The first thing he felt was sound, a forbidden psalm that shredded the silence of sleep.
Wet.Sacred.Damned.
A thick, rhythmic schluck-schluck-schluck throbbed in the dark, each pull of lips and tongue a slick, treasonous drag that branded his soul. Muffled moans—raw, guilty, devoted—vibrated through the mattress, a low, throaty confession of a love that should never be spoken, sinking into his bones like poisoned honey.
The bedframe creaked, a slow, blasphemous groan under the weight of taboo, wood weeping with the rhythm of his mother's lust.
Sheets she was buried in whispered, heavy with the scent of home and heresy, cotton clinging to her skin like a shroud.
And beneath it all, the sucking—wet, ravenous, unforgivable, lips sealed in a vow no mother should make, tongue tracing veins like forbidden scripture, throat opening in a prayer to take her son whole.
