somerealnerd

  John now has a friend called Liam, who's a great torturer.

  Vivian's Britts' mother. But no threesome yet.

  Fucker A, B and C were completely fucked up mentally. Developed this recognition issue even just regarding what emotion they are experiencing. They are now kept as guinea pigs in Liam's basement for his experiment of new torture devices and methods.

  [colpse]

  After Liam’s whole mess, John slid into a long, dragging “sage mode”. You know, that post-buzz state where you’re like some damn Buddha, no wants, no cravings, just floating above it all. The fallout had him second-guessing his own head. Everyone around swore he wasn’t remotely like that Fucker A Philip, that he’d taken care of them all just fine. Especially Liam, he kept dragging him out for smokes, yapping away with him, trying to shake him loose from this stupid doubt he has.

  Thing is, John’s drought ran deep. No strong itch for nearly anything, sex included. Everyone was floored, didn’t even recognize him anymore. John was confident; John was smooth; John was cunning; but above all, John’s the most horny dog they’d ever seen.

  Sure, he’d still have sex with his women, but that favorite “Mommy” game of his? Fizzled out. Sex for him felt more like punching a clock than chasing a thrill now. Camil, his de facto wife, tried prying him open, pouring her heart into it, but still got nothing out of him. That animalistic John in bed was gone. She was pissed—what, he’s bored of me already?—and then stormed off, hauling Tammy along to crash with Mar and Vivian instead. “Find your balls again, then come fuck me good. I’ll consider coming back,” she snapped at him. “But tick tock motherfucker. Drag your ass or I’m going full lesbian!” This was pure bluff though, they were always close as hell, and she was just prodding him to snap out of it. But John? Bnk as a wall.

  He wanted to feel something—anything—but every “Mommy” mention yanked him back to Liam’s Mom’s ordeal. Gut punch. Cue another spiral of self-doubt.

  Meanwhile, Liam and his Mom, the actual pyers in that shitshow, had long bounced back, living it up. Liam, that shy little nerd, took a page from Fucker A’s old pybook. He spun a sob story about his dad vanishing years back—real shit, by the way—to Fucker A, B, and C’s Moms. Worked like a charm. It reeled their hearts right in. Next thing you know, he’s got three “sugar Mommies” on lock. And yeah, he pyed it John-style—treated them real good, kept them all happy and smiling, didn’t screw over their trust one bit. The trio felt reborn, ditching memories of their deadbeat sons like old trash. Liam was their golden boy now, pure bliss. Liam’s Mom, though? Not thrilled about this. Every time those three popped up, she’d snarl, “Stay the fuck away from my son, you sluts!”, then tch onto Liam’s arm, hold it tight to her chest, dragging him home.

  Back in the day, John would’ve called this hot as hell, spicy, twisted, fun, something to sink his teeth into. Now? He just stared, face dead, nothing clicking.

  Self-doubt—for a guy like John—that’s the real killer.

  At home, stepsis Chloe sniffed out John’s funk too. When smoking together, he didn’t even toss out his usual “gonna py with your tits” line again. This left her squirming, caught between awkward and antsy. She’d lost that bet fair and square. So not bringing it up felt like chickening out, but dropping it herself? No fucking way. Stepmom Catherine clocked it too. John was still that golden boy to her at home, hauling cash home, tackling chores, doting on her and Chloe. A bit too good now, though. She’d even asked for a massage herself now and then, but his hands stayed tame—feet, back, whatever—no more of that juice-dripping magic from before. Just comfy. Stress off. That’s it.

  “Was it me that day? My body screwing up?” Catherine wondered why John’s earlier back massage made her soaking wet, but now just not a thing at all. Lately, her solo self-pleasing sessions had cranked up. Maybe I’d already burned off the edge, she figured, not pinning it on John anymore.

  Still, his slick massage skills sparked an idea. “John, if you’ve got time today, swing by your Aunt Dorothy, my sister. She’s…uh…” Catherine paused, then spilled it. “Lost her son months back in a car wreck. Her husband’s been dodging her ever since, cause she can’t move on. He now hides out all day. You’re so good with people. Could you check in, and maybe cheer her up?”

  “Sure, Mom,” he mumbled. Old John would’ve zeroed in—this aunt hot or what?—but now? Didn’t even cross his mind. Just nodded like a robot, grabbed Dorothy’s address, and shuffled out.

  “What’s up with him—why’s he so damn down?” Catherine stared after him, curiosity itching hard.

  John rolled up to his aunt’s pce and found the door wide open. Stepping in, it was a damn warzone, empty booze bottles rolling everywhere, crusty dishes piled high, takeout trash spilling over, curtains yanked shut tight. The air hit like a punch, thick with stale liquor, sour and suffocating.

  Sprawled on the couch was Aunt Dorothy, eyes gssy and drunk, a pink-haired knockout even in her wreck. Curves for days—big chest, round hips, that whole package screaming ripe and lush. Her breasts? John’d seen and pyed plenty of hefty pairs, but hers were really really huge, no contest in the size department so far—massive, straining against a tight, everyday housewife getup. Nothing fshy, just snug enough to hug every dip and swell, with a soft little belly adding that raw, mature-woman spice—sexy as hell in a way that didn’t try.

  “John, you’re here? Catherine said you’d swing by, so I opened the door early,” she slurred, capping it with a boozy hiccup.

  John sighed, shaking his head, and trudged over to the window—yanked it open, chasing some light into the gloom. Dorothy shot up, wobbly. “Hey, who said you could touch the curtains, John? I need rest—dark vibes only.”

  “But you’re not even sleeping, Aunt Dorothy,” he tossed back, turning to y out why fresh air might help. Before he could, she was out, dropped cold after her st word, snoozing hard.

  He sighed again, eyeing her, this snoring, sloppy mess of a woman. Still, damn, she pulled his gaze, skin flushed pink from the booze, those bare, creamy feet dangling off the couch, toes soft and tempting. Her sleeping sprawl, all loose and unguarded, sparked something in him—that itch he hadn’t felt in weeks. Only then Liam’s shit crashed the party in his head again.

  If I mess with this grieving aunt, I’m straight-up scum like Fucker A, right? He shook it off, scooped her up, and hit by a wall of liquor stink off her, mixed with some faint, familiar whiff he couldn’t pce. He ignored it, and dumped her in her bed. Tucked the bnket over her, then hit the living room solo.

  He got to work—scrubbed dishes, trashed bottles, flung windows wide—three hours of elbow grease till the pce didn’t look like a dump anymore. Wiped out, he flopped onto the couch, lit a smoke by reflex, and puffed away, lost in whatever the hell was churning in his skull.

  Aunt Dorothy’s voice cut through sudden, sharp. “Who said you could smoke in my house!?”

  John stubbed the cig fast, stood up, tossing an apology her way. “Sorry, Aunt Dorothy. Just finished cleaning, got bored.”

  She blinked, clocking the pce, spotless now, all her mess gone while she’d been out cold. Guilt hit her for barking at him. “No, sorry, John. I’m a mess tely. Smoke if you want. And… thanks for fixing up the house.”

  He fshed a quick grin, waved it off, plopped back down, and lit another—manners be damned. Without the smoke, he’d be grasping for words with this aunt of his. Not sure what to say yet, so smoking quietly was the best option here.

  Dorothy watched him puff, then her face softened a bit, sad. “My son Peter. He didn’t smoke. All his buddies did, though.”

  John gave a polite smile, then pulled a goofy face. “Not smoking’s a win already—plus many friends? Peter vs John, 2-0, easy.”

  Her ugh broke out, two short bursts, before she rolled on. “You into football too? That two-nil? Peter loved watching games.”

  He shook his head. “Nah, can’t follow it, Aunt Dorothy. I’m a nerd. Most sports don’t click, not big on getting social either. Just like crashing at home, TV on.”

  “That’s good too, means you’re around for your Mom more. Catherine’s always bragging you’ve been helping out, says you’re a good kid.” Her voice then hitched—Peter creeping in again. Catherine had John; she’d lost her boy, and her husband couldn’t handle her gloom, ditching her for days. Her face sagged, heavy with it.

  Reading people was John’s thing, always, baked into him already. He caught her drift in a heartbeat. He was here to lift her up. She’d lost her son, probably missed cooking for him like crazy. So he said: “Aunt Dorothy, I’m starving from all the cleaning. Could you make me something to eat?”

  She froze first, then cracked a small smile and nodded, shuffling to the kitchen. John’s pn was basic—py the good son of the day, share a meal, clean up after, maybe nudge her off the booze, then bounce. A grief that big? No way his pep talks could dent it.

  Watching John scarf down the grub, this kid, the same age as her boy, sparked a ghost in Dorothy’s head, like Peter was still here. His nonstop praise for her cooking hit her deep, a rush she hadn’t felt in months—pure, easy comfort.

  But that swelling Mom-vibe, cozy as it was, cranked up a little “issue” she’d been having tely. Her chest started throbbing again, tight and heavy, begging for relief.

  Anyway, dinner thawed the ice, awkwardness gone. John even got serious, ying out why MILFs needed a damn w in their corner. “Ones like you? Heaven’s gift to us. Any harm’s a crime. Your husband ghosting like that? Three months in the cell, minimum.” Dorothy cracked up, tipping back hard, though John wasn’t fully kidding. After Liam’s Mom, he’d been dead-set on that kind of rule.

  Post-meal, John lunged for dish duty, but Dorothy swatted him off. “Living room, sit, smoke, chill. No way I’m letting you do more chores today,” she ordered, diving back into the grind. The bustle fed her delusion—Peter still here—while scrubbing at the sink, her arms kept brushing her breasts, squeezing till she felt it leaking, ready to spill.

  Yep, Dorothy—since her son died, she’d been drowning in him, hormones all jacked up. Now her body was pumping milk again, like clockwork.

  John, still having no clue of all this, just stayed parked on the couch, quiet, mulling how to nudge her off the booze ter.

  Dorothy gnced at her shirt—still dry, no mess yet. It’s safer py to ask John to go home and suggest him to come visit more often. But she craved more time with him today, soaking in that son-like buzz he gave off. “Hey, John. How about a shoulder rub? Catherine says you are good at it. Payback for feeding you,” she tossed out.

  He chewed it over, nodded. “Sure.”

  Massage time—technically normal, just back and shoulders, no crazy moves. But his hands sank in—firm, hot, rolling over her tight knots like he owned them. The touch—thick with warmth, heavy with grip—stirred something low in her, a shadow of her loving son, cozy yet dangerous. Her body didn’t give a damn about cozy, but every slow, deep press melted into her curves, teasing her skin awake. It made her chest throbbing, swelling, milk trickling out, zy at first, then seeping fast. Her shirt hugged tight, soaked patches spreading dark, a slick, unstoppable bloom.

  John caught it too—something was off. That faint whiff he’d clocked on Dorothy earlier, buried under the booze stink, clicked now: breastmilk, sharp and primal.

  He didn’t know how to py it, so he just kept kneading her back, hands on autopilot. Didn’t even notice himself was gulping hard, throat working loud, so loud even Dorothy’s ears caught it too.

  Is he thirsty for my milk? That thought blew her Mom-vibe wide open again. Every basic press of his fingers on her spine sent her milk gushing, spilling faster, soaking her more.

  “Stop please, John. I… I gotta handle something first,” she blurted, arms cmping her chest as she bolted for the bathroom. John knew damn well what she was up to, and said nothing, just slumped back on the couch, dazed. Forgot his smoke, even. His throat dry as hell, swallowing over and over. His head was a warzone, his brain screaming get out now, or you’ll start scheming to take what you want, but his desire was digging in, begging him to stay.

  Right as he was about to bolt—decision half-made—the bathroom door cracked her voice through. “Jo… John, can… can you help me? They’re too heavy.”

  His brain buzzed, short-circuiting. Help? With what? Go in or not? He was lost, legs locked.

  “Hurry, John—I… I can’t get up myself,” she groaned.

  That loosened him up—just a peek at most then, no big deal, gotta get her up—and he exhaled, heading in.

  Inside, John knew what’s coming, but still froze at the sight—Dorothy on her knees, slumped over the tub, top bare, her breasts plopped right in it. Her hands cwed at the slick edge, slipping through white milk smeared everywhere, no grip to haul herself up.

  “What’re you staring at, John? Help me up already!” she barked.

  Wasn’t that he didn’t want to, but her body hit him like a truck, that massive pair of breasts and their dizzying sway locking him up tight.

  “Move it, John! I’m stuck, and my upper gut’s killing me!”

  No choice now. He stepped in, grabbed her arms, trying to yank her up.

  “Ow, shit—John! My arms—this hurts!”

  Then he switched, aiming for her shoulders. But they were sweat-slick, sliding out of his grip every single try. John had to turn to the st resort. He hooked both arms under her pits, hoisting her whole frame up, cmping tight to keep her from dropping.

  With Dorothy’s high-pitched “Aah!”, and as she shot up, two milk jets bsted from her breasts, spttering the wall across the room.

  Worse? She rocked back on her heels, ass smming flush against John’s rock-hard cock.

  They split fast after this. She snatched a towel to cover her chest quickly. And he stumbled back, head down, staring at the floor. Dead silence, thick and clumsy.

  John tried to crack the awkwardness between them, so he tossed a dumb joke at the milk streaks in the tub and on the wall. “That’s a hell of a waste of milk, isn’t it?” But then instant regret hit him—idiot, shut the fuck up.

  “You little punk! What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Dorothy snapped, pissed clear through. “What happened today, don’t you dare tell my sister!”

  He grinned awkward, nodded fast, but his eyes darted back to her towel-wrapped chest, pointing a finger at it.

  “What? What’re you pointing at?” she huffed, still pissed.

  He fumbled, choking it out. “Uh… it’s… leaking.”

  She gnced down, and only to see towel soaked through, her milk dripping to the floor, a wet mess spreading fast.

  John tried peeling his eyes off, but he really couldn’t. Those breasts were too damn big, still trickling milk. The whole scene was frying his brain. All he could do was gulp, and nothing else, throat working overtime.

  “You… you really wanna drink it that bad?” Dorothy asked, shy now, catching his look. Feeding him—reliving that old rush—maybe, just maybe didn’t sound that bad.

  “Yes,” he blurted. The word came out, not even going through his brain, just pure reflex spitting it out.

  “Alright… fine, then, no waste, as you said,” she mumbled, easing the towel down slow. John snapped. He lunged forward, one hand per breast, snagging one to suck hard and starting to drink, squeezing it while he went. The other? Left to gush milk wild, spilling everywhere.

  “You… you… slow down, John—ahh—you that… hungry?” Dorothy cpped a hand over her mouth, choking back the moans spilling out.

  John’s lips stayed locked, sucking hard, only squeezing out a quick “Yes” between gulps. Inside, though, he was teetering. He knew the magic word, one whisper, and he’d get lucky today, no question. He could already picture Dorothy under him,moaning and screaming, milk bsting wild from her tits. But he cmped it down, as Fucker A’s shadow reared up again, every fucking time. That prick literally ruined all his fun tely.

  Mind drifting to that mess, his rhythm went stiff—mechanical, passion leaking out fast.

  “Hey, John, you… what’s on your mind? The other side. It’s… spilling everywhere!” Dorothy gasped, half-panting, nudging him. He swapped sides quick, mouth catching the other nipple—but the first one just gushed free again.

  She felt it now—his head wasn’t in it anymore. He sure started hot, but now what? Pissed, she shoved him off.

  “You messing with me, John? Think this is some wicked game?” Shame crawled into her head, along with the grief from her passing son, the anger of her bailing husband. All hit her like a freight train. What the fuck am I even doing here? That flicker of thrill and warmth she felt from John? Now snuffed out. Her tears welled, sliding slow down her cheeks.

  John stared at her crying, and it all clicked—sharp, but te. Old him? No baggage, just pyed the game, scored the girls, but he kept them grinning. Now? Dorothy was crying right in front of him because of his dick move. Even Camil, his closest lover, was fed up with him. All because of some stupid ideas I got?

  Dorothy didn’t wait for his gears to turn. “John, get out of my house now.” Her tears kept dropping.

  He blinked, trying to patch things up. Stupid—fucking stupid. She was drowning in loss, cracking herself open for John in her own way, and he’d been a numb-ass robot? That’s worse than being a scum.

  She missed her son? Fine—I’ll be her son.

  That puppy-dog look John used to melt Catherine slid back onto his face, big, pleading eyes blinking fast. “Sorry, Auntie, can we keep going?” he cooed at Dorothy.

  She froze, thrown by the shift, this oily charm out of nowhere. Tears slowed, curiosity creeping in.

  John clocked it—her flicker—and doubled down, eyes ballooning wider. “I’m really sorry, Auntie, can we keep going?”

  Dorothy, tears still streaking, cracked, a quick snort-ugh at his goofy-ass face.

  Timing locked, he dropped the magic word, no hesitation anymore.

  “I’m hungry, Mommy.”

  She locked up, then her cheeks fred red, shy and lit all at once. Her guard dropped slow, hands easing off her chest, trembling just a tick.

  John didn’t blink this time. He lunged in, mashing both nipples together, stuffing them into his mouth and sucking hard. “Mmmph,” he groaned, lips working wild, slurping loud. Dorothy squirmed, gasping, “Easy—ahh—stop licking, John!”, voice half plea, half moan.

  Bathroom air thickened. He tched onto one, guzzling, while the other sprayed milk free, streaking down her skin. He darted quick—tongue flicking out, pping it up, tracing the wet trail back to her nipple, then cmping down again with a greedy suck. Dorothy just felt his tongue running through her whole breast, body trembling from a mix of pleasure and shame. But John didn’t stop, “Nngh,” he growled low, spit and milk mixing sloppy as he chased every drop.

  Dorothy’s breaths hitched, ragged, high. “Auntie’s… tired standing. Let’s hit the couch,” she panted, legs shaky.

  He pulled off just enough to mumble, “Who?” his mouth still hovering, dripping.

  She flushed deeper, fumbling. “Auntie, standing’s rough—couch?”

  “Who?” he pressed, smirking, not letting go, while his mouth sucking on her nipples harder.

  “Mommy—Mommy’s tired,” she squeaked, shy as hell.

  That’s it. He scooped her up whole, arms locked under her, head still buried in her chest, mouth still tched onto her nipples, sucking fierce like he’d die if a drop slipped. “Mmph, so delicious Mommy,” he grunted between pulls, hauling her to the couch, then plopped down, her in his p, never breaking that messy, desperate tch.

  John sucked greedily at his Auntie’s—his new Mommy’s nipples—gulping down this healing potion she offered, the fix that yanked him straight out of his self-doubt spiral. And he swore he’d pour out his own potion, no holding back, if she needed it, till he dragged her out of that grief and loneliness, till that damn happy grin owned her face again.