Strict Mummy, Filthy Boy: 3

Unlocked Door, Unfinished Business💦🫦😜

“Leave it unlocked,” Jax said.

I stood in the dark kitchen the next night, hand on the back-door deadbolt. My pulse was a steady hammer in my throat. The message from the unknown number still sat on my phone like a threat that refused to fade.

Same time tomorrow night. Leave the back door unlocked. I want a closer look at how strict Mummy really is. Or the photos go straight to Ms. Rivera’s email and the judge who placed me here.

Jax leaned against the counter behind me, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. “We do exactly what he asked. Then we see who walks through that door.”

“And if it’s more than one person?”

“Then I handle it.” His voice was flat. “You’re not doing this alone.”

I turned the lock. The soft click felt too loud.

We had spent the day preparing. Jax checked every window, every closet, every possible angle. He found nothing. Whoever had taken the photo from outside his bedroom window was careful. Professional, even. That scared me more than the welfare check.

“Come here,” he said.

He led me to the living-room couch. Only one lamp was on, low. We wanted the watcher to see, but not everything. Jax sat down and pulled me into his lap so I straddled him.

“We give them a show,” he murmured against my neck. “Keep their eyes on us while I figure out where the fuck they are.”

I nodded, already breathing faster. His hands slid under my thin nightgown. No bra. No panties. Just the soft fabric and his rough palms on my bare skin.

“You’re already wet,” he said, fingers sliding between my legs. “Scared or turned on?”

“Both.”

He kissed me slow and deep while two fingers pushed inside. I rocked against his hand, soft moans slipping out. If someone was watching from the dark yard, they could see everything.

Jax freed his cock. I sank down onto him in one smooth motion. We both groaned.

“Ride me,” he ordered quietly. “Make it look good.”

I did. Slow at first, then faster, hands on his shoulders, nightgown bunched around my waist. The wet sound of me taking him filled the room. My breasts bounced under the thin fabric. Jax’s hands gripped my ass, guiding me.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Let them see how much strict Mummy loves her delinquent’s cock.”

I leaned forward, mouth against his ear. “What if they come inside?”

“Then they see me bury myself in you while I break their fucking hands.” His hips thrust up hard. “Now come for me. Loud.”

The orgasm hit fast. I cried out, head thrown back, pussy clenching around him. Jax kept me moving through it, chasing his own release.

He flipped us suddenly so my back hit the couch cushions. He hooked my legs over his shoulders and pounded into me deep and rough.

“Look at the window,” he panted. “They’re out there. Watching you take every inch.”

I turned my head. The glass reflected us—him above me, me spread open and moaning. Somewhere beyond the reflection, in the dark, someone was watching.

Jax came hard, flooding me. He stayed buried deep, breathing against my neck.

Then the back door creaked open. We both froze when we heard careful and soft footsteps.

Jax pulled out of me fast, tucked himself away, and stood in front of the couch, shielding me. I yanked the nightgown down, heart slamming.

A figure stepped into the living-room light.

Ms. Rivera.

The same Social Services worker from the night before. Clipboard gone. She held a small black device in one hand, a camera. Her expression was calm. Almost tired.

“I told you late-night checks are sometimes necessary,” she said.

Jax took a step forward. “You.”

“Not just me.” She set the camera on the coffee table. “I’ve been paid to watch. To record. To make sure the two of you kept going.”

My stomach dropped. “Who paid you?”

Ms. Rivera’s eyes flicked to me. “Someone who wants leverage. Someone who already has more photos than these. Someone who knows the judge. And knows how much damage these would do to both of you.”

Jax’s voice went deadly quiet. “Name.”

She hesitated. Then: “The tip didn’t come from a stranger. It came from someone who was already in the system. Someone who knew exactly when to call.”

A car door slammed outside.

We all turned toward the sound.

Ms. Rivera’s face went pale. “That’s him. He’s early.”

Jax moved to the front window and peered through the blinds. “Black sedan. Just parked across the street. Driver’s getting out.”

I stood on unsteady legs, nightgown sticking to my thighs. “What do we do?”

Jax looked back at me, eyes hard. “We end this. Tonight.”

Ms. Rivera backed toward the kitchen. “I’m leaving. I only did this for the money. I never wanted anyone hurt.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Jax said without looking at her. “Sit down. You’re part of this now.”

Outside, footsteps approached the front porch.

A soft knock.

Then a familiar voice, cheerful and cold.

“Diane? Jax? I know you’re awake. Open up. Time for the real welfare check.”

Jax reached for the handle.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

He opened the door.

The man on the porch was older than Jax but not by much, mid-twenties, sharp eyes, a smile that didn’t reach them. I recognized him from the placement paperwork. One of the previous caseworkers who had “moved on” three months ago.

“Evening,” he said. “Mind if I come in? We have a few things to discuss about the living arrangement.”

Jax didn’t move. “You’re not Social Services anymore.”

“No. I’m private now. And I have enough material to make sure Jax goes back into the system and you lose every foster license you ever held.” He stepped forward. “Or we can come to an arrangement. You two keep doing what you’ve been doing. I keep the files private. Simple.”

Jax’s hands flexed at his sides.

I spoke before either of them could move. “Show me the files first. Prove you have them.”

The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black USB. He held it up between two fingers. “Happy?”

Jax moved faster than I expected. One step, a sharp twist of the man’s wrist, and the drive hit the floor. The man cursed and swung. Jax blocked it, slammed him against the wall hard enough to rattle the pictures, and pinned him there with a forearm across his throat.

“Phone,” Jax snarled.

The man choked out a laugh. “Already scheduled. Hurt me and it still sends.”

I scrambled for the USB, heart in my throat. Jax kept the man pinned while I grabbed the phone from his pocket. The screen was locked. A timer sat at the top of a messaging app: 00:47 and counting down.

“Code,” Jax said.

The man smiled through the pressure on his throat. “Guess.”

The timer hit 00:30.

I looked at Jax. He looked at me.

Then the man’s phone buzzed with a new incoming message from a different number.

Unknown: He’s not the only one with copies. Step away from him or the files drop from a second source in ten seconds.

Jax’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t move.

The original timer hit 00:15.

I stared at the dark living-room windows, at the reflection of the three of us, at Ms. Rivera still frozen on the edge of the chair.

Someone else was still watching.

And the countdown kept falling.