Chapter 3: Hello Miss Jackson

I stood there, surrounded by warmth, voices, and the impossible sensation of being held. Held tightly, like I was something precious. My mother’s arms wrapped around me, my father beside her, his grip gentle but firm. I couldn’t quite feel it, not in the way I thought I should. I could hear their words, their concern, their apologies as they lingered in the air. But the sound was distant, like I was hearing them through a layer of static, as if they were just… there.

How should I have reacted to all this? How would Michael Dallon have reacted, standing in the same spot, in this same body, watching his family pretend that things were whole? The truth was, I didn’t know. He probably didn’t know either. When you’ve never truly felt this kind of affection, how are you supposed to respond when it suddenly appears, wrapping itself around you like it’s always been there?

For as long as I could remember, or at least for as long as *he* remembered, his father had been an empty husk. A man worn down by depression, barely functioning, barely alive. Mark Dallon had always seemed like a shadow, too tired to show that he cared enough. But now? Now he was smiling at me, truly smiling. His eyes held something I couldn’t place—joy, relief, maybe both—and he was hugging me, actually hugging me. It was so foreign, so unlike the man I knew. Or rather, the man Michael knew.

It felt wrong.

Mom was holding me too, and that was its own kind of strange. Carol Dallon, the woman who had always looked at me—no, at Michael—as if she was seeing someone else. Not her son, not me, but a ghost. Her sister, Fleur, the one she had lost so long ago. Every glance from her, every interaction, had felt like a reminder of that loss. Like just being in my presence broke her heart a little more. And now she was here, trying to make it right, trying to fix something that had been broken long before I came into this body.

But this? This was what Michael had wanted, wasn’t it? A family that cared, one that didn’t treat him like an afterthought or a reminder of pain. He had wanted to be a part of something, to be acknowledged, to matter. He had wanted to be like the rest of New Wave—a hero. To stand proudly beside them, to be someone. And now… now he had it. But it had come too late. He had died for this.

I couldn’t help but think it was ironic. It was only in death that he had received what he had always wished for.

Eric and Crystal were here too, of course. They had always been the closest thing Michael had to siblings. Crystal, with her constant attempts to connect, always trying to fill the void that the rest of New Wave had left behind. She’d buy him things, invite him out, try to make him feel like he wasn’t alone. As if, by herself, she could make up for everything the others hadn’t given him. And Eric… Eric was the closest thing he had to a twin. The two youngest, the only boys. They had been inseparable once.

And then there was Vicky. Overbearing, overprotective, smothering at times, but the best sister anyone could have asked for in a family like this. She had been his rock, the one who shielded him from the weight of their parents’ grief, their silence. And Amy—Amy had been his sanctuary. Sharp-tongued, cynical, with a biting wit that could cut through anything. She had always been able to make Michael smile, even when no one else could.

I could see them all now, hovering around me, asking if I was alright, apologizing for not being there, for not being fast enough to stop the bullet. The bullet that should have killed me. And for a moment, I wondered—if Michael Dallon were still here, in this body, would he have been glad to die for them? Would he have found peace in knowing he had saved Amy? That he had been a hero, if only for an instant? I think he would have.

But he wasn’t here anymore. I was.

And now, in this twisted, broken world, I was the one left to navigate the aftermath.

They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. How could they? The boy they thought they were hugging, comforting, he was gone. Dead. Buried beneath the weight of the life I had left behind, the one I had lived before this. The memories of a different world, a different life, tangled up with the ones Michael Dallon had left behind. I could feel them—his thoughts, his emotions—lingering beneath the surface, like echoes of a person who no longer existed.

It was strange, feeling like two people at once. Or maybe feeling like no one at all.

The rest of New Wave stood around me, their concern palpable, their guilt tangible. They were acting like a family now, all of them. But it was only because of what had happened. Because I had almost died. Because I had triggered.

It was funny, in a way. Not the kind of funny you laugh at, but the kind that sits heavy in your chest, cold and sharp. It took my death—Michael’s death—for them to finally act like a family. The only thing that had been required to fix what was broken was for their son to almost die.

I wondered, almost absently, how they would react if they knew the truth. If they knew that their son, their brother, their nephew, their cousin, wasn’t really here anymore. That Michael Dallon was gone, and I was all that remained. But I would never tell them. Not in a world like this. Not in a place where misery and failure were more common than success and joy.

No, that kind of truth would only lead to more pain. And there was enough of that already.

I smiled, but it was brittle, thin. The kind of smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. I was standing here, in the flesh of a boy who had died, surrounded by people who only cared now that he was gone. It was surreal, like watching a play unfold around me, and I was just an actor, reciting lines someone else had written.

If there was a god in this world, I thought, it was one that reveled in the suffering it caused. One that found joy in twisting the lives of its creations, warping them into something unrecognizable.

I had power now. The power of a demigod, enough to bend the world to my will if I wanted to. But even with all that, even with the golden light that had healed an entire city, I still felt like I had lost something. Maybe it was the remnants of Michael Dallon, the boy who had died. Or maybe it was something deeper, something that had been taken from me the moment I stepped into this world.

Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Not now. Not here.

They were still hugging me, still talking, still apologizing. But I wasn’t listening. Not really. I was just… there.

And in the silence of my own mind, I couldn’t help but wonder what it meant to live in a world where death was the only way to bring a family together.

*scene*

Exhaustion. It was a strange thing to fake, but with enough practice, you get good at it. Letting your shoulders slump, allowing your eyes to glaze over just enough to seem unfocused. Breathing a little slower, more labored. I'd learned these tricks fast enough after... well, after everything changed.

As expected, the family backed down. They didn't say it outright, but I could see it in their eyes, the slight shift in their posture. Carol, Vicky, and the others exchanged glances, promising to talk later, giving me a reprieve for the time being. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it bought me some time. A problem for future me. Right now, I didn't want to deal with the tangled mess of family dynamics that had become New Wave.

Family dynamics. That brought me to a half-absent thought. If I remembered it right, there had always been a question about Vicky's father, a lingering doubt in the back of everyone's mind. There were signs—her power, her aura—that pointed toward the possibility it wasn’t Mark Dallon but Neil Pelham, her aunt's husband. It wasn’t something people discussed openly, but I’d seen enough small tells in the way people avoided the topic or how they glanced at Neil when Vicky’s strength flared up.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Not anymore. For better or worse, New Wave was more united than ever. Ironically, the only thing it had taken was my death to get them there.

I waited until they had all left my room, their footsteps fading down the hall. The door clicked shut, and I gave it another half hour just to be sure. I didn’t need anyone deciding to check in on me again, not before I acted. The minutes dragged on, but I remained patient. Finally, when the house was silent, I moved.

Reaching inside, I touched that wellspring of power near my heart, the source of something far beyond what Michael Dallon had ever been. An essence that stretched to the infinite, of a demigod, of an Empyrean, of Miquella himself. I bent the world around me with it, reality shifting in response. The Golden Order's incantations could bend causality, regress time itself. But Miquella, simply by existing, could do so much more by willing it, by wanting it. And I... I had inherited all of that power. I wished, and the world obeyed.

Bones bloomed from nothing, forming in the empty space next to me, and they were quickly covered by flesh, muscles weaving themselves together, fat, and finally skin. In less than a moment, another body lay in the bed beside me. A perfect replica of myself, down to the last detail. The only difference was its eyes—closed, as if in a deep, eternal slumber. Like Sleeping Beauty, locked in a dreamless sleep.

This was necessary. Not doing anything to mask my absence wouldn’t fly. If anyone from New Wave came to check and found an empty bed instead of a sleeping form, all hell would break loose. Better to be safe than sorry.

I gave the room a last glance, my eyes settling on the clock. 12:27 AM. As long as I was back before 7:30, 8 AM at the latest, everything would be fine.

I turned to the mirror, studying my reflection with a mix of curiosity and unease. Thick, wavy hair the color of gold—not blonde, but gold itself—spilled past my shoulders. Doe-shaped blue eyes stared back at me, with specks of shimmering gold floating within them. The original Michael had completely blue eyes. Mine had been brown in my past life. Light brown, near hazel in the best light, but never gold. The only one who could have had those golden eyes was Miquella, son of Marika and Radagon.

I leaned closer, tracing the line of my face with my gaze. It was... pretty. More feminine than androgynous. Symmetrical in a way that didn’t seem real, with a thin nose, high cheekbones, and full pink lips. Michael Dallon didn’t look anything like a boy. If I hadn’t inherited his memories, I’d have thought something was off. Maybe foul play.

I looked different from the original Michael, even though everything should have been the same. It was as if the imperfections, the small human flaws, had been erased, smoothed over by Miquella’s essence. That same essence had healed me from a bullet to the head, and it seemed it hadn’t stopped there.

I noticed I was wearing pajamas instead of the sweatpants and hoodie I’d had on earlier. Someone had changed me while I’d been unconscious. Probably one of the family. I decided not to think too hard about that.

It was time to go.

I walked to the window, pulling it open with a quiet creak. It faced the back of the house, near the yard. From here, the ground was at least twenty meters below, a fall that would cripple—or kill—an average person. Good thing I wasn’t average.

I stepped off the ledge.

For a heartbeat, I fell, air rushing past me. Then, just centimeters from the ground, I stopped, gravity’s grip breaking around me. I hovered there, suspended in the air, untouched by the force pulling everything else down. A smile tugged at my lips.

It was a good thing I could fly.

Why walk when you could float? Who would, honestly, when you had this? The more I let myself feel it, the more I understood why the other members of New Wave who could fly did it so often. It felt like freedom, like I’d been unshackled from something I hadn’t even realized was holding me down.

For a moment, I hovered there, basking in the sensation. The air was cool against my skin, the night silent but for the occasional rustle of leaves. The world felt... distant, as if I were above it all.

But this wasn’t the time for that. Tonight, I had plans. Tonight, I would explore Brockton Bay in ways Michael Dallon never could have dreamed.

Time to see what this city really had to offer.

*scene*

Rosalind Jackson sat in her backyard, the silver light of the moon casting long shadows over the lush green lawn. She wore a simple floral sundress, a light fabric that clung just enough to remind her of the body she now inhabited—curvy, chubby, and unexpectedly shaped in a way that echoed classical statues of goddesses like Aphrodite. In one hand, she held a half-full glass of red wine, swirling it lazily, watching the ruby liquid catch the fading sunlight. The world around her was calm—too calm for a day like this.

The city had erupted into celebration. She could hear it in the distance: fireworks, music, laughter—echoes of joy that didn’t reach her. Earlier that day, golden light had enveloped Brockton Bay, a light that had done the impossible. It had healed the sick, mended the broken, and even regrown limbs. It had awakened those in comas, restored youth to the elderly. She had watched from her window as her neighbors, some bedridden for years, danced in the street with a vigor she hadn’t seen in decades. People were calling it a miracle.

Rosalind had felt the light too, felt it seep into her bones, melting away the aches and pains that had plagued her for so long. The constant stiffness in her joints, the heaviness that had settled into her body like a permanent fixture—it was gone. She had looked in the mirror afterward, expecting to see the familiar, worn face of a woman nearing her sixties, only to be met with a stranger. The fine lines and crow's feet that had once framed her blue eyes were gone, her skin smooth, youthful. Her body had transformed from morbidly obese to something softer, healthier. Chubby, yes, but shaped in a way that made her think of the ancient marble sculptures she’d once admired on a trip to Europe decades ago. She should’ve been elated.

But how could she be happy? How could she celebrate when Anthony wasn’t here?

Her hand tightened around the wine glass, and she took a long sip, letting the bitter warmth fill her mouth, hoping it would dull the familiar sting in her chest. Anthony Jackson, the man everyone in the city respected, admired. The man who had built his investment company from the ground up, or so everyone believed. The truth was much less flattering. It had been Rosalind who had provided the contacts, the initial funding, the strategic advice that had made Jackson Financial a success. It had been her family’s wealth, her own expertise that had propped him up. And yet, it hadn’t stopped him from cheating.

For over twenty years, he had been unfaithful. Rosalind had known, of course. How could she not? The late nights at the office, the business trips that seemed to grow more frequent with each passing year, the scent of unfamiliar perfume clinging to his clothes when he did come home. She had confronted him, once, early on. He had denied it, of course, with that charming smile that had made her fall for him all those years ago, when she had defied her parents to be with him. Her family had disapproved of Anthony from the start—he wasn’t from the right background, didn’t come from money. But Rosalind had loved him, believed in him. She had married him despite the rift it caused with her parents, despite the warnings.

And what had it gotten her? Twenty-five years of marriage, four children—two boys and two girls, all now off at college or living their own lives—and a husband who couldn’t stay faithful. She had stayed, though. Stayed because she wanted to believe that the boy she had fallen in love with was still in there somewhere, that he still loved her like he once had. Even as her body had changed after each pregnancy, as the weight piled on and no diet or exercise seemed to help, she had hoped he would stay. But he hadn’t.

The wine glass trembled slightly in her hand as she remembered the phone call earlier today. After the golden light had worked its magic, after she had seen the changes in her reflection, she had snapped a photo of herself and sent it to Anthony. Maybe now, looking like this, he would come home. Maybe now he would stay with her instead of those younger women, those shallow, vapid sluts. She had waited, heart pounding, for his reply. When his call came, her pulse had quickened with hope.

But it wasn’t to be. He had lied to her, told her he was busy with work, that he couldn’t come home. And in the background, she had heard it—the soft giggle of a woman, a sound that cut through her like a knife. He wasn’t working. He was with someone else. Again.

Rosalind drained the rest of her wine, the bitterness of it mirroring the bitterness in her heart. She sat there, in her quiet backyard, while the rest of the city celebrated. Alone. Her husband out there cheating, her children scattered across the country, too busy with their own lives to care. She poured herself another glass, trying to drown the pain, the humiliation, the loneliness.

It was then that she saw the flash of gold from the corner of her eye. She turned, blinking, and saw something—or someone. For a moment, she thought the wine was playing tricks on her, but no, the figure was real. Standing in her garden, bathed in the dying light of the afternoon sun, was Michael Dallon.

Rosalind had seen him on the news, the youngest member of New Wave, the boy who had healed the entire city with a wave of his hand. They had said he was the physical copy of his dead aunt, that he was the only one in his family without powers, and because of that, they kept him out of the spotlight, tried to protect him. She had only seen glimpses of him before, passing by in the neighborhood, always looking so fragile, so delicate. He had the kind of beauty that made people stop and stare, a beauty that was almost inhuman.

But now, standing there in her garden, looking directly at her, Michael Dallon was more than just beautiful. He was divine.

Rosalind’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t truly noticed before, hadn’t taken the time to really look at him. But now, with the golden light of the setting sun framing his face, she couldn’t look away. His features were perfect, flawless in a way that defied logic, defied comprehension. His skin was smooth, his eyes bright and clear, his body slender but strong. He looked like a being from another world, a god walking among mortals.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Rosalind’s heart raced, her mind spinning. She knew she should say something, should ask him what he was doing here, but the words wouldn’t come. She could only stare, overwhelmed by the sheer presence of him. She had never believed in anything divine before, but in that moment, looking at Michael Dallon, she understood why people worshipped gods.

He was more than beautiful. He was something to be revered, something to be worshipped.

A part of her wanted to fall to her knees, to bow before him. Another part of her, the part still clinging to the reality of her miserable life, wanted to ask him to heal her heart, to take away the pain of Anthony’s betrayal, the loneliness that weighed her down every day. But she said nothing. She couldn’t. All she could do was stare, entranced, as Michael Dallon, the boy who had healed an entire city, looked back at her with eyes that seemed to hold the weight of the world.

Rosalind sat there, her wine glass still in her hand, the celebration still roaring in the distance. But now, all she could think about, all she could focus on was him. Michael Dallon, the boy who was more than a boy. The boy who looked like something worth worshipping.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt something stir inside her—a strange, unsettling mix of awe, desire, and something she couldn’t quite name.

*scene*

Rosalind didn't how it happened but the boy and she were sharing a bottle of wine. Fuck how puritanical America could be. She was of French descent and there was no chance that she would let laws stop her from sharing wine with someone underage. and he was listening to her speak about her husband. She talked, told him all the things she felt, that she had never confessed to anyone before.

She knew that she shouldn’t have done so. She was an adult and him a kid. She was literally older than him yet she couldn’t help but do so, but continue.

She told him her anguishes because even though he was a cape who had taken a bullet in the head before the entire world, even though he was already or would probably become one of the greatest hero, he still looked at her as if her words were the more imporant thing in the universe.

He looked at her him who was so beautiful that it made her want to cry, him with his soft words and smiles of reassurance, him who looked at her with those beautiful eyes not only with compassion but also understanding.

He made her feel as if she was still young. He made her think as if she was still the non-broken woman she had been not the pathetic one she actually become.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was fate, maybe it was another reason, one she would forever be thankful for but by raising and trying to reach the wine bottle, she gave her perfect view of her cleavage and even of her bra to the boy.

She should have panicked. She should have felt ashamed. She had after all in a way flashed her child, someone younger of at least three years than her youngest child.

When she looked at the boy, fearing the possible disgust but unable to not look into his eyes, she didn't see disgust, no, she saw something that shook her, that made her core feels agonizling warm.

Rosalind saw lust, lust coming from such a beautiful boy, lust directed at old her, at not someone else. Rosalind saw lust and felt it surge it inside her too like a torrent.

She felt lust and all the illusions of the respectable wife, mother were dashed out. Her husband had cheated on her for two decades. Why shouldn’t she do the same especially with someone so much more attractive than him?

The taboo, the wrongness in what she wanted to do to this young beautiful thing, the fact that she could lose at best everything only made the idea sweeter.

She looked into the eyes of the boy and instead of backing down, of breaking eye contact, he didn't. He still looked at her as if she was beautiful.

If it was what or something similar Eve had felt regarding the apple, she understood why she had chosen to sin, to bite into it with her full teeth.

“Would you like me to make you visit my home, to make you acquainted more deeply with her?” she asked him trying to sound as sultry as possible even though she knew the rest of new Wave would kill her if they knew.

He smiled at her and she felt as if Eden “There is nothing more than I would like,” he answered.

*scene*

We were in her room almost as fast as a blink of an eye. A part of me hadn’t even realized that we had moved, that she had led me to her bedroom, the one she prabably shared with her husband.

Maybe I would have paid more attention if it wasn’t for the hypnotising sight before me. The sun dress she wore left nothing at imagination. I could see how her butt moved and jiggled and bounced each step she took.

I could see with perfect clarity the outline of panties too little, not big enough to envelop her backside.

Her husband was truly a fool I thought as she turned to look at me, a little satisfied smile etched on her face. Something told me she knew what I had been looking at, by what I had been mesmerized and that it was something that pleased her.

She was far from the prettiest woman I had ever seen both in this and in my previous life yet the assurance she displayed now, the smile adorning her face, it made me think only one thing, beautiful.

When she leaned down to kiss me, I pushed on my heels to reciprocats, our lips colliding with each others, our tongues beginning to move, to dance together.

It was more playful than anything else, more tender than rough, dominating. It was something I could change at any moment but the way I could feel her shudder, the way her breath had quickened, it was clear for me than she was more than enjoying this so I didn't try to change anything.

It felt as if she was a starving woman in the desert who had found an oasis, who was finally able to quench her thirst.

We separated, a thread of saliva still linking us for a moment. “Did you enjoy it?” I asked her.

Her answer was to push me. Instinctive panic surged for a moment. The fear of falling was after all one of the primordial one amongst humans with darkness.

Still, the mischief in her eyes, the lust I could feel radiating from them were enough to make me understand that there were no need for me to worry, that it was the contrary even.

More than that, nothing could change the fact that I was the one with powers amongst the two of us. Nothing changed the fact that I was probably the strongest cape in North America so what’s the point of worrying?

My back fell on soft fabrics, on the soft covers of her marital bed I realized. My legs were past the edges of the bed.

I watched as the woman moved, walk toward me in a way that could only be called seductive, as if she was the cat and I was the canary.

I watched her remove slowly, too slowly to my taste the straps of her dress on her shoulder. One by one, they fell exposing glory to my sight.

She was still wearing a bra yet it honestly did absolutely nothing in hiding her ginormous breasts, E cups? F cups? Maybe Gs? One thing was sure, she had been blessed with chest you would expect to see on a fertility goddess like each one of them was literally bigger than my head.

I could see her dark pink nipples through the bra, how straight they were, how clearly excited in other terms she was.

She kneeled at the edge of the bed, her bra not enough to stop her boobs from bouncing.

Her hand moved softly toward me, tracing lines on my sweat pants, almost teasing but moving clearly toward one place, the clealey visible tent my dick made even under my clothes.

“I am a kneeling before my marital bed with someone else other than my bastard of a husband.” Her fingers reached the tent made by my dick. She didn't touch it when it was so hard, when I was so excited that it felt as if I was on the verge of losing reason. With one tug, she finally freed my member from the prison my pan and my underwear had become.

Finally her hands found themselves around my cock. I felt myself groan in pleasure at the touch of her soft hands. She were holding my member as if it was the thing that mattered the most in the world for her. She was looking I would dare say with adoration.

“With in my hands the cock of prettiest boy I had ever seen, the cock of an underage boy, of a boy who is or will become probably also one of the greatest cape. If this isn’t enough to make you understand my satisfaction, maybe this will,” she spoke before she swallowed the head of my penis sliding herself down all the length in an instant.

“Shit!” I couldn't help myself but curse. Her mouth was heavenly, warm and moist. The vibration of her throat send vagues of pleasure down my spine and through all of this, her eyes were still fixed on me, shining with delight. I felt her moan around my member.

As if it was enough, she decided to slide up before sliding back down. Up and down, up and down never stopping. I felt her tongue massage my penis, her saliva coat it, the suction of her mouth as she continued to bob up and down. She was facefucking herself, gagging on my member, sucking it sloppily.

The noises of her gagging and choking had replaced the silence of the room. Saliva mixed with pre cum was dripping from her lips to her chin. Her breaths were ragged, her eyes hazy as if she was intoxicated, as if she was losing consciousness and she still wasn’t stopping, she hadn’t stopped sucking.

There was no need for me to guide her, to try to make her go faster, to do more. After all, she was already doing it all by herself.

It felt as if she was literally sucking my soul out of my dick. Other than that, more than the vulgar squelching noises she made around my member, more than the breath taking lust inducing sight before me, more than the thin sheet of sweet I could see begin to form on her skin, more than the way her breasts bounced each time she went up and down threatening to slide out of her bra, the fact that she was so eager, that her, one of the most respected woman in the neighborhood, in the upper crust of Brockton Bay, that was seen as the perfect example of respectable was choking herself on my dick without abandon, as if she was a faithful worshipping at an altar, as she was a cheap hooker.

Her husband was truly a fool. I needed to thank him later though. Without him being him, this would have never be happening at least this easily.

Something akin to a vibration brought me out of my thoughts, focused back on her. The older woman looked me in the eyes and I felt her sing.

I came at that moment, my body releasing thick white sperm in her warm mouth. The older woman didn't seem displeased at all. No, she instead seemed to be the contrary.

The only part of my penis that was still in her mouth was the tip of it. She was sucking it like a lollipop, as if it was the nectar of the gods themselves, her tongue lapping at the tip.

Almost absently, I played with her wavy blonde hair. When she removed the tip of my dick from her mouth, she opened her mouth full of thick white cum. She looked like a whore, like my whore.

Her eyes seemed to be shining with a want, with a desire. It was only right that I had answers to it.

“Swallow it all,” I told her and she did. I watched it go down, my eyes allowing me to see with perfect clarity how she was shivering with excitement.

It honestly felt at this point as if I wasn’t who had firstly approached the older woman with the way she was acting and looking at me, not that I was complaining.

“I deserve a reward, right?” she breathed.

I could feel myself smiling “you do Miss Jackson. I'll allow you to ride me. Am I not kind Miss Jackson? I am letting you ride my underage cock.”

Of course, I couldn't forget the teasing “Or maybe this isn’t what you want. Maybe you realized the errors of your way. After all, you, a married woman in your marital bed with someone who's not your husband, with an underage boy that you saw growing. What would people think?” I playfully asked her.

“I don’t care about that. Fuck my husbands, fuck his friends, fuck all those other bitches. Fuck them all. Most of them would wish to be at my place.”

She climbed on top of me, her two hands on each side of my head, her body pressing against mine, her curves fitting perfectly around me. I could feel her weight, her presence, and it felt grounding. There was something about the way she moved, slow and deliberate, that made the moment feel more than just physical. It was as if she was savoring every second, drawing out the anticipation, building the tension to a breaking point.

“More than that,” she whispered in my ear. “All those things make all of this more sweeter.”

She sank burying my dick inside of her. This wasn’t my first time but inside of her, it honestly felt as if it was the case.

I could feel pressure on everything on my member as if it was being cradled from all directions.

Her inside were hot, so much warmer than her mouth had been. She felt tight, much more than I expected it but not to the point where it was painful.

I felt her shudder and the pressure became like a vice begging me, trying to forcefully make me cum.

I felt the pleasure rush into my veins like lightning, begging, asking for immediate relief. I didn't cave.

I focused back on miss Jackson. A conclusion bloomed in my mind.

“You just came didn't you?” I asked her already knowing the answer. She gave a simple nod.

Well, I guess that was expected, with her husband preferring to cheat with younger girls than sleep with his wife.

I gave her time to recollect herself a little. I could have not. I was sure that it wouldn’t have mattered at all. I'm sure that she would have liked it but we got all night. She was mine all night.

What was the point of rushing? What was the point of letting her lead for a little longer? It's not as if it was against my interests.

I profited of that time to do something more important, use my powers to unclip her bra and finally free her breasts.

Her gasp of surprise turned into a moan as my hands sanks in her boobs. I ignored her continuing to focus on them, squeezing them, playing with her nipples, rubbing them between between my fingers, pinching them.

Her voice began to fill the room as I continued. I wanted to see if just with them, I could make her come undone again, if just with them, I could make her world dissolve in pleasure. The fact that I could feel her becoming tighter as I did so was only a welcome benefit.

I was interrupted by her hands closing around mine, Pinning my wrists to the bed. I looked at her red face, at the intoxicated look in her eyes and couldn’t but feel smug satisfaction.

“You’re truly a mischievous and rude boy,” she spoke trying to sound stern yet everything else made her fail, fail hard to convey convincingly that.

“A mischievous and rude boy on who you're impaling yourself,” I playfully told her.

I moved my lips near her ears “A mischievous and rude boy whom you sucked the dick on your marital bed. A boy who is becoming impatient. I didn't think that this was all needed to bring down the great Miss Jackson.”

I felt her try to push me down. I allowed her to do so. “You talk too much.”

“What are you going to do abo-”

I was shut up by something entering my mouth, a nipple I realized an instant after. I could only see pale bouncing flesh. From where I was, it looked as if she was trying to smother me with her boobs which I honestly wouldn’t be against even if had been possible. I mean, we all die of something. Let's at least choose a glorious one, right?

I chose to focus on a much important and closer matter which was the nipple in my mouth.

I did the logical thing. I chose to suck on it. Breasts were more erogenous than most thought they were. I learned it when I was younger in a way I honestly didn't want.

Little tip, don’t play with the nipples of your partner/ fuck buddy in a semi public place. Life isn’t unfortunately like those fanfics.

Well… maybe they were. I think I should be the last person to say that. Anyways, don’t. You'll regret it.

My focus went back to the feeling of her pussy clenching around my cock. The wave of pleasure made me for an instant stop playing with her nipples.

Her hips began to move, moving slowly at first, rocking gently against me, and I could feel the warmth of her body enveloping me. I could hear her ragged breaths, the way they seemed to be caught in her throat as her movements grew more deliberate, more intense. The feeling of her surrounding me, her body pressed so intimately against mine, it felt blissful. I could feel every curve, every soft part of her, as she guided us into a rhythm that felt natural, fluid, and intoxicating.

The sensation of her warmth, the way her body molded against mine, sent waves of pleasure coursing through me. Her hands weren’t pinning my wrists down anymore. No, instead, she had intertwined her fingers with mine.

I could feel them curling slightly as her pace quickened. I could hear her breath coming faster, her soft moans filling the space between us, and it drove me wild. The sounds she made were quiet but undeniable, her pleasure evident in every subtle movement, every small, breathy sound.

I could hear the obscene sounds of our fleshes touching each time she pulled her hips up and down.

I looked up at her, mesmerized by the way her breasts moved, the way it seemed as if she had completely given herself to the moment.

As she rose, I saw her face. I saw her head tilted back slightly, blonde hair cascading over her shoulders as her body arched gracefully. I could see the flush of pleasure spreading across her chest, the way her skin glistened in the dim light. It was beautiful, watching her lose herself in the sensations, in pleasure. It was beautiful the way she looked so unlike her composed self, the way she looked as if she was ok the verge of losing her mind.

Her hips began to move faster, more urgently, and I could feel the intensity building between us, the way our bodies seemed to sync perfectly with one another. Each movement sent waves of pleasure through me, and I could feel myself getting lost in the rhythm, in the feel of her against me. The sound of our bodies moving together filled the room, a soft, rhythmic melody that matched the beating of her heart.

I moved one hand, reached up, my hands resting on a hip, guiding her gently, feeling the soft curve of her body beneath my fingers. She leaned into my touch, her moans growing louder, her movements more frenzied as the intensity between us built to a fever pitch. The sensation of her warmth surrounding me, the way her body seemed to melt against mine,. It was almost too much to bear.

She was beautiful in her abandon, the way she gave herself to the moment without hesitation. I could feel her trembling slightly, her body quivering with pleasure as she moved faster, more urgently. Her moans became louder, more desperate, and I could feel myself getting closer, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable level.

My mind was spinning, my thoughts a blur of sensation and emotion. All I could think about was how incredible it felt to be in her, to feel her tight, wet and warm cunt around me.

For an instant, the world outside the room faded away, and all that was left, all that seemed to matter was the two of us, lost in this moment, lost in the pleasure we were giving each other.

Her body tensed suddenly, her movements growing erratic as the pleasure overtook her. I could feel her pulse against me, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps as she rode the wave of her climax. The sight of her, the sound of her pleasure, this was what sent me over the edge, and I found myself lost in the overwhelming intensity of it all.

As the waves of pleasure began to subside, I felt her collapse against me, her body soft and warm in the aftermath. We lay there for a moment. Her breaths were coming in shallow, uneven gasps as she tried to recover from the intensity of the moment. Already, my body felt as energized as when we had begun. I guess nothing else could be expected from the body of a demigod.

Her head rested against my chest, her hair brushing against my skin, and I could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing begin to slow.

I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close, feeling the weight of her body against mine, the warmth of her skin pressed against me. There was a quiet intimacy in the moment, a sense of connection that went beyond just the physical. It was as if we had shared something deeper, something that left us both feeling exposed and vulnerable, yet completely at ease in each other's presence.

Miss Jackson lifted her head slightly, her eyes meeting mine. There was a softness in her gaze, a kind of unspoken understanding that passed between us. She smiled, a slow, satisfied smile that made my heart race all over again.

"That was… incredible," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to my lips before resting her head back against my chest.

"It was," I agree with her, my voice soft and content. "And this is only the beginning." I knew that she could feel my hardened dick inside her.

“Of course,” she told me. “Just give me five minutes. I'm not as young as I once was.”

“This is something I can do,” I told her

We stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside fading away as we lost ourselves in the quiet aftermath of our shared moment.