The Kansas night was thick and heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth and distant lightning, a humid blanket that pressed against the windows of the old Kent farmhouse. Inside, however, the heat was of a different, more primal kind. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat, the only sounds the rhythmic, wet slap of flesh against flesh and the desperate, keening cries tearing from Martha Kent's throat.
Jason Kent, son of a god and a demigoddess, heir to two worlds, drove into his grandmother with the relentless, powerful rhythm of a piston. His hands, capable of shattering mountains, were clamped on her generous hips, fingers digging into the soft, yielding flesh of her 51-year-old ass, pulling her back onto him with each brutal thrust. Her body, still strong and full from a life of farm work, jiggled and shook with the force of his possession.
