Susan hummed a gentle tune, the melody floating through the quiet house as she dragged a damp cloth across the coffee table. The late summer sun spilled through the wide windows, painting the living room in hues of gold and amber. Dust motes danced in the beams, catching her eye as she worked, the rhythmic swipe of her hand almost hypnotic. The stillness was broken only by the occasional groan of the old wooden floorboards upstairs, a faint reminder of life stirring above her. She was lost in the mundane comfort of it all—until a sudden, firm grip seized her hips.
Her breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as two strong hands shoved her forward. Her chest collided with the plush cushions of the couch, the fabric cool against her flushed skin. Instinctively, her legs parted, knees sinking into the rug as a familiar weight settled behind her, pressing her down. Her heart thudded wildly, a thrill racing up her spine.
“Good morning, Peter,” she murmured, her voice soft and warm despite being muffled by the cushions. She tilted her head slightly, trying to catch the sound of his response. “I didn’t hear you wake up.”
Silence greeted her, save for the faint rustle of fabric and the slick, teasing brush of his erection against her sensitive folds. Susan bit her lip, stifling a whimper as anticipation coiled tight in her belly. Then, in one fluid, confident motion, he pushed inside her, filling her completely. A shudder rippled through her, her fingers curling into the couch as her body arched to meet him, craving the connection.
“Fuck, Peter,” she gasped, her voice quivering with a mix of shock and delight. “You’re so… so big.”
He didn’t ease into it. His hips snapped forward with a raw, unrelenting force, setting a pace that stole her breath and sent jolts of pleasure crashing through her. Susan’s moans spilled into the room, raw and unrestrained, blending with the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin. Her nails clawed at the cushions, the rough texture grounding her as her mind spun, drowning in sensation.
Each thrust ignited her nerves, a delicious burn spreading from her core outward. She could feel every inch of him—how he stretched her, how her walls hugged him tight, pulsing with need. Her body responded eagerly, slick with arousal, drawing him deeper as if she could meld them into one.
“Oh, God, Peter,” she cried, her voice trembling, thick with desperation. “You feel so good… so fucking good inside me.”
His hands tightened on her hips, fingers digging into her soft flesh, anchoring her as he drove into her with a ferocity that made her dizzy. She couldn’t hear his reply—if he even gave one—over the symphony of her own pleasure, her cries echoing off the walls. The couch creaked beneath them, her cheek scraping against the fabric with every forceful push, a faint sting she barely registered.
Her skin felt alive, electric, every nerve singing under his touch. The heat of him, the relentless rhythm, the way her body yielded—it was intoxicating. Her thighs trembled, slick with her own desire, the evidence of her want coating him as he moved. Deep within, a pressure built, a tight knot of ecstasy winding tighter with every thrust.
“Baby, harder,” she pleaded, her voice a needy whimper as she pressed her face deeper into the cushions. Her hips rocked back, desperate to meet him, to urge him on. “Please, Peter… fuck me harder.”
A low grunt rumbled from him, and his next thrust hit with such force that her breath caught, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. His fingers pressed deeper into her hips, bruising in the best way, as he pounded into her with abandon. It was overwhelming—how he split her open, how he claimed every inch of her, leaving no part untouched.
“God, you’re so deep,” she moaned, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I can’t—oh, God, I can’t get enough of you.”
His breathing grew ragged behind her, a rough edge to each exhale, but he didn’t falter. His grip tightened, his cock pulsing inside her, and Susan’s world narrowed to the feel of him—the heat, the stretch, the way her body clung to him as her climax loomed closer. Her chest heaved, her nipples brushing the fabric beneath her, sending sparks of sensation through her already overwhelmed senses.
“I’m so close, Peter,” she gasped, her voice breaking as her body shook. “Cum with me, baby! Cum in me—oh, God, yes!”
The plea dissolved into a scream as her orgasm slammed into her, a tidal wave of pleasure that left her trembling, gasping for air. Her walls spasmed around him, gripping him tight as ecstasy roared through her, wave after blinding wave. She felt him swell, his thrusts growing wild, unsteady, until—with a guttural groan—he buried himself deep and let go. Warmth flooded her, his release spilling inside, and the sensation tipped her over into another shuddering ripple of bliss.
For a heartbeat, they stayed locked together, his cock still twitching within her, their breaths mingling in the heavy air. Then he pulled out, and a soft, involuntary whimper slipped from her lips at the sudden emptiness. His footsteps retreated toward the bathroom, steady and unhurried, leaving her sprawled across the couch, chest heaving, body tingling. She felt gloriously used, deliciously wrecked, and utterly content.
Cum trickled down her thigh, a warm, sticky reminder of him, and she savored it, a lazy smile curving her lips. He’s insatiable, she thought, her mind drifting to how often he took her—morning, noon, night, whenever the mood struck. But so am I. She adored it: the way he claimed her, the way he made her feel so wholly his. It was a secret thrill, a private dance they’d perfected.
Eventually, she pushed herself up, her legs wobbling like a newborn foal’s as she stood. She smoothed her dress down, not bothering to wipe away the mess. The sensation of his release dripping from her was a keepsake she wanted to cling to, a tangible echo of their intimacy. Picking up the cloth, she resumed her cleaning, the smile never leaving her face as she moved to the kitchen, cum still trailing down her skin.
The sizzle of bacon greeted her as she set a skillet on the stove, the rich, smoky aroma curling through the air. She cracked eggs into another pan, watching the yolks quiver, cooking them just how Peter liked—runny, golden pools that burst with the first prick of a fork. Her hands moved with practiced ease, but her mind lingered on him: the weight of his body, the heat of his touch. The shower shut off upstairs, and her pulse quickened, a flutter of anticipation blooming in her chest.
“My sweet boy needs his strength,” she murmured, arranging the plate with care—egg yolks for eyes, strips of bacon forming a crooked smile, a nose, eyebrows. It was silly, maybe, but it warmed her to think of him digging in, savoring what she’d made. A mother’s pride swelled in her, laced with something darker, hungrier, as his footsteps thudded down the stairs.
She dropped to her knees, the hardwood cool against her skin, and crawled under the kitchen table just as Peter stepped into the room. He was bare, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, skin glistening in the morning light streaming through the window. The faint scent of his soap—clean, sharp, undeniably male—hit her, and her mouth watered. He sank into the chair, his plate before him, oblivious to her beneath the table until her hands found his thighs.
A low groan rumbled from his chest as she parted his legs, her fingers brushing the coarse hair there. Leaning forward, she wrapped her lips around his cock, the taste of him—clean skin with a hint of salt—flooding her senses. She hummed, the vibration drawing a shudder from him, and his hand slid into her hair, stroking gently.
“Mmm…” he breathed, the sound thick with arousal, sending a thrill through her. She took him deeper, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head before pulling back, sucking lightly. His fingers tightened in her hair—not pushing, just feeling—and she reveled in it, in the way he responded to her touch.
Her tongue traced the thick vein along his shaft, teasing, worshipping, before she engulfed him again. Her lips stretched around his girth, her throat relaxing as she took him deeper, gagging faintly but pressing on. His hips twitched, a reflex he couldn’t control, and his cock nudged the back of her throat. She gagged slightly, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she worked her throat around him, taking him deeper and deeper with each bob of her head.
Susan moaned around him as he ate, the sound vibrating through his cock and making him shudder. She loved the way he praised her, the way he made her feel needed, wanted, even essential. Her hands slid up his thighs, her nails lightly scratching his skin as she continued to worship him. She could feel his cock swelling, the tension in his body building as he neared his release.
She sucked him harder, her lips tight around his shaft as she worked him with a fervor that left her breathless. Her own arousal was building again, the taste of him, the feel of him in her mouth, driving her wild. She could feel his cock pulsing, the rhythm of his thrusts becoming more erratic as he neared the edge.
Susan kept her eyes closed, her focus entirely on the task at hand—worshipping her son’s cock with the devotion it deserved. Her tongue swirled around the head of his swollen shaft, her lips forming a tight seal as she suckled gently, coaxing his pleasure. Then, with a deep breath, she took him into her mouth again, her throat opening to welcome him as she swallowed him down. She took him deeper, her throat tightening around him as he began to cum.
His release was hot and thick, flooding her mouth. Susan swallowed every drop, savoring the salty tang of his cum as it slid down her throat. She could feel his body shuddering above her, his hips jerking slightly as he rode out the waves of his orgasm. She stayed there, lavishing him with her tongue until he was spent, her lips lingering on the sensitive tip of his cock to ensure he was completely clean.
Finally, she pulled back, her lips releasing him with a soft pop. She stayed under the table for a moment longer, catching her breath as she looked up at him through hooded eyes. Peter’s hand remained in her hair, his fingers gently stroking the strands as he regained his composure. His chest rose and fell with each deep breath, his body still humming with the aftermath of pleasure.
“Breakfast was incredible,” Peter said, his voice a low rumble, thick with satisfaction and a playful edge that tugged at her. He leaned back in his chair, his plate now empty, a faint smirk curling his lips.
She chuckled softly, a smile tugging at her lips as she crawled out from under the table. Her knees were slightly sore from the hardwood floor, but she didn’t mind—it was a small price to pay for the intimacy they shared. She brushed herself off, her hands smoothing over her thighs as she stood.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said, her voice warm and affectionate. She moved to the sink, washing her hands before turning back to him.
Peter stood, the chair scraping faintly against the floor as he grabbed his plate. He crossed the small distance between them, his broad frame towering over her for a heartbeat before he bent down. His lips brushed her forehead, soft and warm, sending a ripple of comfort through her. “Thanks, Mom,” he murmured, the word tender, almost reverent.
Her heart swelled, a rush of pride and adoration flooding her as she watched him stride toward the hallway, exuding the easy confidence of a man who knew he was cherished. Susan turned back to the counter, her hands moving on autopilot—wiping down surfaces, stacking dishes—while her mind drifted. The memory of him lingered like a melody: the heat of his skin, the low groans that had vibrated through her, the way he’d filled her entirely. A pleasant shiver danced down her spine, pooling low in her belly as she scrubbed a stubborn spot on a dish.
He’s growing up too fast, she thought, her movements slowing as she traced the edge of a plate with her fingertip. The realization stung, sharp and bittersweet, but she pushed it aside, letting herself sink into the quiet joy of their morning. These moments—stolen, intimate, theirs alone—were hers to treasure, no matter how the world might judge them.
She finished tidying, casting a glance toward the hallway where Peter had vanished to change. Her skin still hummed, a faint echo of their earlier intimacy, and she pressed her lips together, a small smile breaking through. My sweet boy, she mused, her chest tightening with a fierce, protective love.
Minutes later, Peter sauntered back into the kitchen, his snug jeans hugging his legs, the t-shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders. His gaze locked onto her instantly, sharp and intent. Susan stood bent over the table, her cheek pressed against the cool wood, her skirt bunched around her hips, exposing the curve of her bare ass. A bottle of lube sat within reach, its cap flipped open, and her breath came quick and shallow, her pulse thrumming in her ears.
He didn’t speak—just moved, his footsteps deliberate as he positioned himself behind her. The sound of his zipper rasping open sent a jolt through her, and she heard the faint squelch of lube as he squeezed it onto his fingers. She imagined the slickness coating his skin, the way his hand would glide as he prepared himself. A faint tremor ran through her when she felt his hands settle on her hips, firm and sure.
“Peter,” she breathed, her voice quivering with eagerness and surrender. She loved this—the way he took charge, the unspoken claim in his touch. His fingers brushed the plug nestled inside her, and she tensed briefly, the sensation sharp as he eased it free. The sudden emptiness made her gasp, her body adjusting, ready for him.
Then he was there, the blunt tip of him pressing against her, slick and insistent. With one fluid thrust, he sank into her, deep and full, and Susan’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers curled around the table’s edge, nails digging into the wood as he began to move. Each snap of his hips sent a jolt through her, the rhythm fierce and unrelenting, a delicious collision of force and need.
God, he feels incredible, she thought, her mind hazy with the stretch, the heat, the way he fit her perfectly. She gave herself over to it, to him, her body yielding as he claimed her with every stroke. His hands tightened on her hips, fingers pressing into her flesh, and she reveled in the possessive grip.
“You’re so tight, Mom,” Peter growled, his voice rough with want, vibrating through her. “Love how you take me.”
A moan spilled from her lips, her thighs trembling as the intensity built. She didn’t chase her own release—this was for him, about letting him have her, about the raw connection that pulsed between them. “Yes, Peter,” she gasped, her words shaky over the sound of their bodies meeting. “Take me. Use me.”
His groan rumbled deep in his chest, his pace quickening, thrusts growing wild and desperate. With one final, forceful push, he buried himself fully, his release flooding her with heat. Susan tightened around him, savoring the pulse of him inside her, the proof of his pleasure anchoring her to the moment.
He eased out slowly, and she felt the shift, the sudden void, but then his hands were back, gentle now. The cool, slick tip of the plug pressed against her again, and he slid it into place with care, sealing him inside her. “There,” he said, a smug edge to his tone as he gave her a light pat. “All three holes, nice and full.”
Susan laughed softly, her body still trembling from the intensity of it all. She loved the way he marked her, the way he claimed her in such an intimate way. As she straightened up, smoothing her skirt back into place, she saw Peter grab the car keys from the counter.
“Come on, Mom, let’s go,” he said, his hand landing with a firm smack on her ass as he breezed past. Susan let out a sharp yelp, the sting blooming into a playful heat that tugged a giggle from her throat. She hurried after him, her sandals clicking against the tile, but a quiet heaviness settled in her chest, tugging at her with every step toward the driveway.
Outside, the late morning sun bathed the scene in a soft, golden haze. Susan’s breath caught as her eyes landed on Peter’s car, its trunk stuffed to the brim with duffel bags, a battered cardboard box of books teetering on the edge, and his favorite gray hoodie slung carelessly over the passenger seat. The sight pierced her—pride swelled in her ribs, bright and fierce, but it tangled with a hollow ache that made her throat tighten. He was leaving. College awaited him, a new chapter sprawling out beyond her reach. Her vision blurred, tears prickling hot at the corners of her eyes as she stood rooted to the gravel, the crunch of it beneath her feet suddenly too loud.
Peter slammed the trunk shut, the sound jolting her, and turned. His gaze flicked to her face, and in an instant, his sharp edges softened. “Hey,” he said, his voice dropping low and gentle as he crossed the distance between them. Before she could blink, his arms were around her, pulling her into the solid wall of his chest. The warmth of him seeped into her skin, easing the tight knot in her lungs for a fleeting second. “I’ll be back in a month,” he murmured, his breath...
