The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

Diane moved first.

Her hand had been resting on my left forearm for the past three minutes, holding my wrist while my fingers traced circles on her inner thigh. Then suddenly her grip shifted. Slid down to my wrist. Across my palm. Off my hand entirely.

Her fingers landed on my right thigh instead.

Not her thigh. Mine.

I went completely rigid.

〘 Contact reversal detected. Diane Fitzgerald has initiated touch on host. Sloane Fitzgerald simultaneously maintaining contact pressure through leg positioning. Dual engagement active. 〙

The System stating the obvious again. Really earning its keep tonight.

Diane’s fingers rested on my leg just above my knee, light and casual like she was simply adjusting her position under the blanket. But then they started moving. Sliding upward in the exact same slow deliberate pattern I’d been using on her thigh.

Jesus Christ.

On screen, Sterling was defusing another bomb while bullets ricocheted around him. The woman in red was screaming something about fail-safes and three minutes to detonation. Very dramatic. Very loud.

Perfect cover for the way my breathing just stopped working properly.

Sloane shifted against my shoulder, settling deeper into the cushions. Her thighs squeezed together tighter, trapping my right hand between them like a vice. Not painful. Just firm enough that I couldn’t pull away without making it obvious I was trying to escape.

She knew. Or at least her body knew. Some subconscious part of Sloane had recognized that my hand was between her legs and decided that was exactly where it should stay.

Diane’s fingers kept climbing. Up past my knee. Onto the middle of my thigh. Higher.

I had to concentrate on breathing. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Keep it quiet. Keep it controlled. Do not make a sound that would alert Sloane to the fact that her mother was currently touching me in ways that would require a very awkward conversation.

My dick was hard. Had been hard since the moment Diane walked downstairs in that silk nightgown. I’d positioned it down my left leg specifically to avoid creating a massive tent under the blanket, pushing it against my thigh where the fabric of my sweatpants would keep everything relatively flat.

Diane’s hand reached that area.

Her fingers brushed against the curve of it through my sweatpants.

Then stopped.

I felt the pause. The moment of recognition when her brain caught up to what her hand was touching. She’d found it. The evidence of exactly how this entire situation was affecting me. No way to hide it. No way to pretend this was just friendly family movie contact.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

The explosion on screen was probably very impressive. I couldn’t see it. Too busy trying not to make a sound while Diane Fitzgerald, CEO of a major talent agency and the woman who took me in nine years ago, decided what to do about the hard cock her fingers just discovered under this blanket.

She rubbed it.

Back and forth. Slow strokes along the length of it through the fabric. Tracing the shape of it like she was trying to confirm what she’d found.

A small involuntary sound escaped my throat. Barely audible. Just a catch in my breathing that I couldn’t quite suppress.

〘 Diane Fitzgerald – Temptation Gauge: 31% (+4%)

Physiological response: Subject arousal at peak threshold, tactile confirmation acquired, boundaries fully dissolved, escalation guaranteed 〙

Thirty-one percent.

She was at thirty-one percent and currently stroking my dick through my sweatpants while her daughter sat on my other side completely unaware.

This was insane. This was beyond insane. This had crossed several lines I didn’t even know existed until about thirty seconds ago.

But I wasn’t stopping her.

Neither was she.

Her hand moved with more confidence now, fingers wrapping around the shape of it as much as the fabric would allow, squeezing gently before sliding up toward the head. My hips shifted involuntarily, pushing into her touch before I could stop myself.

Bad idea. Terrible idea. Moving drew attention.

Sloane made a soft noise against my shoulder. Almost like a hum. Her thighs squeezed my hand tighter between them, and I felt heat radiating through the thin cotton of her shorts. She was turned on. Maybe from the movie. Maybe from my hand resting between her legs. Maybe from something else entirely that I couldn’t identify right now because Diane was still touching my dick and my brain had stopped processing anything except pleasure.

I forced my eyes open. Focused on the screen. Sterling was running now, the woman in red beside him, both of them sprinting through corridors while the timer counted down.

My left hand was still on Diane’s inner thigh. I’d frozen when she started touching me, but the quest timer was still running. Still counting down those seven minutes I needed with each of them.

〘 4:47 of 7:00:00 with Diane Fitzgerald.

1:23 of 7:00:00 with Sloane Fitzgerald. 〙

Two minutes and thirteen seconds left with Diane. Five minutes thirty-seven with Sloane after that.

I could do this. I could survive this.

My hand slid higher on Diane’s thigh. Up where the silk of her nightgown had ridden completely out of the way. Where there was nothing but bare skin and heat and the edge of whatever she was wearing underneath.

My fingers found lace.

Panties. She was wearing panties under the nightgown. Thin lace that felt expensive and completely useless as actual coverage. I could feel the texture of the pattern through my fingertips, could feel the way the fabric sat against her skin in a way that suggested it was probably meant to be seen rather than functional.

Diane’s hand on my dick squeezed harder. A warning maybe. Acknowledgment that I’d found exactly what she’d been hiding under that nightgown.

My thumb brushed against the lace, tracing the edge where it met her hip.

She inhaled sharply.

Then she stood up.

Just like that. Smooth and controlled like nothing had happened at all. Her hand left my dick. Her leg pulled away from my fingers. She was on her feet beside the loveseat adjusting her nightgown back into place while Sloane and I both turned to stare at her.

"Restroom," Diane said. Her voice came out perfectly normal. Casual. Like she hadn’t just spent the last five minutes letting me touch her inner thigh while she stroked my dick under a blanket.

"Now?" Sloane asked.

"Yes, sugar. Now. Unless you’d prefer I wait and risk a very awkward situation."

Sloane rolled her eyes. "Fine. But you’re missing the best part."

"I’m sure Sterling will save the day whether I’m watching or not."

Diane walked around the loveseat toward the door. She didn’t look back. Didn’t acknowledge what just happened. Just left the theater room with the silk of her nightgown whispering against her thighs.

The door closed behind her.

〘 Diane Fitzgerald contact window: 6:28 of 7:00:00 elapsed.

Subject departure voluntary. High probability of intentional boundary management. Quest parameter incomplete. Recommend completion attempt upon subject return or alternative strategic approach.

Sloane Fitzgerald contact continues: 4:41 of 7:00:00 elapsed. 〙

Two minutes twenty-eight seconds with Diane. Not the full seven. Thirty-two seconds short.

Shit.

But I couldn’t think about that right now because the moment Diane’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Sloane moaned directly into my ear.

"Ahnnngh~"

Loud. Unrestrained. The kind of sound she’d clearly been holding in for the past two minutes.

"Oh my god," she whispered. Her breath was hot against my neck. "I was holding that in and it was killing me."

My brain short-circuited.

"What?"

"Your hand." Her thighs squeezed tighter around my fingers. "You’ve been touching me and I couldn’t make a sound because Mom was right there."

"Sloane—"

"Higher." Her voice came out breathy and desperate. "Go higher. Please."

This was happening. This was actually happening.

Her lips found my neck. Soft kisses trailing up toward my jaw. Then her teeth. A gentle bite right below my ear that sent electricity straight down my spine to my dick, which was still painfully hard and now completely unsupported since Diane had abandoned her post.

"This is your fault," Sloane whispered against my skin. "You turned me on. Now you have to take responsibility."