The first light of morning slipped through the half-drawn curtains, painting soft gold streaks across the tangled sheets.
I woke slowly, body heavy with the kind of deep, satisfied exhaustion that only comes after a night spent wrapped around my mother.
My cock was already half-hard again—thick and warm, nestled against the curve of her thigh, the skin still sticky from our combined release hours earlier. The air in the room smelled of us: sex, sweat, her sweet floral shampoo, and the faint salty musk of cum dried on both our bodies.
She stirred beside me, breasts brushing my arm as she stretched like a cat.
Her hair was a wild, dark cascade across the pillow, lips swollen from last night's kisses, cheeks still flushed with sleep.
She turned to me, eyes soft and heavy-lidded, and smiled that slow, possessive smile that always made my pulse jump.
"Morning, baby," she murmured, voice husky and low.
She leaned in, pressed a lingering kiss to my mouth—soft, warm, tasting faintly of sleep and the faint trace of my release from when she'd licked me clean before we fell asleep.
Then she pulled back, sat up, letting the sheet fall away to reveal the full, lush curves of her body: heavy breasts swaying gently, nipples still dark and pebbled, the faint red marks my fingers had left on her hips glowing against her skin.
"I'll go prepare breakfast first," she said, sliding off the bed.
Her bare feet touched the floor with a soft pat.
She didn't bother covering up—her round ass jiggled slightly as she walked toward the door, thighs still shiny with the remnants of last night, a thin trail of dried cum streaking the inside of one leg.
The scent of her arousal lingered in the air behind her, thick and intoxicating.
I watched her go, cock twitching at the sight, already aching for more.
I nodded, voice rough with sleep.
"Okay, Mom."
She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Shower, sweetheart. You're all sticky. I want you clean… so I can get you dirty again later."
With that, she disappeared down the hall, hips swaying, leaving me alone in the quiet room with the echo of her words and the insistent throb between my legs.
I threw back the covers, stood, and padded to the bathroom.
The cool hardwood under my feet made my skin prickle.
My erection bobbed heavily with each step, pre-cum already beading at the tip again, glistening in the morning light.
I pushed the bathroom door open, stepped inside, and twisted the shower knob.
Hot water hissed to life, steam rising in thick clouds that smelled faintly of eucalyptus from the body wash.
I stepped under the spray, letting the heat pound against my shoulders, washing away the night's mess while my mind stayed firmly on her—on the way she'd feel when I came back downstairs, on the breakfast she was making, and on all the filthy, loving things we'd do the second we were alone again.
The shower left me feeling clean, warm, and still buzzing with that low, insistent ache in my balls.
Today was Sunday—no classes, no rush.
I didn't bother with clothes.
My cock hung heavy between my thighs, already thickening again from the hot water and the memories of last night and this morning.
I padded barefoot down the stairs, the hardwood cool under my soles, the air thick with the scent of frying bacon, fresh coffee, and the ever-present, sweet musk of my mother's arousal.
She was in the kitchen, completely naked, back to me as she stirred eggs at the stove.
Her round ass jiggled softly with each movement, thighs parted just enough that I could see the glistening pink slit between them—lips swollen, slick, a slow, steady drip of her wetness trailing down the inside of her leg and pooling on the tile in tiny, shiny beads.
The kitchen smelled like sex and breakfast: sizzling fat, butter, her tangy feminine scent, and the faint salty trace of our earlier releases still clinging to her skin.
I didn't speak.
I just crossed to the living room, dropped onto the soft leather sofa, legs spread wide, and picked up the remote.
The TV flickered to life—some Sunday morning news anchor droning about politics—but I barely heard it.
My hand wrapped around my cock, already fully hard, veins pulsing under the silky skin.
I stroked slow and deliberate, base to tip, thumb swiping over the leaking slit to spread the pre-cum in glossy circles.
The wet sound of my fist pumping echoed softly in the room, obscene and perfect.
Moments later she appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel she didn't bother to keep.
Her eyes dropped immediately to my hand working my shaft—thick, flushed dark, glistening with pre-cum.
She smiled, slow and hungry, then came to sit right beside me, thighs pressed to mine, her own legs spreading wide without shame.
Her pussy was right there—pink, dripping, lips parted like an invitation.
She slid two fingers down her slit, coating them in her slick, then pushed inside herself with a wet squelch I could hear over the TV.
She pumped slowly at first, then faster—knuckles disappearing between her folds, thumb circling her swollen clit in tight, needy spirals.
Her breathing turned ragged, breasts heaving, nipples stiff and dark.
I matched her rhythm—stroking harder, faster, fist slick with pre-cum, balls drawing up tight.
Our eyes locked, heavy-lidded, burning.
No words.
Just the shared, filthy symphony:
- The wet schlick-schlick of her fingers plunging in and out of her soaked cunt.
- The sticky slap of my hand pumping my cock.
- Our quickening breaths.
- The faint drip of her arousal hitting the leather sofa beneath her.
The tension coiled unbearable—tight, hot, electric.
She came first, thighs trembling, a sharp, broken moan tearing from her throat as her pussy clamped down on her fingers.
A fresh gush poured out, running down her wrist and soaking the cushion in hot, sticky waves.
The sight—her face flushed, mouth open, cunt spasming and dripping—shoved me over.
I groaned low, hips bucking into my fist as thick ropes of cum erupted across my stomach and chest in hot, pulsing spurts, some landing on her thigh in white streaks.
We shuddered together, panting, eyes never leaving each other.
She recovered first, leaned over, and licked a slow stripe up my cum-smeared abs—tongue flat, collecting every drop.
Then she stood, grabbed a warm cloth from the kitchen, and gently wiped us both clean, her touch soft and loving.
"Come eat, baby," she whispered, kissing my forehead.
We moved to the sofa with our plates—eggs, bacon, toast, coffee—eating side by side, naked, thighs pressed together.
Halfway through breakfast, she spread her legs wider, pussy still flushed and leaking fresh slick onto the leather.
I reached for the honey jar on the table, drizzled a slow golden thread over her mound, letting it slide down her swollen lips and seep inside her glistening entrance.
I set the plate aside, dropped to my knees between her thighs, and buried my face in her.
The taste hit me instantly—sweet honey mixed with her rich, musky arousal, warm and addictive.
I licked slow, broad strokes up her slit, tongue flattening to lap up every drop.
I sucked her clit gently between my lips, flicking the tip with quick little lashes.
Then I pushed my tongue inside her, fucking her with deep, curling thrusts, feeling her walls flutter and clench around me.
She moaned, hand tangling in my hair, hips rocking against my mouth.
"Baby… yes… eat Mommy's pussy… just like that…"
Her thighs trembled around my ears.
Her breathing turned desperate.
A fresh wave of slick gushed onto my tongue—hot, tangy, sweet with honey.
She came hard, crying out, pussy pulsing against my lips, flooding my mouth with her release.
I drank every drop, tongue working her through the aftershocks until she was trembling and oversensitive.
She pulled me up, kissed me deep—mouth to mouth, tongues sliding, sharing the taste of her and honey.
Her hand wrapped around my cock, stroking slow and firm, thumb circling the head.
I groaned into her mouth, hips jerking, and came again—thick spurts coating her fingers and wrist.
She licked her hand clean, eyes locked on mine, then kissed me once more—soft, loving, satisfied.
We collapsed back onto the sofa, naked bodies pressed together, her head on my chest.
I grabbed the remote, queued up her favorite romance movie—the one with the slow-burn love story we both secretly loved.
The opening credits rolled.
We watched side by side, thighs tangled, hands wandering lazily, already counting down to the next time we'd lose ourselves in each other.