That house used to be filled with voices--my parents', my son's laughter, the warm clatter of a full kitchen, and sometimes even the distant ring of Sajal's calls from abroad. But over the years, the volume dimmed. One by one, the sounds left. First, Maa and Baba, then even Sajal's check-ins had become nothing more than dry bank notifications and business-like pleasantries.
Eventually, it was just me and Sabuj. My son. He had turned eighteen just a couple of months back.
It was never supposed to be this way. When I married Sajal, I had imagined something entirely different. A family, yes. A home, of course. But not this loneliness. Not this long, aching emptiness that stretched between dinner and dawn. Sajal left when Sabuj was just eight--went abroad "for work." We'd agreed he'd return in two years. He never did. The money came regularly--more than enough--but the man didn't, not even once.
He wasn't a bad man. Just... cold. All ambition, no warmth. He couldn't understand why I wouldn't leave my parents behind and follow him. Why I stayed in this city that raised me, where my roots ran deeper than my marriage vows. But you can't water love from so far away--and you most certainly can't make a child feel fathered by money.
By the time Sabuj turned sixteen, both my parents had passed, one after the other, like dominoes. Their absence hit him harder than he let on. He and Baba had been close. I think he'd seen in him what he never got from Sajal.
After the last rites, it was just the two of us. Two people in a three-bedroom house. Two ghosts pretending we weren't haunted.
At first, he'd handled it well. He was bright and responsible. A little shy, but popular at school. He'd play cricket in the afternoons and come home covered in dust and boyish pride. I used to tease him about how many girls must have been watching from the school fence. He'd blush and hide his smile, saying, "Mom, stoppp."
But lately...
Lately, something had changed.
He'd stopped going out. His bat gathered dust in the corner now. His friends stopped coming over. He spent hours locked in the old study room--my husband's old office. The one that still smelled like shaving cream and missed anniversaries. Sabuj would stay in there late into the night.
I'd knocked once. He hadn't opened the door and said he was "studying."
Studying what I didn't know. But when I'd gone in the next morning to dust the room, the computer screen had still been warm, and the browser history had been wiped clean.
One night, as I folded his laundry, I found something stiff in the bedsheet. It was crusted, faint, but familiar. I recognized the texture, the scent, and the unmistakable trace of cum dried into the fabric.
He never used to do that, but I told myself not to panic. Boys his age... They discovered things. They touched themselves. They got curious. It was normal. But this was more than a distraction. He was different. Quieter. Hungrier somehow.
And the strangest part was--I felt it. That hunger. In the air between us. The way he watched me sometimes when I draped my saree. The way his gaze lingered too long on the curve of my back when I bent to pick up something in the kitchen. The way he stiffened, just slightly, when I walked past him wrapped in my wet towel after a shower.
At first, I thought I was imagining it. Or maybe... maybe I wanted to be imagining it.
After all, I was alone too. God knew it had been years since a man looked at me like that. Years since Sajal touched me without it feeling like an obligation.
Years since I'd touched myself without guilt.
Even now... I still did it sometimes. Quietly. In the bathroom. Under the stream of warm water. I'd close my eyes and forget that my body was thirty-nine. I'd pretend someone wanted it. That someone would fuck me more than silence.
I never thought I'd say this, but... Sometimes I imagined a stranger. Not Sajal. Not anyone I knew.
Someone... faceless. Gentle, but rough when I asked. Someone who could melt this numbness into moans. Someone who'd take one look at my breasts and push his dick against my pussy until I burst into something loud and desperate and alive again.
Yet I had hidden it well, or at least... I thought I had.
My shame.
My need.
My hunger.
It curled under my skin like a cat stretching lazily in the sun--warm, patient, waiting. Always just beneath the surface. Just out of sight.
But boys... Boys see things we pretend they're too young to notice. And sometimes--God help us--they see far more than we ever meant to show.
It came back to me that evening--the moment I caught him watching me.
I was taking a long evening bath. The kind I only allow myself when the house is too still, too hot, too lonely to pretend I'm anything but hollow. I'd been alone, or so I thought. Sabuj was supposed to be at school.
The water had been warm, the bathroom fogged, and the air fragrant with my rose soap.
I remember resting one leg on the side of the tub, the cool porcelain kissing my thigh.
I don't know what got into me; maybe it was the silence, maybe it was the ache that had built up for weeks without release, or maybe it was just... being thirty-nine and invisible and tired of pretending my body didn't miss being touched.
I had slid my fingers between my thighs slowly, almost respectfully. As if asking permission.
As if the loneliness might forgive me if I were gentle enough.
My pussy was already wet before I touched it, not soaked, not wild, just... needy.
I pressed one finger in--just the tip--and moaned. It had been so long. Longer than I care to admit.
My other hand slid up to one of my 34C-size tits, squeezing lightly through the soap around the skin. My nipples were tight, sharp with want. I circled it slowly. I arched my head, pressing back against the tile.
And then I heard it or... felt it. That stillness. That quiet shift in the air that only happens when someone else is breathing in a space meant to be private.
I froze, but I didn't stop.
I should have, but I didn't.
I opened my eyes just for a moment, thinking maybe I'd imagined it. But there--barely visible--beneath the thin crack under the door... I spotted a movement. The faintest flicker, a shadow, a kneeling shape.
A glimpse of wide, shocked eyes. It was my son watching me.
The blood drained from my face... and then rushed somewhere lower. I didn't scream. I didn't even say his name. I didn't even move. I just stood there, leg still propped, hand still buried in my soaked pussy, as I fingered myself harder than I had in years.
And Sabuj was on the floor, peeking through the crack, his mouth slightly open.
Breathless.
Like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Like it hurt him to want it.
And God help me... A part of me didn't want to stop.
A part of me liked that he was looking.
No man had ever looked at me like that before.
Not even Sajal.
Not with awe. Not with hunger.
Not with trembling need.
And within a minute, my body burst. An orgasm gripped me like a wave, and I collapsed back into the bath, breathing hard and shaking. Soaked in shame and something darker.
By the time I could lift my head, he was gone. The shadow was gone. But the memory... wasn't.
That night, I didn't say anything, and neither did he, but the air between us changed. The silence grew thicker and heavier. It wasn't just avoidance. It was tense, like something had been set loose, and we were both pretending not to feel it.
Because there are some things you can never un-hear.
Some names you can never repeat in the same way. And that night, when I heard what he said--really said--I knew I'd never be able to call him "son" again without feeling it echo through my entire body. I didn't mean to spy on him; I was just checking on him.
It was past midnight, and his light was still on. He hadn't eaten dinner. I stood at his door, unsure whether to knock. Something inside me... tightened.
A curiosity. A dread. A pull.
I opened the door just a crack.
And what I saw...
What I heard...
Sabuj was sitting back in the old study chair. His eyes were glazed, and his fist was stroking his dick with a fever that bordered on pain. His lips moved, whispering in moans, "Oh mom... your tits... your cunt... I wanna fuck it. I wanna make it mine. I wanna fill your dirty little cunt... I wanna make you pregnant..."
My breath caught in my throat.
I didn't gasp. I didn't scream.
I just listened and watched.
Until his low moans turned into screams and released thick streams of cum coating his belly, his hand, and the edge of the desk.
He slumped forward, panting, moaning my name again under his breath like a prayer. I couldn't stop myself anymore as I stumbled back, my palm over my mouth, and something inside me shattered.
I don't remember walking into that room.
I don't even remember picking up my hand.
I just remember the sound.
SLAP.
It rang out, cruel and clear in the stillness.
His head jerked sideways as he stared at me, wide-eyed, shamed, and a little stunned but not apologetic.
Then he wiped his cheek slowly as I choked, "You--you're talking about your mother like that?"
He didn't flinch; he didn't cower. Instead, he stood there steady and angry. Man-like. "And you, Mom... You think I don't know? I've seen you too."
My heart stopped as he stepped closer and said, "I saw you yesterday in the bathroom, with your fingers in your cunt... saying things. Moaning. Groaning."
My knees buckled.
"You don't think I hear it when you moan at night?" he whispered. "When you touch yourself and whisper Papa's name, but you're thinking of someone else?"
My vision blurred, a mixture of rage, shame, and desire. I couldn't control myself, and I pushed him back hard.
He stumbled back but didn't leave; he didn't run. Instead, he said quietly, "I'm not a child anymore, Mom, you know that. And I see the way you look at me."
"Stop it," I hissed, my voice breaking. "Just stop it."
"You want someone to touch you." With a pause, he continued, "Someone to make you beg, someone to ruin your pretty little cunt..."
He stepped closer again, gently now. "And if you'd just let me--"
I slapped him again. But this time my fingers lingered, my palm curved over his jaw, and instead of pulling away, his hands came up to my waist.
"Don't," I whispered.
"Then say it," he murmured.
"I'm your mother."
"Say it again, if it helps," he said, mouth at my ear. "But that doesn't change the way you tremble when I touch you."
He placed his palm flat on my belly, right above my navel, where my saree had slipped, where the heat of my pulse flowed through thin cotton.
I couldn't move or think. I could only feel the tremble, the tension, the truth, and in that moment... I knew we had crossed the line. Not yet with our bodies, but with something deeper. Something you don't come back from. Not easily. Not ever.
He didn't lean in further. He didn't press his mouth to mine. He just held me there, his palm steady on my belly, fingertips warm, breath hotter--thick with things neither of us could say. And then, without a word, he pulled away and left the room, leaving the heat of his touch burning beneath my skin like an unanswered question. The door clicked shut behind him, soft as a promise, "I'll wait until you come to me."
I didn't sleep that night.
I couldn't.
Not after what I heard.
Not after what I felt.
At some point, I found myself standing in front of the mirror, staring. Not as a mother, not as a wife, just... as a woman. A woman with flushed cheeks and lips still swollen from biting back moans. A woman whose tits tingled from nothing more than his breath near them, whose pussy was still damp just from the word "cunt."
I never used that word in my entire life, and neither did Sajal, but my son did, right in front of my face. That line played in my head like a curse and a craving.
I had never hated my reflection more, and I had never wanted it touched more. My thighs were slick, my belly was tight, and shame curled low in my stomach like smoke, but so did something darker. Hungrier.
The house was dead quiet. It was 3:17 AM, the hour when all sins feel safer. I walked to his room barefoot. I was no longer just the woman who raised him. I was the woman he wanted. And worse... I wanted to be.
His door was half-open, and he was there, sitting at the edge of the bed, back straight, eyes dark, like he'd been expecting me.
He didn't speak.
Neither did I.
I walked in slowly, each step unhurried, my knee-length nightie rustling around my thighs like a second skin. The fabric clung to me in all the wrong--or right--places, thin and damp from the heat, or maybe from something deeper. The spaghetti straps hung loose on my shoulders, barely holding on, teasing the edge of a fall. It was so tight across my chest that my breasts were clearly outlined--no bra, no hiding, just soft flesh pressing forward with every breath. I could feel the weight of them, the way they bounced slightly with each step, and the way the cool air kissed my skin and made my nipples harden beneath the silk. The room felt too warm... Or maybe I was just burning.
I stopped in front of him as our eyes met, and for a full ten seconds, I let him see everything. Not just the shape of my body, but the truth, the loneliness, and the hunger I had spent years burying under responsibilities, rituals, and silence.
"Come closer," he said.
I obeyed.
Slowly, without a word, I stepped closer until the air between us disappeared. He reached out and touched my waist--firm, possessive--his thumb slipping just beneath the edge of my nightie, pressing gently where the curve of my hip dipped inward. I shivered at the contact, the heat of his skin against mine. The fabric was thin, nearly nothing between us. I was wearing panties--not a thong, but not modest either. Soft, snug, just enough to cover... and maybe not enough to hide.
Then his hand moved--slowly, reverently--to my belly and rested there. It was flat and warm and so sure.
I gasped.
"Right here," he whispered. "This is where I came from."
His eyes met mine. "And now it's the place I want to be inside."
My knees buckled, but he caught me. Then he guided me down, onto his lap, my body trembling, heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. My silk nightie rode up to my upper thighs as I straddled him without thinking, just trying to find relief, to rub the ache away. The soft cotton of his pyjama bottoms pressed against my pussy, separated only by the thin fabric of my panties. The friction sent sparks straight through me, and then his lips were on mine.
He didn't kiss me like a boy. He kissed me like a man who had been starving--aching--for far too long. His mouth crashed into mine with a heat that shocked me, lips parted, tongue already pushing inside as if he couldn't wait to taste what he'd dreamed of. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. It was desperate and raw; the kind of kiss that devours instead of asks. His hands fumbled at my breasts, trembling as they clutched the fabric, fingers curling like he was afraid I might stop him anytime, but I didn't stop him. I didn't even try.
My breath caught in my throat, my body frozen--not in fear, but in surrender. His tongue swept into my mouth again, hungry, almost angry, like he was punishing me for making him wait. And I let him. I let his kiss burn away every rule, every name, every reason. My hands found his shoulders, weak at first, then digging in, dragging him closer, as if we could press ourselves into one single shameful shape.
Breaking the kiss, his face moved down slowly as he pressed his face against my breasts, with his mouth open, breathing me in like I was sacred.
I wasn't.
Not anymore.
He reached up--slowly, deliberately--and slid both straps and shame from my shoulders, and my breasts spilled free--soft, flushed, heavy with breathless need. His eyes didn't blink, nor did they flinch. And I sat on my son's lap, almost naked and burning, as if this unveiling had always been meant for him.
"Ohh, Mom..." He moaned as he took one into his mouth, suckling like a baby and a beast all at once, and my body--my traitorous, eager body--arched into him like it had been waiting for this.
While his tongue was playing with my nipples, his hands slid down to my hips, pulling me closer. The pressure of his dick pressed hard against the soaked fabric between my legs. I could feel the outline, the size, and the heat of him, and my pussy throbbed.
He shifted beneath me, and the tip of it rubbed right against my opening, through my panties, through the wet cotton, just enough, and whispered, "Let me, just the outside. I won't go in. I swear."
I nodded; I didn't know why. Maybe because I was too far gone or maybe because part of me... wanted to know how it would feel.
He hooked a finger under the edge of my panties and pulled the damp fabric aside, slow and deliberate, until the cool air kissed my bare, swollen pussy. Then, his fingers touched me. Just barely. Just enough. The tips of them brushed along my folds, slick and throbbing, and I nearly collapsed from the feeling. My breath hitched. The touch was light, reverent, but it sent a shockwave through me--like my whole body was made of nerves and he'd found the center of them all. A sound escaped me before I could stop it--"Ahhh..."--soft, broken, too honest. I moaned again, quieter this time, as heat bloomed low in my belly. I had never felt more exposed... or more blissfully weak.
Then he slid the thick, swollen head of his dick between my soaked lips--not inside, just over--dragging it through the slippery mess of my pussy. Up... down... slow... again.
"Uhhhhnn..." I moaned, sharp and helpless, hips jerking forward without permission. My pussy clenched around nothing, desperate, starving for him.
"Ahhh... fuck," I gasped, head falling backward on the bed as he kept stroking over me--teasing, gliding, coating himself in everything I couldn't hold back. The pressure was maddening. The friction... wet, obscene, perfect. Sticky sounds filled the room--skin on skin, the soft suck of my folds kissing his shaft. It was filthy. It was unbearable. Yet, it was divine.
Every pass made me twitch and shake. I could feel my slick leaking down my thighs, soaking his pyjama bottoms. I whimpered, "Please... please just--" but I didn't finish the sentence. I didn't need to, because his breath hitched, his grip on my hips tightened, and with a broken groan, "F-fuck, Mom..." he collapsed on top of me and came.
Ropes of cum spilled across my pussy, hot and thick, coating my thighs, my belly, his hands, and the space between our sins. He buried his face again between my breasts, panting, gasping, and whispering. "I love you, Mom... I love you..."
And all I could do was hold him tight with fierceness and desperation, as if holding him would make this right, as if love could ever fix something so beautifully broken.
We stayed like that, tangled in silence, his cheek pressed between my breasts, his hand cradling the back of my head like he didn't want to let go. I don't know how long we lay there, breathing together in the dark. But somewhere between guilt and exhaustion, sleep found us. Not peaceful. Not innocent. But real.
Shame prefers to rise before dawn, doesn't it?
The room smelled of warm cotton, dried cum, and something far more dangerous--satisfaction. I touched the edge of my nightie, barely hanging on my waist. My pussy was exposed and sticky between my thighs, my breasts sore from his mouth, his worship. My lips tingled, my heart... did not know what to feel.
The light outside was soft. A dull gray before sunrise. I could hear the faint chirp of birds, the world pretending everything was fine, but inside this room, inside this body... nothing was fine. Everything was too quiet. Except for me, I was a storm behind still skin.
I stood slowly, legs sore from where I had straddled him, thighs streaked with his cum, dried along my inner curves like invisible fingerprints--evidence of what we'd done. Of what I'd let happen.
I went to the bathroom and locked the door. Like I always do. But this time... I didn't undress right away.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
Hair tangled.
Neck blotched with love bites.
A faint smudge of white just below my navel.
My fingers drifted lower, tracing the path of memory... until they found the spot where his dick had slid along me. Just the tip. Just enough. Not inside. Not quite.
And still, my body responded.
I clenched.
I leaked.
Even now.
Even after.
What does that say about me?
The water was cold. I didn't turn on the heater.
I stood under the shower and let it sting me back into reality. I didn't cry. But my throat ached like I had. Like the sobs had stayed buried somewhere just behind my tongue.
I scrubbed hard, my belly, my thighs, and right between my tits, where his mouth had lingered. But no matter how raw my skin turned, no matter how much I washed, I couldn't erase the feeling--
Of being wanted.
Of being seen.
Of finally... letting go.
When I came out, wrapped in a towel, the house still slept. His room was closed. I didn't knock. He needed space. So did I. But my heart... It pounded every time I walked past that door.
Was he awake?
Was he ashamed?
Did he regret it?
Would he want more?
Did I?
I made tea that morning with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Every clink of the spoon felt louder than it should have, echoing in the silence, accusing me. I wore a flower-printed frock, soft cotton, below the knee, a bra and panties beneath, and hair tied back.
Not for modesty.
Not for neatness.
For distance.
When he finally emerged around 10, I was pretending to read the newspaper. My hands trembled slightly as I turned the page, the words blurring, unread. He stood at the doorway--barefoot, quiet--but didn't say a word. Just watched me.
And I looked back.
Our eyes met.
No smiles.
No apologies.
But everything passed between us.
The memory of my hips grinding over his lap.
The way he had moaned my name like a sacred word.
The way I had let him spill all of himself over me without stopping him.
And more than all that--
The truth was that we had both wanted it.
Not just in body.
But in the deepest, loneliest corners of ourselves.
"Mom," he finally said with his cracking voice.
I looked up as he asked, "Do you... hate me?"
My eyes filled as I stood and walked over. And without saying anything, I cupped his cheek, kissed his forehead, and whispered, "I don't know what I feel, son, but I don't hate you."
And that... was the truth. The messy, aching, dangerous truth. The kind that doesn't leave bruises, just lingers--in the body, in the silence.
That day passed like a dream wrapped in guilt. We didn't touch again--but our eyes did. Our silence did. Every glance was heavy, thick with memory. And still, my pussy throbbed when I thought of his hands on my waist, the way his fingers had bruised against my pussy lips, and how he'd moved my panties aside just enough to grind his dick against my soaked, swollen flesh. But the want--the want was still pulsing inside me, long after his touch had gone.
Some sins don't scream. They whisper. They curl around your ankles at night, slide into your dreams, and wake you up soaked, aching, and afraid. But also... alive. And I'd rather feel alive than lonely. Even if it means waking up in his arms again.
Three days passed.
Three whole days of pretending the world was still the same, pretending nothing had happened between us.
I went back to routines as I made his food, folded his clothes, and called him son, like it didn't burn my tongue every time it passed my lips, and yet... every night, as I lay on the bed, the memory of his dick sliding along my wet pussy haunted me like a ghost I didn't want to exorcise. I still hadn't touched myself--not since that night, as if keeping my hands away from my body would somehow make me pure again.
It didn't.
It just made the ache sharper and more dangerous.
On the third night, the power went out.
Just as I'd feared it would--July's humidity thick, swollen with thunder. There was no fan, no light, and no distractions. The house was silent. Then I heard a faint sound of feet in the dining room.
I lit a single candle and walked into the hallway. There he was--Sabuj, standing in the dark, gazing out through the balcony window. Shirtless. His cotton pyjama pants hung low on his hips, and his bare chest gleamed in the flicker of flame.
Sensing me, he turned.
I didn't meet his eyes. Mine had already dropped to his stomach, that soft trail of hair, the place I had watched cum drip across just three nights earlier.
I looked away.
"Hot, isn't it?" he asked softly.
I nodded, swallowing. Tried to act casual. "Hmm?"
"I meant the weather," he clarified, voice low. "The darkness. The way the air clings to the skin..."
And then I said it--more mother than woman in that moment, "Come sleep in my room tonight. It's closer to the window."
But my woman's instinct screamed I shouldn't have, but it was too late; his feet were already moving.
As he passed, I felt that ache again, that tingle between my thighs like something recognizing itself.
The bed was small and messy, and there was only one pillow. He crawled onto the other side, near the open window where the breeze had pushed the curtains back, a fine drizzle wetting the sheets.
He took the pillow and patted the corner. I blew out the candle, set it beside the bed, and lay down facing the wall.
We were close, but not touching.
Not at first.
Then I felt it, just his fingertips, slowly tracing the curve of my hip, over the silk, like he was memorizing me again. My nightie was thin and low-thigh level, and it had ridden up slightly.
I held my breath when he whispered, "You're shaking, Mom."
"I'm not," I whispered back.
He chuckled softly. "Liar."
Then he gently pulled me to face him.
I rolled over slowly as his hand slid up my waist--not greedy, just there, testing, waiting.
I didn't stop him; I didn't breathe; I just let him touch.
My nightie was loose, and I was wearing nothing underneath but panties. He slipped his fingers under the hem and brushed the under-curve of one breast.
I gasped while his eyes darkened as he murmured, "You're not wearing a bra."
"It's hot," I whispered, though I wasn't sure if I meant the weather anymore.
He said it again. Lower. "Liar."
And then--crack--a sudden lightning strike split the sky outside, bright and violent. A breath later, the rain came crashing down, drumming against the windows in wild rhythm, and in that moment, as if something in him snapped with the storm, he kissed me.
I closed my eyes as our lips met--it wasn't like the first time. Not shy. Not rushed. This kiss was slower, deeper, and hungrier. Like he meant it.
His mouth pressed hard against mine, lips parted, and then his tongue slid deep, claiming. Tasting. Raw. Passionate. His kiss said all the things we couldn't speak.
I kissed him back, harder and needier. My one hand tangled in his hair, the other clutched his shoulder like he was the only thing anchoring me to the only real thing in that storm.
He sucked the breath right out of me like he needed it more than I did--like he could live off the taste of my guilt. And then... his hand moved.
Downward.
To the edge of my panties.
His fingertips grazed the seam, close enough to make me tremble but far enough to drive me mad. My thighs tightened, desperate for him to do more--anything.
His fingers teased. Traced. Tested. He knew. He knew what he was doing now.
My hips betrayed me, tilting toward him, desperate for more--for anything. But he didn't move. His touch stayed light, maddening, and possessive. Like he knew I was melting. Like he wanted to stretch that ache until I broke.
My thighs clenched automatically, and I whimpered against his mouth, soft and helpless. "Umm..."
He chuckled softly against my lips and whispered, "Your heart's pounding."
I nodded, breathless.
"So is your cunt."
He kissed me again. Slower now. Deeper. Like he was savouring me. Like I was the secret flavour he'd never forget.
My body trembled, ached as my hands reached under his pyjama and found his dick--thick, hot, waiting. I wrapped my fingers around it like I'd been waiting a lifetime. He groaned into my mouth, but I didn't stroke. Not yet.
Instead, I guided it between my thighs and pressed it between my pussy lips, through the soaked cotton of my panties.
Then, he broke the kiss, and without a word, he shifted his weight and climbed on top of me.
My breath caught. My thighs parted instinctively.
I thought he would pull off my nightie.
He just hovered there, looking down at me. I could sense power in his eyes--power to dominate me, in his breath, in the way he didn't even need to move to make me throb.
"If you want something from me..." he said softly, confidently, "You're going to have to ask for it."
Right then, lightning cracked outside--sharp and sudden. For a brief second, it lit up my face for him, like nature itself wanted him to see me. But the thunder hadn't come yet.
No. The real thunder had already struck--inside me. His words hit something deeper than sound. And between my legs, I felt it: that exquisite weakness, that fluttering, shameful warmth.
But it wasn't just my body this time--my mind, my soul, all of me.
I wanted him.
I wanted to give in.
I wanted to surrender to him.
I wanted to obey him.
I wanted to serve him.
I wanted to feel his control wrap around me like a storm I couldn't outrun.
My voice trembled--soft, almost shy, but no longer unsure. "I... I want you," I whispered, my eyes not leaving his.
He reacted as if this--this very moment--was what he had been waiting for all along.
Without a word, he slipped down from on top of me and moved to the edge of the bed, settling between my legs.
He kissed my ankle first, then his mouth found my calf. Soft. Reverent. Then he moved upward--his breath brushing against my skin, his lips burning a trail across the soft curve of my thigh. My stomach fluttered, my legs tensed, and my breath caught halfway to a moan. I was clenching without meaning to--my body already anticipating, already needing. My nightie had already ridden up to my waist, exposing everything just above my navel. When his mouth reached there--his lips brushing the trembling skin of my belly--I stopped breathing.
And then... he kissed my navel.
The thunder finally cracked.
Outside... and inside me.
It was the first time anyone had ever kissed me there, and it shattered something tender and untouched. My eyes fluttered shut. My head tipped back.
"Oh God... I want you, Sabuj," I whimpered--babbling, breathless, barely myself.
He didn't stop; his tongue traced slow circles on my lower abdomen, dipping toward the curve of my waist. His hands brushed my thighs, feather-light, and I shivered.
Then he moved lower, his mouth hovering above my panties, and he kissed there, deep, sinful, deliberate. While his tongue licked my groin, his fingers curled under my waistband.
I gasped.
One of my hands tangled in his hair, helpless. The other clawed the bedsheet, searching for something to anchor me as he peeled my panties down, inch by aching inch. I lifted my hips for him without a word. I offered myself--open, bare, wet--with nothing but a breathy moan.
My panties slipped past my knees.
All of a sudden, he dove between my thighs--like he couldn't wait another second. His hands slid under my hips, lifting me toward his mouth like I was dessert and he'd been starving, and then he began to lick me--here, there, everywhere--his tongue wild, hungry, messy.
I gasped, not from pleasure, but from surprise. He was so eager... but so inexperienced.
My clit twitched beneath his clumsy enthusiasm, and I couldn't help but smile. Then I ran my fingers through his hair, gently pressing him back. "Slow down, honey," I murmured, breath catching in my throat. "There's no rush. Work slow... steady..."
He paused, looking up at me with such raw need, it made my heart ache.
"Here," I whispered, guiding him with my hands. "Start with my labia... soft little licks. Tease me, don't devour me."
He obeyed, tentative at first--his tongue flicking along the outer folds, brushing my labia like he was testing the texture of pleasure.
I moaned softly, "Yes... like that..."
Then I tilted my hips, offering him more, "Now... kiss my clit, slow circles, use your tongue like you're tasting honey..."
He did.
And I whimpered. My body responded instantly--hips lifting, thighs trembling.
I guided him further, curling his fingers against the tender flesh near my pussy, "Don't be afraid to touch... use your hands on me..."
He was a quick learner.
Within seconds, he found his rhythm--small, deliberate licks on my clit, the tip of his tongue dancing exactly where I needed it most. My hips responded on instinct, pressing into his mouth. He was hungry... and I was offering everything. But soon, I felt him start to tire. His rhythm faltered, his tongue slower now, almost trembling. So I whispered, breathless and aching, "Slide one finger inside me."
And he did.
My breath hitched the moment he entered me. I clenched around him--wet, ready, aching--and soaked his finger instantly. He looked stunned by what he felt inside, as I just moaned, "Oh God... yes... yes, baby... now go faster..."
And he did.
His finger began moving--slow at first, then more eager, pressing deep. But then I felt it--another finger pressing against my entrance. He slid the second one in, stretching me, filling me, completely. I gasped, my walls tightening instinctively. "Sabuj..." I cried out--his name on my lips like a prayer, a warning, a surrender. "Please don't... oh God... I'm so full..."
My mouth said no, but my body... my mind... my moans--they begged him not to stop.
He didn't.
He stroked his fingers inside me, rough, curling, learning my every tender spot. His palm brushed my clit as he pumped into my pussy, and my body shook from the overload. And then I broke; my thighs trembled, and my voice cracked.
I clutched the bedsheet, knuckles white, moaning into the storm. The thunder outside crashed in sync with the thunder building inside me. And then--release.
My first cum of the night spilled from me--raw, loud, helpless.
But he kept going, like he didn't know where the waves of the ocean ended. My body kept twitching, so sensitive now it bordered on too much. I gasped, pressing my thighs together, trying to trap the ache and quiet the tremble. I reached for his hands, wrapping my fingers around his wrist with a giggle, "P-please... stop, honey."
Another lightning flash tore across the sky--sharp, blue-white, illuminating the room in brief, electric clarity. He looked up from between my thighs, unsure, his lips glistening with my cum, his fingers still twitching against my soaked skin. I was flushed, trembling, still panting from the orgasm he'd just pulled from me, but in that light, he looked... lost. Like he didn't know what to do next. So, I reached for him, whispering through the hum of rain, "Come here... kiss Mommy."
He didn't hesitate.
He let go of my hips and crawled up, his body sliding against mine, warm skin meeting warmer skin, both of us slick from the heat, the sweat, and the storm.
When our lips met--God--it wasn't gentle.
It was hungry.
His mouth claimed mine, and I moaned softly into him, tasting myself on his tongue. The faint sweetness of my pussy lingered on his lips, and I licked them just to feel it again. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, and his hands found my neckline... the loose fabric of my nightie clinging to my chest. He tugged it down slowly, fingers grazing my collarbone, then the dip between my breasts.
The kiss deepened, his tongue slid past mine, and I melted into him, sighing. Outside, the thunder rolled again, low and guttural, matching the ache building back inside me. Then his lips broke from mine and began to travel.
My jaw.
My neck.
My throat.
His soft, reverent kisses down the slope of me, as though he were tracing a path to something sacred. And when he reached the edge of my nightie, he tugged it lower, slipping it completely off my shoulders, letting it pool at my waist.
I was naked now, top to bottom--my bare skin glowing in the flickering stormlight.
He paused. He looked at me--really looked. Then he lowered his head... and kissed my left tit. A low, desperate moan escaped me as I pulled him closer.
He suckled my nipple, warm and wet and perfect. Then he bit down--gently, teasing--and I gasped, clutching the back of his neck.
"Mmm... yesss..." I breathed, arching into his mouth. My hand slid downward, between our bodies, and I found his dick, still semi-hard, still awakening.
I stroked him slowly, lazily, my fingers curling around him like I was cradling a secret. And in that moment, with thunder overhead and him suckling my chest while I played with his length...
I didn't feel like a woman.
I felt like a ritual.
Like a storm goddess being worshipped.
I felt his dick hardening in my grip, warm and twitching with each pulse of his breath. So I smiled softly against his cheek, then whispered, "Lie back for me, baby..."
He blinked, surprised, but obeyed. I pushed him gently onto his back. His body was tense, rainlight flickering on his skin. I straddled him, feeling the power shift--not as control, but as an offering. I wanted to adore him, make him feel how much I craved this... craved him.
I leaned forward and kissed his neck, collarbone, chest, leaving a little trail of heat over the firm lines of his torso. God... he was beautiful. Young, strong, but still vulnerable beneath my touch. My mouth followed his skin down, licking his nipples, grazing my teeth across his chest until he gasped.
I smiled.
Then I lowered myself to his stomach, dragging my tongue along his navel, swirling it deep just to tease. By now, his breathing had changed. He wasn't just waiting, he was aching.
I kissed lower, tugging his pants down slowly. He lifted his hips to help, and I slid them off, revealing him completely. He was already throbbing. His dick pointed up, flushed and heavy, waiting for me, but I wasn't done teasing. I kissed his thighs first, soft, worshipful. Then licked his balls, gently pulling one into my mouth, rolling it across my tongue as he moaned aloud.
And then--finally--I kissed the tip.
It was already leaking pre-cum. I tasted it with a flick of my tongue, then circled the head slowly, deliberately. Then I took him into my mouth.
"F-fuck..." he breathed.
I sucked him slowly, wet and sloppy. My lips sealed around his shaft, sliding down inch by inch while my hand stroked the base. My spit mixed with his pre-cum, dribbling down my chin. I made it messy--on purpose--because I knew he loved the sound, the sight, the surrender.
He moaned louder as his hips twitched, but I wasn't done yet.
I climbed back up and pressed my soaked boobs around his shaft, slipping them up and down, squeezing gently, stroking him between my soft, slick skin. The rain had begun blowing in from the open window. He reached up, yanked the curtain closed--but I barely noticed.
We were both already drenched, and then... he gasped. Shuddered. I looked down just in time to see his face twist--his body jolt--and then he spilled. Hot cum shot across my boobs, coating them with thick ropes of white, so much.
It dripped down my chest, my belly, sticky and warm.
I looked at him, panting, and slowly scooped a finger through the mess, lifting it to my mouth, and I licked it clean, slowly and seductively. His eyes went wide as I whispered with a smirk. "Delicious!"
"Fuck, you licked it clean?" he asked, like he still couldn't believe his own mother would do something like that.
It was my first time, and honestly, it tasted awful. But I wanted to sound bold, slutty, his. So I shrugged, licking my lips dramatically. "I wish I could get some directly from the source," I said, eyes gleaming.
He didn't reply, not with words. Instead, he sat up, back against the window, the thunder still rattling faintly in the background. Then he grabbed my face--fingers tangled roughly in my hair--and pulled me close. His dick was already hardening again, rising between us, twitching against my collarbone, he didn't even hesitate and ordered, "Open your mouth, mother!"
I crawled toward him like a cat in heat, eyes locked on his, and asked, teasingly, "You can go again?"
His lips curled. "My highest is seven."
I blinked. Seven?
Before I could say another word, he was already guiding the swollen, slick tip against my lips. I opened up instinctively, my mouth parting like it was made for him, but this time--this time--he didn't let me lead. His hands gripped the back of my head, firm and possessive, fingers tangled deep in my hair, and then he began to thrust. At first, slow... teasing... as if testing the limits of my obedience, but soon, he grew bolder, deeper, and rougher. I gagged softly as he hit the back of my throat, my eyes pricking with tears, saliva already slicking my lips. But I didn't pull away. I let it happen.
No--I took it.
He used my mouth like he owned it, and for more than fifteen relentless minutes, he kept going. There were no breaks, no mercy at all. Just wet, filthy rhythm--his hips grinding forward again and again while I gasped and whimpered around him, my jaw aching, drool spilling down my chin.
Each thrust made me feel smaller, needier. His groans got deeper. His control got crueller. And still, I stayed. I let him fuck my mouth like a hole he didn't have to ask for. He growled low, primal, possessive--"That's it. Take it. Take everything."
My hands clawed at his thighs, but my throat opened wider, adjusting to him as I looked up at him, glistening, needy.
"Good girl..." he groaned. His words made me moan; the vibration of it made him shudder.
"I'm gonna cum," he growled. "Swallow it. All of it, Mommy."
And then he did. His hot cum exploded into my throat. I choked for a moment, caught off guard by the force of it, but I didn't stop.
I drank every single drop of it.
When he was done, he pulled out slowly, watching as I opened my mouth to show him--empty.
He grinned.
Proud.
Wicked.
I coughed softly, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and whispered, "Did Mommy do good?"
I was still panting when he pulled me up, his hands strong under my arms. My nightie had slipped halfway down to my waist, soaked and clinging to my skin. My panties were dangling around one ankle like a forgotten ribbon of shame.
He kissed me, deep, tongue heavy, tasting himself on my lips. I moaned into his mouth as his fingers grazed my nipples, still sticky from his cum. He commanded with his hoarse voice, "Lie down,"
"But--"
He cut me off with another kiss, pushing me down gently onto the mattress. Rain pattered against the window as he climbed over me, his body a silhouette against the lightning.
I was naked.
Exposed.
Shivering, but not from cold, as his fingers moved down, slipping between my thighs. "So wet," he murmured. "Did sucking me do this?"
I nodded, lips parted. "Yes..."
He smirked. Then leaned in close, "Say it."
I blushed. "Sucking your dick made my pussy drip."
But he wasn't satisfied, as his hand gripped my chin, his thumb sliding over my bottom lip as he growled, "Say the word. Cunt, whore."
The sound of it--cunt--hit something deep inside me. It was crude, filthy... but the way he said it? It cracked open something primal. The thunder outside was nothing compared to the storm that word ignited inside me, and I whimpered, my body trembling. "Yes--cunt. My cunt. Your cunt..."
I was panting now, rubbing my thighs together like a needy bitch in heat. "Sucking your dick made my cunt drip, baby. Now please--please fuck me..."
His eyes flared, and without any warning, he reached down, gripped the soaked panty around my ankle, and slowly pulled it off--slowly, deliberately, as if claiming a prize. His fingers slid up my calf as he did, making me shiver.
Then, he brought it to my mouth. "Open."
I hesitated. My cheeks flushed crimson, and my heart pounded.
He smirked at my hesitation, brushing the damp fabric against my lips. "You want my dick inside you or not?"
His voice was low, dark, and sinful. Teasing me with exactly what I needed.
I had no choice. Desperate and dizzy with need, I opened my mouth. He slid it in--slow, firm, relentless--stuffing my own soaked panties between my lips until I could taste myself. I moaned into the cloth, my body arched, and my shame ignited.
And then I felt it.
The thick, hot tip of his dick, nudging right against my aching, soaked cunt. I whimpered around the gag, hips lifting on their own, trying to take him in--anything to feel him, but he just hovered. "Beg for it, slut."
I couldn't speak. So I whimpered louder. Desperate.
He rubbed himself along my folds, slow and cruel. "Look at you," he murmured, "so ready to be filled."
Then, he thrust deep and hard.
All at once.
My back arched, and a scream caught in my throat. His hands pinned my wrists above my head as he started moving--slow strokes at first, dragging against my soaked walls.
Then faster.
Harder.
My breasts bounced with every thrust, slick from his earlier cum, now smearing against his chest. He grunted with every motion; his eyes locked on my face.
"You feel that?" he panted. "That's me--fucking you, it's what you asked for, Mommy-Slut."
I moaned, the fabric in my mouth muffling everything but the raw need. He kept going, his hips slapping against my thighs, the sound drowned by thunder. My legs wrapped around him, locking him inside.
And still--he fucked me. Unrelenting. Until I broke. My body seized beneath him, back arching in helpless surrender. I screamed around my panties, eyes rolling back, chest heaving, as my cunt clenched down hard around his thick dick, my pussy was tightening, gripping, and squeezing his dick rhythmically. The pleasure wasn't just overwhelming--it was annihilating.
Right as the tremors racked through me, I felt him slow, then pull the panties out from between my teeth--wet and crumpled--and press his mouth close to my ear and whispered, "Where do you want my cum, slut?"
I barely had time to inhale. My mouth opened with instinct, not thought. "Inside," I gasped. "I want you to cum inside."
He grunted, but didn't give in yet. "Beg," he said darkly. "Beg, slut."
And then he thrust again--hard, deep, right into the aching core of my cunt. It knocked the breath out of me. I couldn't hold still anymore. My hips bucked, legs trembled, and body quivered beneath him as I babbled without control. "Please! Cum in me! I want it, need it, need to feel it, make me yours, baby, fill me, make me drip with you--please--"
And then it happened.
I felt it. That first thick, deep twitch. Then another.
He groaned, loud and ragged, collapsing slightly over me as his warmth spilled inside--pulse after pulse--hot, heavy, and endless. I moaned beneath him, drunk on the fullness, on the heat, on the claim. And even though it was over... I didn't want him to pull out.
Not yet.
He stayed inside me for a long time after.
Soft now. Warm. Breathing with me.
His head on my breast.
My hand in his hair.
The fan turned above us.
The world kept spinning.
But we were still.
Together.
To be Continued...