The Kansas night was thick and heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth and distant lightning, a humid blanket that pressed against the windows of the old Kent farmhouse. Inside, however, the heat was of a different, more primal kind. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat, the only sounds the rhythmic, wet slap of flesh against flesh and the desperate, keening cries tearing from Martha Kent's throat.
Jason Kent, son of a god and a demigoddess, heir to two worlds, drove into his grandmother with the relentless, powerful rhythm of a piston. His hands, capable of shattering mountains, were clamped on her generous hips, fingers digging into the soft, yielding flesh of her 51-year-old ass, pulling her back onto him with each brutal thrust. Her body, still strong and full from a life of farm work, jiggled and shook with the force of his possession.
"OhgodohgodOHGOD, Jason!" Martha screamed, her voice a ragged, broken thing, muffled by the pillow she had buried her face in. Her back was arched, a beautiful, painful curve, her fingers clawing at the worn floral bedsheets her own hands had sewn decades ago.
"That's it, Grandma," Jason grunted, his voice a low, guttural rumble that vibrated through her very bones. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her sweaty back, his lips finding her ear. "Scream for me. Let the whole damn county know who's fucking you."
The thought, the sheer blasphemous taboo of it, sent another violent shudder through him, tightening his grip. This was Martha Kent. The woman who had changed his diapers, who had read him stories about brave astronauts while his own father, the Man of Steel, was off saving galaxies. She'd bandaged his scraped knees with hands that now gripped the headboard for dear life. She was his anchor to this simple, human world, the only constant in a life destined for chaos.
And he was ruining her. Ruining her in the most delicious, depraved way imaginable.
His mind, a reincarnated soul from a mundane modern world where such things were only feverish fantasies on illicit websites, reveled in the surreal reality. He remembered his past life—a forgettable existence of office cubicles and cheap instant noodles. He'd died in some meaningless accident, and then… rebirth. Not as just anyone, but as the son of Superman and Wonder Woman. The knowledge had been a slow-dawning sun in his infant mind, a cosmic joke of epic proportions. The power, the potential, the sheer *scale* of his existence was intoxicating.
But so were the women.
His mother, Diana, was a vision of divine perfection—an Amazonian queen with legs that went on for eternity and a regal bearing that made his inner pervert weep with longing. But she was always away, a warrior-diplomat for a world that constantly teetered on the brink. His father, Kal-El, had left when Jason was barely walking, called away on some universe-ending crisis from which he never returned. They were legends, myths, absentee parents who had left him in the care of a mortal woman.
A mortal woman who, at fifty-one, had a body that could make a saint forsake his vows.
It had started subtly. Lingering glances at the way her jeans hugged her hips when she bent over to weed the garden. The way her blouse stretched across her back when she reached for a can on the top shelf. The casual, innocent touches that began to send electric jolts through his Kryptonian-hybrid system. He was sixteen, brimming with powers he was still learning to control and a libido forged in the fires of two lifetimes of pent-up desire, all focused on the one woman who was always there.
He'd used his speed, his stealth, to watch her. In the shower, the steam clinging to her mature curves. As she dressed, her reflection in the mirror a study in soft, experienced beauty. He knew it was wrong, a violation of the deepest trusts. But the thrill was like a drug. He was the son of Superman, and he wanted what he wanted. And he wanted *her*.
The culmination had been tonight. A storm brewing, the air charged with ozone and tension. She'd been worried about him, she said. He'd been distant. She'd come to his room, wearing nothing but a thin cotton nightgown, the outline of her body a tantalizing shadow against the fabric. One touch, one whispered confession from him—"I can't stop thinking about you, Grandma. All of you."—and the dam had broken.
Now, there was no pretense, no guilt, only the raw, pounding reality of their joining.
"J-Jason, baby, please… it's too much," Martha sobbed, but her hips bucked backward, meeting his thrusts with a desperate hunger of their own. Her body was betraying a lifetime of propriety, welcoming the sinful pleasure her grandson was unleashing upon it.
"No, it's not," he growled, his voice dripping with possessive lust. He shifted his angle slightly, driving up and in, seeking that spot deep inside her that made her see stars. "This is what you need. What we both need. Tell me you don't love my cock splitting you open, Grandma."
He emphasized the title, making it a filthy endearment, a brand of their shared sin. The word 'Grandma' falling from his lips in this context was the most potent aphrodisiac he'd ever known.
"Ah! AH! *FUCK!*" she shrieked as he found his mark, her body seizing up, her inner walls clenching around his length like a vise. "Yes! Oh, God, yes, I love it! I'm a terrible, wicked woman!"
"You're my woman," he corrected her, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, the bedframe groaning in protest against the superhuman force. The headboard slammed against the wall with a steady, percussive *THUMP-THUMP-THUMP* that was surely echoing through the quiet house. He didn't care. Let the neighbors hear. Let the world know that Jason Kent, the last son of Krypton and Themyscira, was claiming his birthright in the most primal way possible.
His mind wandered even as his body worked its savage rhythm. Diana. His mother. The ultimate MILF. The thought of her—that fierce, beautiful, untouchable goddess—spread out beneath him, her divine strength no match for his own, her regal composure shattered into a million pleasured pieces… it was a fantasy that fueled his darkest, most private moments. He would have her. One day. He would have all of them. Lois Lane, with her sharp wit and reporter's tenacity, begging for his touch. Maybe even Talia al Ghul, a different kind of mature beauty, deadly and refined. He was a collector, and his collection would be the most powerful, desirable mature women in the entire universe. This was just the beginning. Martha was his training ground, his proof of concept.
"I'm… I'm gonna… Jason, I'm coming!" Martha wailed, her voice cracking with the intensity of her climax. Her body went rigid, then convulsed violently, a long, drawn-out scream of pure, unadulterated ecstasy tearing from her lungs. "OOOHHHHGGGOOODDDD YEEESSSS!"
The feel of her climax, the way her cunt milked his cock, triggered his own. With a final, deep, grinding thrust that buried him to the hilt inside her, he let go. A raw, animalistic roar ripped from his throat, a sound that was more Kryptonian beast than human boy.
"NNNGGGHHH! Take it! Take all of it, Grandma!" he snarled, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself deep inside her, pulse after hot, thick pulse, filling her, marking her as his in the most fundamental way possible.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged, gasping breaths and the gentle patter of rain beginning to fall outside. The storm had finally broken. Jason stayed buried inside her, his weight resting on her, feeling the frantic beat of her heart against his chest slowly begin to calm. He nuzzled her neck, inhaling the scent of her perfume mixed with the musk of their coupling.
Martha was limp beneath him, utterly spent. She turned her head, her cheek resting on the damp pillow, her eyes glassy with tears and satiation. "What have we done, Jason?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.
He smiled, a slow, predatory, deeply satisfied smile. He pulled out slowly, making her gasp at the sensitivity, and rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so she lay sprawled across his chest. His hand idly stroked the curve of her hip, possessively.
"We've done what we both wanted," he said, his voice calm, certain. He looked down at her, at the flushed skin, the sweat-dampened hair, the look of bewildered bliss on her face. "And we're going to keep doing it. Every night. In this bed, in your bed, in the barn, wherever I want you."
He cupped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. There was no remorse in his eyes, only dark, burning ownership. "You're mine now, Martha. You've always been mine. You just didn't know it."
She stared at him, and he saw the conflict in her eyes—the shame, the fear, warring with the undeniable, life-altering pleasure he had just given her. The pleasure he could give her again and again. She was trapped, not by him, but by her own awakened desires.
Outside, the rain fell harder, washing the world clean. But inside the Kent farmhouse, something new and darkly beautiful had been born, something that could never be washed away. Jason held his grandmother close, his mind already racing ahead, plotting, desiring. This was only the first chapter. The story of his lust was just beginning, and it would be an epic.