My Mom's Boyfriend

Beverly’s POV My dad had only been gone for barely two months when my mom started dating someone new. It happened so fast it made my head spin. One minute she was crying about the divorce, and the next she was smiling at her phone like a lovesick teenager. It makes me wonder if she ever truly loved my dad at all, or if their breakup was just part of some twisted scheme so she could finally be with her w***e of a boyfriend. His name is Marcus, and he moved into our house just a few days ago. I already hate him with a burning intensity that surprises even me. The very first day he showed up at our doorstep with his bags, I noticed the way his eyes kept drifting toward me. It made me incredibly uncomfortable. When I opened the door to let him in, I was wearing a simple white tank top, and his gaze immediately dropped. He lingered far too long on my chest. I won’t lie, I’m really busty, and tank tops like that one do my t**s justice, hugging them tightly and showing off their full, round shape. I could clearly tell he was staring at my pointy, beautiful n*****s, which had hardened slightly from the cool air conditioning. The way his eyes darkened for that brief second sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine, but I quickly dismissed it. After all, he’s my mom’s man. I told myself it was nothing, just my imagination playing tricks on me because I was already annoyed by his presence. Still, that initial stare stuck with me. Now he walks around our house like he owns the place, strutting through the hallways with his deep, commanding voice and that infuriatingly cocky smirk plastered on his face. He acts as if he’s always belonged here, helping himself to anything in the fridge, lounging on the couch with his legs spread wide, and giving orders like he’s the king of the castle. It gets on my nerves every single time I see him. But the worst part, the absolute worst is the nights. Every single night without fail, I hear them through the thin walls separating our rooms. It starts off with soft murmurs and giggles, but it never stays that way for long. Soon the sounds escalate into something raw and filthy: my mom’s loud, breathy moans, the wet slurping noises, and the relentless clapping of skin against skin as their bedframe slams rhythmically against the wall. I lie there in the darkness of my own bed, trying desperately to block it out with pillows over my ears, but it’s useless. Their passion invades everything, pulling unwanted heat into my body until I’m soaked and aching, my hand slipping between my thighs before I can stop myself. I hate him. I hate what he’s doing to my mom. And I hate even more how my body keeps betraying me, turning their shameless f*****g into fuel for my own twisted fantasies. The walls in our house are way too thin. I lie in bed in the dark, trying to ignore it, but it’s impossible. I hear my mom moaning loud, breathy sounds that echo down the hallway. There are wet, slurpy noises, skin slapping against skin in rhythmic claps, and the creaking of their bedframe. She says the dirtiest things, things I never imagined coming out of her mouth: “Yes, Daddy, just like that… f**k me harder!” And he growls back in that low, rough voice, “You like this c**k, don’t you? Take it like the slut you are.” It sounds so irritating,so wrong, so dirty. But my body betrays me every single time. Heat floods between my thighs as I listen. My n*****s harden against my tank top, and soon I’m soaking wet, my panties clinging uncomfortably to me. I squeeze my legs together, trying to fight it, but the ache only grows stronger. Before I know it, my hand slips under the covers. I bite my lip to stay quiet as my fingers slide over my swollen c**t, rubbing in desperate circles while their moans get louder. I hate myself for it, but I can’t stop imagining that I’m the one in there instead of her. I picture Marcus’s strong hands gripping my hips, his thick c**k stretching me open as he f***s me from behind. I imagine him calling me his good girl, telling me how much tighter I am than her. The fantasy makes me even wetter. Frustrated with just my fingers, I reach into my drawer and pull out my vibrator. I turn it on low and press the buzzing tip against my c**t, then slide it lower, pushing it inside me. I thrust it in and out in time with the sounds coming from their room, my free hand pinching my n*****s as I chase that release. The vibrations feel so good, but it’s never enough. The toy doesn’t fill me the way I desperately need to be filled. It doesn’t satisfy the deep, throbbing hunger inside me. When I finally c*m, it’s sharp and quick, but it leaves me empty and aching for more. I lie there afterward, panting in the darkness, my body still buzzing with unsatisfied need. Part of me wishes they would just stop. Another, darker part of me wishes they would never stop… because every night, their filthy sounds pull me deeper into this shameful obsession. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I hate it. It’s like they never sleep at all. Or maybe they’re completely addicted to each other. Sometimes I wonder if his c**k is just that magical, that she literally can’t get enough of it. Because it goes on and on for what feels like hours. Their bed keeps slamming against the wall, her moans turning into desperate, broken cries, and his deep grunts mixing with the wet, filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin. I lie there in my own bed, wide awake, listening until I finally drift off into an exhausted sleep, only for the sounds to echo in my dreams. As if the nights aren’t torturous enough, they don’t even stop in the morning. The moment they wake up, it’s like the hunger starts all over again, as if they’re addicted to each other and can’t go more than a few hours without touching. This morning, I caught Marcus staring at me again across the kitchen table. But this time, his stare felt different, more intense, accompanied by a knowing smirk that made my stomach drop. Did he hear me last night? The thought sent a wave of panic through me. No, it couldn’t be. He was busy fornicating with my mom for hours, lost in all those loud, filthy rounds. There was no way he could’ve picked up on the tiny moans I tried so desperately to muffle. Still, the way his eyes lingered on me made my cheeks burn with embarrassment and. He caught me staring back, too. I couldn’t help it my mind was racing. I kept picturing how his face must have looked while he was inside my mom, How big could his c**k be for her to have been screaming like that all night long, round after round, until I could barely sleep? The mental image made heat pool between my thighs, and I hated my body for reacting so quickly. I tried to focus on my coffee, but it was impossible to ignore them. I could hear them giggling and whispering in the kitchen like horny teenagers, but it never stayed innocent for long. I’ve walked in on them more than once Mom pressed up against the counter in her silk robe, biting her lip like a total slut while she gazed at him with those needy. eyes. The way she looks at Marcus makes my stomach twist with a confusing mix of jealousy and irritation. And him? He scans her body like he could undress her with just his eyes, his gaze slowly dragging over her breasts, her ass, and every curve as if he’s memorizing it all for the next round. It’s disgusting. It’s irritating. Yet I can’t look away. He spanks her butt whenever he gets the chance, loud, playful smacks that echo through the house while she squeals and laughs, pretending to scold him but clearly loving every second of it. “Stop that,” she’ll say in that fake innocent voice, but we all know she doesn’t mean it. Not when she’s arching her back and pushing her ass toward him for more. Everything about it feels so annoying. So irritating. So completely disrespectful. I mean, hello? There’s someone else living here! I’m literally right down the hall, trying to eat breakfast or watch TV or just exist in my own house, but they act like I’m invisible. They don’t even try to be quiet. It’s like they’ve forgotten I exist, or worse, they just don’t care. The constant reminder of their s*x life invades every part of my day, and no matter how much I try to ignore it, my body reacts against my will. My cheeks burn with a mix of anger and unwanted arousal. My p***y gets slick again just from watching the way his hand lingers on her waist, or how she leans into him, whispering something dirty in his ear. I clench my thighs together under the table, feeling that familiar ache building between my legs. Later, when I’m alone in my room, I know I’ll be right back where I started, fingers buried inside myself, vibrator buzzing against my swollen c**t, imagining it’s me he’s spanking, me he’s growling at, me he’s f*****g senseless instead of her. I hate how much I crave it. I hate how their shameless lust is slowly turning me into this frustrated, dripping mess who can’t stop fantasizing about taking her place. And the worst part? Deep down I want it to be me so badly.