, then dove in—mashing her fat tits together, sucking and licking each side again, greedy and loud. “So tasty, Mrs. Calhan—or you want me to call you ‘Mommy’?” he mumbled, face buried.

  Camil felt embarrassed, and tried to swat at him—aimed for his face again, hit his head instead, a weak smack compared to the earlier sps. Shame and thrill crashed through her—she couldn’t recall saying that shit, or she’s simply denying it. John grinned at her silence, unbothered—he wasn’t done pying—not till she breaks.

  He stood, wedging his cock between her breasts—squeezing tight—and thrust, fingers pinching her tips while sliding through her slick, massive jugs. It swallowed him whole, tip peeking out only at the peak.

  “Mrs. Calhan, thanks for cleaning me with that beautiful mouth of yours—keeps it so smooth, so fucking good.”

  “Don’t—ah—stop messing with my chest,” she gasped, rattled by his hands and the shift, words fumbling.

  “Chest? That’s not what you called it—‘Mommy’s titties,’ right?” John’s filthy taunts drilled deeper, cracking her st shield.

  Desire hit her limit, she breathed heavily. This fucking John, stop teasing me—she needed him to do whatever the fuck he wanted, however he wanted.

  Just fucking do me one more time, and get this over with.

  She reached out for John’s cock, but then John stepped back, paused, staring.

  She sat up slow, voice shaky, “Why—why’d you stop?” Her fire was still burning—she craved him taking over.

  With a shrug, John said: “What? Pnning you’ll use me for a few more rounds and then ditch me for good?” John knew breaking the rhythm killed the vibe, but he had to—her walls had to fall, she had to be his.

  Camil blinked, why the fuck do you even care? You in love with me or something?—her look pure confusion, littered with unquenched lust. Then she ughed dryly. “Pretty sharp, John. So what?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, babe. I’m having a bst. You are fucking unreal. But, I need you to be you, not under that rich-bitch facade.”

  “Cut the crap, the fuck you want? Are you fucking me or not?” Camil was clearly pissed—voice sharp.

  John smirked again, “Oh, I’m gonna fuck you good either way today, trust me on that one. But, I need to talk about your husband first.” He id it bare, “I’m going to wreck your husband, top to bottom, body and soul, one way or another, with or without your help. But I figured you might want to be a part of it, since he locked you up like a fucking pet.”

  Ruin Bryce? She’d dreamed of it, but easier said than done.

  John read her hesitation, “look, not gonna lie. Risks pretty high, especially for you. Your current luxurious life? Probably gone if he finds out anything about us. But, stick with me, you’ll have better, still rich, and free.” His st unspoken line was, I could always snitch you out on our hot fucking sessions, if you choose not to cooperate, but hey, that was just total dick move, and he felt reluctant to do so.

  His dead-serious eyes held hers—she sighed, “do I really have a choice?” Then she nodded, snapping back to her bored-rich-bitch tone. “Fine, you idiot—just don’t get yourself killed.”

  Leaning in, John gave a fat, loud kiss on her cheek, “that’s my babe, or should I say ‘Mommy ‘?" Camil pushed him away, “fuck off.” John cracked up. “So let’s seal an agreement of ours first.”

  She frowned, confused. What the fuck are you on about again? He grinned, “Simple, rest of the day, I’m gonna creampie you till my balls drained, no pulling-outs—consider it a bond of trust.” Camil snapped, “you can’t be fucking serious!?” But John took her hand and led her back to the couch.

  “Yeah, I’m dead serious, and you will be filled up.” Making her his woman, that’s all that mattered.

  John pounced like a damn predator, pinning her ft—legs spyed wide, his cock crashing into her, hips snapping with brutal speed. Camil’s moans tangled with the sloppy, wet squelch of their bodies, her voice trembling, “You—ah—slow down a little.” John ignored her, grinning wicked, and tossed out his filthy bait again, “Mrs. Calhan or Mommy?”—growl rough, thrusts merciless. She whimpered under the onsught, pleasure ripping through her pussy, going all the way up to her brain. She mumbled, “Mommy,” so faint it barely hit the air. “Louder—can’t hear you!” he barked, but she turned her face aside, lips tight, dodging the game.

  No chance John’d let that slide. He hoisted her legs up, slinging them over his shoulders—her ass and pussy jacked high, exposed, ripe for him. He angled down, smming his cock into her pussy from above—each plunge a heavy, soaking thwap, deep and punishing, water spshing with every hit. Camil lost it—screams tore out, wild and jagged, “Mommy! Call me Mommy! Fuck your Mommy hard!”—her body quaked, gasps hitching as she craned up, lips chasing his. John’s hands cmped her chest—gripping her fat juicy tits fierce, kneading hard—his tongue plunged into her mouth, twisting with hers, while his hips kept pounding, relentless and raw.

  Near the brink, he pulled back, teasing, “Want me to pull out, Mommy? Hubby might hate this mess.” She was wrecked—eyes feral, hair a sweaty snarl. “No! Fuck him. You are Mommy’s husband! Creampie your Mommy!” she howled, voice cracking. John ughed low, diving back to cim her lips, then let go—finishing deep, unloading a hot flood as she clenched around him, shuddering hard. A primal yell ripped from her throat—his something throbbed inside hers, spilling slow, a thick trickle oozing from her entrance, dripping onto the couch in sticky globs.

  They fucked like beasts ‘til the dead of night—savage, unstoppable—the house echoing with flesh spping flesh, wet schlicks of their grinding, and moans so loud they drowned out reason. From the living room to the bedroom, even the shower steam couldn’t stop them—Camil lost track of any spot John’s cum hadn’t marked. Exhaustion finally dropped them, tangled tight on the bed. John groaned, “Fuck, I’m starving,” and smacked her ass—crack—sharp enough to sting. “Go make me something to eat.”

  Camil rolled her eyes, “I don’t fucking cook—ever.”

  “First time’s a charm—you’re the wife, so feed me.” She snapped back to her rich-bitch sneer, ready to tell him to fuck off, but he blinked up, all doe-eyed, “Mommy, please?” She froze—then a ugh bubbled up, starting soft, then bursting loud, her shoulders shaking as she cackled, pure glee lighting her face. “Asshole,” she muttered, still chuckling, and hauled herself off the bed—grinning wide, a spark dancing in her eyes as she shuffled to rummage up some food.