The afternoon heat clung to everything in Hasan’s house, the kind of sticky Manila humidity that made clothes feel like a punishment. We’d been grinding through group project slides for hours in the living room, laptops overheating, iced teas sweating rings onto the table. Hasan stepped out to grab more printouts from the warung downstairs, leaving me alone with the low hum of the ceiling fan.

I needed to piss. Bad.

The bathroom was down the short hallway, past the half-open door to his mother’s room. I’d walked by it a dozen times before and never really looked—until today.

The door was ajar maybe ten centimeters. Just enough.

Inside, the wooden blinds sliced sunlight into golden bars across the bed. She lay facedown, sheet kicked down to her knees, wearing nothing but a thin beige bra whose straps had slipped off her shoulders and a pair of plain white cotton panties stretched tight across the widest part of her hips. The panties had ridden up into the deep cleft between her cheeks, exposing most of the heavy, pale flesh. Her ass was full and soft-looking, the kind that dimpled slightly where thigh met buttock, cellulite faint but honest. A small roll of belly spilled sideways onto the mattress. Her hair was gathered in a loose, messy bun; a few strands stuck to the damp nape of her neck. She breathed slow and deep—completely out.

My bladder screamed, but my feet wouldn’t move past the doorway.

I told myself I’d just look for five seconds. Then I’d go.

I stepped inside. The floorboard creaked once—sharp—and I froze. She didn’t stir. The air smelled faintly of her: coconut oil, faded floral perfume, warm skin.

Closer.

My shadow fell across her lower back. I could see the tiny goosebumps on the backs of her thighs even in the heat. My hand shook when I reached out. Fingertips brushed the elastic waistband first—soft, worn cotton—then lower, skimming the exposed curve where ass met thigh. So warm. So fucking soft. I pressed my palm flat against one cheek. The flesh yielded under my fingers like warm dough; I could feel the muscle underneath flex unconsciously as she dreamed whatever mothers dream in the middle of the day.

I squeezed—gentle at first, then harder. Her ass filled my hand and overflowed. I dragged my thumb along the crease where panty met skin, feeling the damp heat trapped there. My cock was already painfully hard inside my shorts, leaking against the fabric.

I shouldn’t.

I really fucking shouldn’t.

But I hooked one finger under the stretched cotton and tugged it aside—just enough to see the shadowed valley between her cheeks, the darker skin around her asshole, the plump outer lips of her pussy barely visible from this angle. My breathing sounded loud in my own ears.

I rubbed the pad of my thumb over that hidden pucker—slow circles. She sighed in her sleep, hips shifting maybe half a centimeter. That tiny movement almost made me come in my shorts.

I glanced toward the door. Hallway still empty. Hasan still gone.

I shoved my shorts down just enough to free my cock. It sprang out, thick and dark, already slick at the tip. I stroked once—hard—from root to head—and bit my lip so I wouldn’t groan.

I knelt one knee on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped. She didn’t wake.

I leaned over her, bracing myself on one hand beside her ribs, the other guiding my cock down until the swollen head kissed the warm cleft of her ass. I slid it along the fabric-covered crack first—teasing myself—then pulled the panties aside again and nestled the leaking tip right against that soft, puckered ring.

I didn’t push in.

I just rocked—tiny, shallow thrusts—letting the head smear precum over her asshole, down the crease, painting shiny streaks across both plump cheeks. The sight of my clear fluid glistening on her skin made my balls draw up tight.

I was leaking so much it started dripping—thick drops landing on the sheet between her thighs. I spread it with my cockhead like I was marking her. Mine. Just for these few stolen seconds.

My rhythm sped up. I gripped the base hard, squeezing to hold back, but the sight of my dick sliding between those massive, jiggling cheeks undid me.

I came with a choked grunt—way too loud—ropes of thick, hot cum spurting across her ass. The first jet hit high on one cheek and rolled slowly down the curve. The second landed directly in the cleft, pooling against her asshole before sliding lower toward her pussy lips still hidden under cotton. I kept stroking through it, milking every pulse until my knuckles were slick and my thighs trembled.

Panting, I watched my semen slowly creep along her skin, some of it soaking into the stretched panty fabric, darkening it.

She murmured something unintelligible—still deeply asleep—and shifted again, smearing my load further across her ass without knowing.

Panic hit me like cold water.

I yanked my shorts up, wiped my hand on the inside of my shirt, and backed out of the room so fast I nearly tripped over the threshold. I pulled the door almost closed again—exactly as it had been.

In the bathroom I pissed for what felt like forever, cock still half-hard and sticky, heart hammering against my ribs.

When I returned to the living room, Hasan was back, setting down plastic bags of snacks.

“You okay, bro? Face looks red as fuck.”

“Yeah,” I managed. “Just… hot in here.”

I sat down, opened my laptop, and tried to focus on pie charts while behind my eyes I kept seeing it: pale skin, white cotton pulled aside, thick white streaks cooling slowly across the fattest part of his mother’s ass.

I wondered how long it would take her to wake up.

I wondered if she’d feel it when she did—warm, sticky, running down her crack—and what she’d think it was.