The first thing I felt upon waking was my cock—thick, veiny, and painfully rigid, standing straight up against my abdomen like it had a mind of its own. Morning wood so intense it throbbed with every heartbeat. I groaned low in my throat, palming the swollen length once, feeling the hot, silky skin slide under my fingers. Pre-cum already beaded at the slit, glistening in the soft morning light that slipped through the curtains.
I swung my legs off the bed, erection bobbing heavily as I walked naked to the bathroom. The cool air kissed the sensitive head, making it twitch. I stepped under the showerhead and twisted the knob. Hot water cascaded over my shoulders, steam rising in thick clouds that smelled faintly of my sandalwood body wash.
I lathered my hands with soap, sliding them down my chest, over the ridges of my abs, then wrapped my fist around my shaft. Slow, deliberate strokes—base to tip—squeezing just hard enough to make my balls draw up tight. The wet slap of my hand echoed off the tiles. I braced one palm against the wall, hips rolling forward into my grip, imagining soft, dripping heat instead of my own calloused fingers.
"Fuck…" I muttered to the steam-filled room. "Good boy, huh? Just jerking off like a gentleman."
The four walls didn't answer, but the filthy sound of my fist pumping lathered skin was answer enough.
I came with a low grunt, thick ropes of cum painting the shower wall in white streaks before the water washed them away. My knees almost buckled from the force of it. I rinsed off, stepped out, and toweled dry—cock still half-hard, flushed dark pink, sensitive enough that the terrycloth dragged a shiver up my spine.
Dressed in a fitted black shirt and jeans that did nothing to hide the outline of my bulge, I packed my university bag—textbooks, laptop, notebook with last night's homework neatly completed. Everything in order. Perfect student on the outside.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of fresh coffee, sizzling bacon, and something sweeter—her.
My mother stood at the stove in nothing but a tiny silk apron that barely covered the undersides of her heavy breasts. The strings tied in a neat bow at the small of her back, leaving her entire round, plump ass exposed. Between her thighs, her pussy was already glistening—pink lips swollen, slick with arousal that dripped slowly down the inside of her leg. She never bothered with panties in the morning. Said it was "more convenient."
I'd seen that perfect, dripping cunt every single day since I turned eighteen.
She caught me staring and smiled over her shoulder, voice husky from sleep.
"Morning, baby. Breakfast is almost ready."
I crossed the kitchen in three strides, cock already straining against my zipper again. I pressed myself to her back, arms wrapping around her waist, palms sliding up to cup the weight of her tits. Her nipples were hard little points against my hands. I ground my denim-covered erection against the cleft of her ass, feeling the heat of her bare pussy through the fabric.
She arched, pushing back into me with a soft moan.
"You're so hard already," she purred. "Didn't you just take care of that in the shower?"
I didn't answer with words. Instead, I unzipped, freed my cock—still slick from earlier—and let the thick, leaking head nudge against her soaked entrance. Not inside. Just rubbing. Slow, deliberate glides along her slit, coating myself in her wetness. The tip caught on her clit each time, making her gasp and rock back harder.
Her juices smeared across my shaft, dripping down my balls. The kitchen filled with the obscene, wet sounds of my cock sliding through her folds—slick, slippery, filthy.
I pressed my mouth to the side of her neck, teeth grazing her skin.
"Mom… you're soaking," I growled against her ear. "Always so fucking wet for me."
She whimpered, thighs trembling.
"You came out of this pussy, baby. You can have it whenever you want… just like this…"
I sped up, the swollen head dragging over her clit in tight circles. Her breathing turned ragged, hips bucking to meet every stroke. My balls slapped softly against her ass with each thrust. The pressure built fast—too fast.
I came first, groaning low as thick spurts painted her inner thighs and dripped down her legs in hot ropes.
She followed seconds later, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as her pussy clenched on nothing, clit pulsing under my cockhead. Fresh slick gushed out, mixing with my release, running down her calves in shiny trails.
We stayed like that for a long moment—panting, my softening cock still nestled against her soaked slit, her body trembling against mine.
Finally, she straightened, turned, and kissed me deeply—tongue sliding against mine, tasting of coffee and sin.
"Go sit, baby. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."
She gave my cock one last affectionate squeeze before letting go.
I nodded, dazed, tucked myself back into my jeans, and sat at the table—still half-hard, still tasting her on my lips, already counting the hours until I could come home again.
The kitchen table was set simply—two plates of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, toast slathered in butter, and steaming mugs of black coffee. The air smelled of fried fat, fresh-ground beans, and the unmistakable musky sweetness of my mother's arousal that had been building since I rubbed against her at the stove.
She carried the plates over, hips swaying, the tiny silk apron doing nothing to hide the way her heavy breasts bounced with each step. Her nipples were dark, stiff peaks visible through the thin fabric. As she set my plate down, her eyes locked on mine—dark, hungry, loving in that twisted way only we understood.
We sat opposite each other.
She spread her thighs wide under the table without a hint of shame, knees brushing the chair legs. Her pussy was still flushed and swollen from earlier, lips parted and glistening, a slow, steady trickle of her arousal dripping onto the hardwood floor in tiny, obscene patters. The scent of her—hot, tangy, feminine—filled the space between us like perfume.
I took my first bite of eggs, fork trembling slightly.
She mirrored me, casual as if we were any normal family.
Then her bare foot slid up my inner thigh.
I inhaled sharply as her toes found the thick ridge of my cock, still half-hard and straining against my jeans. She pressed the arch of her foot along the length, rubbing slow, deliberate strokes from base to tip. The denim rasped against her skin, friction making me throb harder. Pre-cum soaked through the fabric in seconds, darkening the front of my pants.
"Eat your breakfast, baby," she murmured, voice low and velvet. One hand held her fork, spearing bacon like nothing was happening. The other hand disappeared beneath the table.
I watched her arm flex subtly.
Two fingers sank into her dripping cunt with a wet squelch I could hear over the clink of cutlery. She pumped slowly, deliberately—knuckles disappearing between her slick folds, thumb circling her clit in tight, needy spirals. Her breathing hitched, chest rising and falling faster, breasts jiggling softly under the apron.
Her foot never stopped.
She curled her toes around the head of my cock through the denim, squeezing rhythmically, milking me with expert pressure. The seam of my zipper dug into the sensitive underside, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to my balls. I gripped the table edge, knuckles white, trying to keep my fork steady.
The kitchen was quiet except for:
- The soft, rhythmic schlick-schlick of her fingers plunging in and out of her soaked pussy.
- The wet, sticky drag of her foot stroking my leaking cock.
- Our shared, ragged breathing.
- The occasional drip of her arousal hitting the floor.
She locked eyes with me again, lips parted, tongue darting out to lick a smear of butter from the corner of her mouth.
"You're so hard for Mommy," she whispered. "Feel how wet I am just thinking about you coming home early…"
I groaned low, hips jerking involuntarily into her foot.
The pressure built fast—too fast. My balls drew up tight, cock pulsing against her sole.
She came first.
Her thighs trembled, fingers buried to the knuckles, clit throbbing under her thumb. A fresh gush of slick poured out, running down her wrist and dripping onto the chair. Her head tipped back, a soft, broken moan escaping her throat as her pussy clenched and fluttered around her fingers.
The sight—her flushed face, heaving breasts, the obscene shine of wetness on her thighs—pushed me over.
I came hard, hips bucking against her foot, thick spurts soaking through my jeans in hot, sticky pulses. The fabric clung wetly to my shaft, outlining every vein as I emptied myself against her toes.
We stayed locked like that for long seconds, panting, her foot still pressed to my twitching cock, my eyes glued to the glistening mess between her legs.
Finally, she withdrew her hand—fingers shiny and dripping—licked them clean with slow, deliberate swipes of her tongue, then stood.
She walked around the table, bent down, and kissed me deeply—tasting of coffee, bacon, and her own pussy.
"My love," she whispered against my lips, "come back early today. Mother can't live without you."
I nodded, dazed, voice rough.
"Same here, Mom."
She straightened, wiped the table with a cloth like nothing happened, and gave my ass a playful smack as I stood.
I slung my bag over my shoulder, cock still sensitive and half-hard in my soaked jeans, and walked out the door—already counting the minutes until I could bury myself back inside the only home that ever truly mattered.