The room was a suffocating haze of sin, thick with the scalding musk of Linda's pussy, the sweet sting of her sweat, the bitter polish of the ebony piano lid slick with her come.
The Steinway hummed beneath her, the soundboard still vibrating from her screams, the keys sticky with her juices, the room a temple of taboo where mother and son had burned every chain to ash.
The forbidden was no longer a feeling—it was reality, a pulsing, breathing entity that wrapped us in its claws, the wrongness of what we'd done, what we were, a fire that only made us hungrier.
Her eyes locked on mine, dark and wild, love and lust and surrender, her voice a shredded rasp: "Fuck me, baby."
But she moved first, sliding off the piano lid, her thighs shaking, her come dripping down her legs, leaving a glossy trail on the ebony. She dropped to her knees before me, the plush rug soft under her, her hands trembling as they reached for my jeans, the zipper's rasp loud in the charged silence.
