[Various Artists] Mother Son Love

Mom-Son Anal

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The woman knew, a long time ago, that she needed to take a firm stance.

When the inappropriate stares began—not the clumsy glances of a son, but greedy, lingering stares. She had told herself that this was flattering, that it was harmless. When his eyes—which closely resembled her father’s in shape but burned with a fire her father had long since forgotten—began to trace the neckline of her bathrobe.

Or when, with a completely feigned innocence, she asked for kissing lessons with her big brown eyes. “Just so I don’t embarrass myself in college.” That first lie had left a sweet, sticky taste on her tongue. Just a lesson—it was for her own good.

Or during those “lessons,” when those strong, skilled hands—no longer those of a son—began to explore the geography of her body. First her waist. Then the helpless curve of her back. Then lower still. Each touch was a new boundary crossed, a new line in the sand erased by the waves of her own shocking, shameful hunger.

But she never did that.

Loneliness and neglect, it turned out, were an explosive cocktail. Her husband was a brilliant man. A visionary. She and her husband’s son were merely pleasant decorative elements in the entryway. Her husband was more in love with his work than with the living, breathing woman in his bed.

Fortunately, his intelligence didn’t extend far enough to detect the lies.

Ah, those lies. They kept piling up like dirty laundry. “She’s just going through a phase.” “We’re strengthening our bond before she goes to college.” The lies were the mortar holding their world together.

And now.

Now, the woman’s body was pinned beneath him. The room reeked of sweat, salt, and sin. His mouth was on her neck, his hips on her bed, moving to a rhythm he’d learned from her body. A sharp, shameful pleasure gripped her insides tightly; like a spring about to snap.

The woman’s mind was like a broken record spinning wildly. This is so wrong. Don’t…

“Don’t,” she gasped, the word tearing from her throat. “Don’t come inside me…”

It was less a command than a weak, ritualistic plea—the last flamboyant remnant of her conscience. She felt the tension coiling in her hips, responding recklessly. This was just another boundary, wasn’t it? And he had made a habit of crossing every boundary she set.

“Maybe this time,” a clear, cold voice whispers from within the mist of pleasure. “Maybe this time, you really should be resolute. After all, today is definitely your ovulation day.”

This thought was sharp, clear, and terrifying. He needed to snap out of it. He needed to push it away.

Yet this thought sent a final, devastating shockwave of pure, forbidden fire through her. Her back arched—not to pull away from it, but toward it. And when she felt its forbidden seed filling her defenseless womb, her own climax was like an earthquake, an ecstatic apocalypse shaking her bones.

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BiraAdam said:
The woman knew, a long time ago, that she needed to take a firm stance.

When the inappropriate stares began—not the clumsy glances of a son, but greedy, lingering stares. She had told herself that this was flattering, that it was harmless. When his eyes—which closely resembled her father’s in shape but burned with a fire her father had long since forgotten—began to trace the neckline of her bathrobe.

Or when, with a completely feigned innocence, she asked for kissing lessons with her big brown eyes. “Just so I don’t embarrass myself in college.” That first lie had left a sweet, sticky taste on her tongue. Just a lesson—it was for her own good.

Or during those “lessons,” when those strong, skilled hands—no longer those of a son—began to explore the geography of her body. First her waist. Then the helpless curve of her back. Then lower still. Each touch was a new boundary crossed, a new line in the sand erased by the waves of her own shocking, shameful hunger.

But she never did that.

Loneliness and neglect, it turned out, were an explosive cocktail. Her husband was a brilliant man. A visionary. She and her husband’s son were merely pleasant decorative elements in the entryway. Her husband was more in love with his work than with the living, breathing woman in his bed.

Fortunately, his intelligence didn’t extend far enough to detect the lies.

Ah, those lies. They kept piling up like dirty laundry. “She’s just going through a phase.” “We’re strengthening our bond before she goes to college.” The lies were the mortar holding their world together.

And now.

Now, the woman’s body was pinned beneath him. The room reeked of sweat, salt, and sin. His mouth was on her neck, his hips on her bed, moving to a rhythm he’d learned from her body. A sharp, shameful pleasure gripped her insides tightly; like a spring about to snap.

The woman’s mind was like a broken record spinning wildly. This is so wrong. Don’t…

“Don’t,” she gasped, the word tearing from her throat. “Don’t come inside me…”

It was less a command than a weak, ritualistic plea—the last flamboyant remnant of her conscience. She felt the tension coiling in her hips, responding recklessly. This was just another boundary, wasn’t it? And he had made a habit of crossing every boundary she set.

“Maybe this time,” a clear, cold voice whispers from within the mist of pleasure. “Maybe this time, you really should be resolute. After all, today is definitely your ovulation day.”

This thought was sharp, clear, and terrifying. He needed to snap out of it. He needed to push it away.

Yet this thought sent a final, devastating shockwave of pure, forbidden fire through her. Her back arched—not to pull away from it, but toward it. And when she felt its forbidden seed filling her defenseless womb, her own climax was like an earthquake, an ecstatic apocalypse shaking her bones.

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Outstanding. Inceedible art and story. Thanks u very much 4 sharing. Kisses
 
It had all started quite innocently—or so the woman told herself. Occasional little touches—nothing to worry about. A hug that lasted a little too long when she came home from class. A hand wandering while they watched TV; his arm draped over the back of the couch, his fingers “accidentally—or on purpose”—sliding toward places they perhaps shouldn’t have gone.

She hadn’t thought there was… anything strange about it. In fact, at first she’d thought it was quite sweet. It felt as if she’d regained a part of her son. It was a reward for those lonely years she’d spent raising him mostly on her own. And when things got a little… out of hand—well, men are men, after all. They get curious. It doesn’t mean anything.

However… after all those years of neglect, every touch felt a little… more special. The trace of that contact lingered on her skin like a brand. In the quiet, empty house her husband left behind every morning, she found herself reliving that moment, that simple warmth, that shocking, forbidden attention, over and over again. She’d catch her reflection in the microwave door, see the flush on her cheeks, and quickly look away.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t hide it… maybe she should have tried harder, but she could tell her husband knew. He knew that this touch affected her, that she… liked it, even desired it… and he was growing bolder by the day. It was a little, forbidden game she was playing with him. A little game that made her grin, while he blushed and squirmed in his chair; as she tried to remember how she should behave—how she should act like a mother—she tried not to think of the thousands of reasons why all of this was so wrong.

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