Daniel's eyes were on his mother's boobs.
They were not the breasts of the modest, covered woman he knew, but those of a primal goddess, full and lush.
Her nipples, impossibly long and hard, were a delicate, rosy pink, standing out like precious jewels against her flushed skin.
They seemed to ache, to demand attention, and Daniel felt a jarring, unwelcome pang of understanding—any man would be incalculably lucky to worship at that altar, to feel the weight of them in his hands or the peak of them against his tongue.
Yet here was Ashley, his mother, offering this sacred part of herself to the air, her head thrown back in ecstasy as she rode Ross with a savage, unbridled fervor.
She was a woman lost, a creature of pure sensation, her body no longer her own but a vessel for the extreme, shattering pleasure that Ross's giant cock was imparting.
Each downward plunge was met with a gasp, each upward stroke a soft, desperate whimper.
