The air in the relaxation room was a living thing, thick with the scorching musk of mom's arousal, the sweet burn of vanilla from the candle flickering on the side table, and the sharp tang of polished ebony warmed by her dripping cunt.
The invisible speakers throbbed with the dying echo of the Nocturne, the Steiway's massive soundboard still humming, sending micro-vibrations through the piano lid, through her trembling thighs, into my tongue buried in her pussy.
The taboo was a pulsing inferno, the forbiddenness of mother and son no longer a wall but a volcano, erupting with every lick, every slap, every raw scream, the wrongness amplifying every sensation until my cock was a molten spike, pre-cum soaking my jeans, the denim chafing the sensitive head with every heartbeat.
