The Nocturne shattered into silence, the final chord hanging in the air like a guillotine blade, but her orgasm was the execution. Linda's cry was a primal scream, a sound that tore through the soundproof walls, through the taboo, through seventeen years of mother and son.
Her body convulsed—back arched like a bow drawn for war, thighs clamping my head in a vise, pussy clenching so violently I could see the rhythmic spasms, a torrent of her arousal gushing over her fingers, spilling in thick, obscene ropes onto the ebony piano lid.
The scent was a blasphemous sacrament—musk, salt, vanilla, her—a forbidden perfume that branded my lungs, my cock throbbing so hard it felt like it would split my jeans, pre-cum soaking through, the Halo a wildfire in my veins.
Her thoughts were a sacred profanity: {My boy, my man, drinking his mother's cunt, claiming what he should never have… happy birthday, my love, take it all.}
