The whole thing began as a silly joke, a bit of fun. I wanted to surprise my mother, Susan, for her birthday. It wasn’t just her day; it was mine too. Twenty years ago, I was her birthday present, so it felt right to show her how much I appreciated that. Normal card shops were boring, which is why I cooked up this wild idea to go with the real gift I’d bought.
It wasn’t hard at all. Online tutorials showed me exactly what to do. I just scanned some of her old photos onto my laptop. Then, using a special editing program, I swapped her face onto another woman’s body. I didn’t want anything too rude, though. Or at least, I told myself that.
Mom is pretty thin, and she has great legs. But up top, she’s always been modest, and time had definitely taken its toll. I was sure she’d find it hilarious. The body I chose was, well, ample. The blouse on the woman was practically bursting, showing off a huge, luscious amount of breast and cleavage.
“If only,” I thought, a grin spreading across my face. A sudden heat bloomed low in my belly. If my mother actually looked like that, I honestly felt I could get a massive crush on her myself. The thought was scandalous, a quick, hot flash through my mind, then gone. Mostly.
On her birthday, when she unwrapped the card, she burst into laughter. “Ethan!” she shrieked, delighted. “If I had that much, I wouldn’t be able to walk upright!” She shook her head, still giggling.
I watched her, a warm flush rising to my cheeks. The way her own, smaller breasts jiggled with her laughter, the slight tremor in her voice. I fastened the expensive necklace I’d bought around her neck, my fingers brushing the warm skin at her nape. She turned, giving me a quick, firm hug – her soft body pressing against mine for just a moment – before she drifted off to chat with guests.
Our party was in full swing. Friends and family everywhere. Even my dad managed to come home, which was rare. He worked away a lot, only back a couple of times a month, leaving Mom to manage everything alone.
No one was really keeping track of drinks. I had no idea how much Mom or I had consumed, but it was enough to send me upstairs to pee. After I’d relieved myself and just flushed, I heard movement right outside the door. When I opened it, Mom was there, practically dancing on the spot, hopping from one foot to the other.
“How on earth did you do that?” she asked, her voice a little slurred, her eyes sparkling. She was talking about the card.
“It was easy, Mom. Just a little computer trickery,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant, but I felt a strange thrill at our closeness, the scent of her perfume and wine hanging in the air.
“Would you… would you do another one?” she asked, leaning in conspiratorially. Her eyes were wide, hinting at something beyond simple curiosity. “But make me look more… normal. Something I could show my friends. They would absolutely love it.”
I grinned, a shiver of excitement going through me. I nodded. She practically dove into the bathroom before I could say anything else, the door clicking shut behind her.
I knew it wouldn’t be that day. I was too tipsy, and guests would probably linger late into the night. But I found myself smiling, a deep, satisfied feeling in my chest. My mother wanted more. More of my magic.
When I finally got around to it, I tried to keep the picture mostly “decent.” No outright smut, especially if she was going to show it around. I found a model in a lovely, flowing robe, with the barest hint of black stockings and suspenders peeking out. The robe showed a long, alluring expanse of leg and thigh, but the model posed demurely, nothing truly exposed. Yet, the implication was undeniable. As I worked, carefully blending Mom’s face onto that body, I lingered on those long, defined legs, the delicate curve of her calf, the way the silk robe draped over the imagined swell of her hip. I felt a definite throb of arousal.
Mom was utterly thrilled when I presented it to her. Weeks later, she told me how her friends had found it hilarious, but also undeniably sexy, and now they were asking for similar pictures.
I had to admit, as I worked on those other pictures, for her friends, the arousal wasn’t just “certain”; it was powerful. There was something truly captivating about seeing these mature women, women I’d known as “moms,” suddenly transformed. Dressed sexily, provocatively, rather than in the dowdy, comfortable clothes they usually wore. Each click of the mouse, each carefully placed curve, felt like I was unlocking a secret, forbidden fantasy.
My father was away, as usual, when she called me into her room one evening. She was holding a couple of old, faded photographs, which she handed over with a sigh.
“Your dad took these ages ago,” she explained, a slight flush on her cheeks. “I always hated them. I just… I look so…” She trailed off, unable to find the right words, clearly uncomfortable talking about her body, even about old photos, in front of her son.
I was stunned she was even showing them to me. She was much younger in the pictures, maybe in her early thirties, and dressed in plain, practical underwear. The lingerie did nothing for her; it was almost anti-erotic, swallowing her figure, masking any potential allure. She looked a long way from “arousing.”
I promised to work my magic. For the next few nights, I scoured the internet for the perfect bodies to merge. It was easy to make her old, plain bra vanish, replaced by a pair of quite firm-looking, jutting breasts, full and ripe, tipped with dark, hard nipples I imagined might have been similar to how she once looked, or could look. The panties she wore in the original photo came up to her waist, appearing to have an elastic panel, probably to tuck her tummy in. With a clever bit of morphing, they were replaced with little more than a whisper of a thong, barely covering her sex, and her stomach became flat, taut. I cleared any blemishes from her skin, smoothed out fine lines, and even removed her glasses, which instantly made her look years younger, almost like a different woman.
Surprisingly, when they were finished, when I gazed at her transformed pictures, I felt a sharp, undeniable erection. My dick stiffened, hot and heavy against my jeans. I’d never, not once, imagined thinking of my mother sexually before. It was a forbidden, thrilling jolt. But staring at this woman, this new version of her, she looked utterly seductive, breathtakingly erotic. I couldn’t help but wonder. How much of her figure, her hidden curves, had she truly kept under those loose clothes?
She certainly seemed to appreciate my efforts.
“Oh, my God, Ethan.” Her voice was a soft whisper as she traced a finger over one of the images. “I look…”
“Hot!” I blurted it out, before I could even think. It just tumbled from my lips. “You look incredibly hot, Mom.”
She laughed, a short, breathy sound, but at the same time, she gave me a strange, lingering look. A look that felt like it held a thousand unspoken questions, and perhaps, a hint of something else entirely.
The moment she hugged me, my body betrayed me. I was totally embarrassed.
Just hours before, I had been staring at the two topless pictures I’d made of her—my mother—on my screen. The images always made my blood rush. So, when she suddenly pulled me close in a tight embrace, pressing her whole soft body against mine, the reaction was instant and unavoidable.
I grew hard.
My cock shot up, a thick, throbbing accident caught between us.
Panic hit me like a physical blow. What the hell was I supposed to do? If I stayed still, she would absolutely feel the massive, pressing ridge of me against her stomach. If I moved away, she would know exactly why I needed the space.
I was sure she held me longer than normal. Her belly, warm and yielding, was pushed tight against the terrible, hard thing happening below my jeans. When she finally let go, releasing the pressure, my face was burning hot. I could barely look at her.
“Love you, sweetie,” she said softly, completely unaware, or maybe just pretending to be.
“Love you too, Mom,” I mumbled, practically running away.
I was thankful to escape. I retreated to my bedroom and crashed down at my desk, needing the cold, sterile distance of my computer screen.
I had printed the pictures out for her that first time—the tamer, topless ones. But the highly sensitive files were still on my machine, hidden deep in a secured folder.
I brought up one of the files. I stared at the curve of her waist, the familiar shape of her breasts, imagining what it would be like if they were bare for me, and only me. I briefly considered using it as my desktop wallpaper, but dismissed the idea as too risky, too stupid.
However, printing the tamer images for her had only opened a door in my mind. The digital work had to go further. I needed it to.
In the next image I produced, she was completely naked. The first ones had been soft and modest, just hints of skin and allure. This new one was brutal, honest, and graphic in a way that made my head spin.
It showed my mother lounging on a plush sofa, her legs spread wide. Her knees were bent, pushing her smooth thighs apart. Her fingers were inserted deep inside, stretching the pink folds of her pussy open for the camera. Her eyes, digitally copied from a photo I took of her laughing, met the lens with a lazy, sexual demand.
She never saw that specific image. Showing her that would be a step too far, a line I wasn’t brave enough to cross. But it got plenty of use from me in the coming days.
The more I looked at it, the more desperate I felt to touch myself. The sight of her naked, wet, and open inflamed my lust to a fever pitch that borderlined on obsession.
I pulled down my zipper, my hand slipping inside my clothes. As my fingers closed around my shaft, sliding up and down the length of me, I closed my eyes and let the arousal build. I pictured her exactly as she was on the screen, only magnified, wetter, begging.
In my sick little fantasy, she was nothing but a whore for me. Her legs opened impossibly wide, her hips rocking slightly on the sofa. She looked up at me, biting her lip.
“Hurry, Ethan,” she’d whisper in my mind, her voice coarse. “Come closer. Use me. Shag me hard and fill my cunt with your sweet, hot cum.”
The image was wrong. I knew that instantly, instinctively. It was forbidden, a massive, blinking red light in my brain. But knowing it was wrong only made it more incredibly arousing. I could not stop myself.
I produced more images, each one featuring her in more delicious, exposed, and demanding positions. Most of them stayed locked on my laptop. But a couple, I printed out. I cropped them small, taking only the most explicit parts—the curve of her ass, the dark hair of her mound, a gaping view of her wet opening. I made them just small enough to slide easily into the center fold of any book or magazine. Tiny, secret treasures.
It wasn’t a sudden, puppy-dog crush. This wasn’t harmless infatuation. I knew what I imagined would never, ever happen outside of my head. It was just a tool, a necessary ritual used to attain a shattering release that nothing else could touch.
I was twenty, busy with college. My younger siblings were still finishing high school. Mom didn’t work outside the house, and Dad was away on a long work trip, as usual. My secrets, the terrible pictures of Susan, were well hidden. Or so I deeply believed.
What I hadn’t counted on was Mom deciding that all the bedrooms needed a deep, focused, spring cleaning. If I had simply kept my room tidier, she might have missed the pictures. But my room was a disaster zone: clothes draped everywhere, books stacked precariously, charging cables tangled with assorted junk. It was a typical, disgusting college lad’s room.
Susan gathered her cleaning supplies: rags, polish, and the heavy vacuum. She carried them upstairs. Glancing into the messy rooms, it was obvious that Ethan’s was the absolute worst. That’s where she decided to start the attack.
Just picking up the mountains of discarded clothing and dumping them into the wash basket was a huge improvement. She piled the books and magazines onto his bed so she could quickly dust the shelves underneath.
With the shelves wiped clean and the small, dusty ornaments replaced, she started sorting through the stacks of reading material. She wiped each cover, placing the books back onto the shelf. She was tackling the large pile of old magazines—some gaming, some sports—when two small pieces of paper fluttered out of one of them. They landed face down on the floor.
Susan didn’t think twice. She just scooped up the papers and placed them on top of the pile of magazines. She then stripped Ethan’s bed, remade it with fresh linen, and finished vacuuming the carpet. She moved her cleaning kit to the next room, but came back to Ethan’s just to do a final check, making sure she hadn’t missed anything obvious.
It was pure, terrible coincidence that she turned the two small pieces of paper over.
The sight made her breath hitch.
She was shocked. These were photos of her. She knew at once that Ethan must have created them, manipulated them somehow with his computer skills. But these were not like the others he had printed off; these were aggressive, dark, and undeniably pornographic.
Susan sank onto his newly made bed, the two cropped pictures clutched in her hand. She stared at one, then the other.
She was deeply disturbed that her son had made them—that he saw her this way—but at the very same time, she found it intensely stimulating. There was a shocking, raw thrill in seeing this idealized, hyper-sexual version of herself.
She traced the outline of the woman in the picture with a trembling finger. The photo showed her spread wide, dripping and ready. Susan wished she still had a figure like the woman in the image. Yes, she still had good legs, and in her youth, she had been pretty. But for years, she’d carried a little extra weight on her stomach. She always wore those high-waisted panties to try and hide it.
But it was her breasts that truly bothered her. They had never been large, but after breastfeeding three children and with the inevitable slack of age, they had suffered. They sagged now, and it was only a good, expensive bra that still made her look as though she possessed a decent bosom.
Yet, here, in Ethan’s image, her belly was flat and smooth. Her breasts were round, high-set, and full, their tips dark and hard. She was perfect.
Susan couldn’t bring herself to feel angry with him. What he had done, secretly creating these images, was obviously wrong. But it was also incredibly nice to feel that someone—especially a young, virile man his age—should still find her alluring enough to create this fantasy.
She placed the photos back inside a magazine. She had no clue which one they had originally fallen from, but she hid them carefully before moving on to the twin girls’ room.
All day, when she had a spare five minutes, she would sneak back into Ethan’s silent room and quickly look at the pictures again. They were so well done that it was almost impossible to tell that she had not actually posed for him in that deeply humiliating, sexual way.
She knew she had to talk to him. Whether she wanted to or not, she needed to address the issue. If her husband ever saw them, the fallout would destroy them all.
As Susan worked and cleaned, the thoughts kept popping into her head, uninvited and insistent. The more they came, the more hot and confused she felt. Her son was looking at naked pictures of her, even if he had personally constructed every curve and shadow.
A sudden, jarring thought made her whole body shiver: What else was he doing with them?
Then the image entered her mind, fully formed. She didn’t have to guess; she already knew. She remembered the hug, right after their last family party. There had been a distinct, solid something pushing against her stomach. At the time, she had simply ignored it, attributing it to a bad angle or perhaps a belt buckle. Only now did she realize what it had truly been. Ethan’s desire, aimed right at her.
The heat was stifling.
Susan walked to the bedroom window and threw it open, sticking her head out for a moment just to breathe cold air.
“Christ, it’s bloody hot in here,” she muttered.
The flush she felt was not just confined to her face. It felt like her entire body was cooking from the inside out. And there was a definite, pulsing warmth growing between her legs.
It took her completely by surprise. How many years had passed since she last had a sudden, urgent need to touch herself? She felt intensely aroused, suddenly aware that her pussy was leaking.
A trembling hand instinctively went beneath her dress. Her fingers brushed against the silky dampness of her panties. They were soaked.
She tried to fight the impulse, forcing herself to concentrate on buffing the window sill. But the heat and the need refused to diminish. It just grew stronger, tighter, demanding attention.
Eventually, she gave in. She dropped the rag and headed for her own bedroom, her legs shaky.
“Just ten minutes,” she promised herself, her voice hoarse. “No more.”
Once inside her room, she rummaged deep in the bottom of her wardrobe. Hidden beneath a box of seldom-worn winter shoes was a secret—a toy no one in the house knew about, not even her absent husband.
Susan withdrew the thick, vibrating rubber cock. She twisted the bottom to make sure the motor still roared to life. She felt wicked, deeply naughty, as she quickly peeled off her damp panties and hitched her skirt up high to her waist.
She stretched out on her bed, trying to relax.
She didn’t need the images of herself. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine a classic romance novel scenario, a handsome stranger, an affair on the beach. It didn’t work. The face that immediately appeared behind her eyelids was Ethan’s.
When her hand tentatively went to touch her slick pussy, it was his hand she felt closing over her. When her fingers invaded her passage searching for relief, it was his thick, seeking fingers that pressed deep inside. And when she inserted the vibrating toy, turning it to the maximum setting, the fantasy solidified: it was her son, tall and muscular, towering over her. He was gripping her hips, plunging himself into her wet cunt.
The deep, continuous vibrations, combined with her wild imagination, sent her arousal skyrocketing past any point of control. She tried to dismiss the thought, to switch the actor in her mental movie, but the image refused to budge. All Susan could think of was her son, Ethan, fucking her hard and dirty.
When she climaxed, her hips jerked off the bed, her breath sawing in her throat. Her legs clamped together violently around the rubber cock as it continued to buzz deep inside her aching core. The orgasm seemed endless, a dizzying explosion of sensation. Her mind played awful, powerful tricks, convincing her that Ethan had just groaned and spilled hot, heavy cum into her used body.
Afterward, she was distressed, covered in a cold layer of shame. She felt disgust that she had satisfied her long-ignored urges by obsessing over the idea of her own son fucking her.
When she finally pulled herself together, she made herself decent and continued her work. But the motivation was gone. Cleaning was no longer a productive task; it was a punishment, a slow, horrible chore.
Later that evening, when the younger kids were eating dinner, she caught Ethan’s eye. She jerked her head sharply toward the stairs, indicating she needed to speak to him alone, upstairs.
I had been dreading this moment since I got home from college.
Arriving back to find my room perfectly clean, my first instinct had been to search wildly for Mom’s explicit pictures. I went through the pile of magazines, convinced I had left them in the fourth one down. Maybe I’d made a mistake? Because they weren’t there.
Starting at the top of the stack, I frantically shook each one. The folded images finally fell out of the very last magazine I picked up—the one I was sure they weren’t in.
Now, I wasn’t just worried; I was sick with dread. Had I just misplaced them, or had she found them and put them back?
I felt fidgety and completely sick as I descended the stairs. When she caught my attention and pointed up, her face gave away nothing. Her expression was completely neutral.
I felt dizzy as I ascended the stairs toward my room, Mom following silently behind me.
I walked a few paces into the room, then stopped, refusing to sit down. She moved past me and sat on the edge of my bed. She patted the space beside her.
I stayed standing, feeling like a trapped criminal.
She reached out and gently took my hand. Her skin was warm.
“Ethan,” she began, her tone soft, measured. “I don’t really look like that. I wish I did, those images are beautiful. But they are far from the truth of what I am now.”
The heat rushed to my face, turning my skin crimson. That was it. She had found them.
“It is very sweet of you to imagine me like that,” she continued, her thumb stroking the back of my hand. Her eyes were fixed on mine, but they weren’t angry. They looked… intrigued. “But it’s also wrong, Ethan. It’s too much.”
She lifted my hand slightly, squeezing it tight.
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you what you want them for,” she whispered, her voice low and husky, a sound that made my chest tighten with painful anticipation. “But I can guess, sweetie. I can definitely guess.”
My cheeks burned at first. Talking about sex with Mom was already too much, but then we started talking about her body. The longer we spoke, the easier it got. It felt thrilling, a secret shared in the quiet of the room. I was her confidant, seeing everything she hid.
I leaned closer, dropping my voice to a murmur. “You can change things, Mom. Little fixes.”
“Like what?” she asked, her voice soft and curious.
“Ditch the glasses,” I urged. “Contacts look amazing. And…” I hesitated, then pushed the thought out, focusing on her chest. “You could get a boob job. If you wanted to. It would make you feel better.”
She frowned right at the word boob job, but her jaw softened quickly.
“You have the money from Grandma and Grandpa,” I reminded her. “But if you don’t want to touch that, use mine. I have enough saved to cover the whole thing.”
She shook her head, running a nervous hand over her collarbone. “Ethan, I couldn’t. That’s your money.”
“I don’t mind,” I insisted. “If it makes you happy, Mom. Truly happy with yourself.”
Her eyes held a flicker—a mixture of guilt and a hot kind of excitement. She looked exactly like a woman keeping a secret.
“I’m not judging you,” I assured her, catching the look. “But if Dad found out about us planning this, or about… well, anything, there would be trouble. Anyway, when would I even find time for surgery?” She tried to laugh, but the sound was shaky.
“Summer break is coming up,” I pointed out, already mapping it out. “I could handle everything. I’ll make the calls, schedule the recovery. I’ll look after the kids.”
She stared at me. She knew I meant it.
“Let me just think on it,” she whispered, slowly standing up. “Let’s get some tea now.”
Later that night, alone in my room, I knew she was deciding. I pictured her in front of the mirror, tracing the curves she wanted me to buy her.
She brought it up again over the weekend.
“Ethan, if I use your money, I promise to put it back. It just makes things easier, because your Dad won’t notice if it’s handled quietly.” She leaned close, her voice going conspiratorial. “Could you look into clinics for me? I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Her request made me feel useful, dangerously involved. I was designing her.
As soon as she gave the final nod, I moved fast. I was the one finding the recommended plastic surgeon, making the appointments, and withdrawing the stack of cash she needed. It felt like we were partners in crime, quietly preparing for the great reveal of her new body. Our secret.
The summer was always a quiet time. My father, Mark, was a busy man. He was barely home, even before the college break started. This year, his absence worked out perfectly.
It meant Mom could get the surgery done with almost no fuss. She’d been talking about it for a long time. Everything was set for the moment school let out.
The hospital stay was short—just two days. But her recovery, that was the real time commitment. It took up most of my holiday.
I spent those weeks helping her. Bringing her things, making tea, making sure she was comfortable. The pain slowly went away. She healed fast.
When Mark finally came back home, the big bandages were gone. She still wore a soft, gentle support bra.
Soon, the season changed. Leaves fell, and we were back in the routine. My younger brother and sisters went back to school. I headed back to college.
Around this time, Mom started wearing contact lenses. Or maybe that was just the excuse.
What I really noticed was her chest.
She hadn’t done anything extreme, but the difference was clear. Where before she was small, now she had curves. She had tits.
They filled out her shirts in a way they never had before. They were noticeable. New.
I had no idea if Mark noticed. He was as disconnected as ever, always working, always distracted.
The real shift happened between our return and the Christmas break. My siblings were away for the day, visiting friends. Mark was out of state for work. It was just me and Mom in the quiet house.
I was downstairs studying when she called my name.
“Ethan? Can you come up here for a minute?”
I walked up the stairs slowly. My heart gave a tight thump. I knew what this felt like. This felt like a secret.
She was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking at me with a soft, strange smile.
“Come in, sweetie,” she said.
I stepped into her room. Sunlight spilled over the rug. She was wearing a loose, soft cotton blouse.
She looked at me, her face open. “Would you like to see?” she asked, her voice low. “After all, you chipped in for them.”
I froze. See? She meant her new breasts.
My mind went blank. My mother was asking me if I wanted to see her naked chest. It felt like walking onto the edge of a cliff. I wanted to say yes, desperately, but the word got stuck.
“It’s okay, Ethan,” she whispered, her smile turning sly. “It will be our little secret.”
She reached up, her fingers finding the top button of her blouse. My throat went dry.
She worked the buttons slowly, one by one, until the fabric pulled apart. She was wearing a simple white bra underneath. It looked lacey and delicate.
Then she reached around her back. I heard the faint snick of the hook releasing.
The bra dropped to the floor, a pool of white lace at her feet.
I could only stare.
They were perfect. High, round, and jutting out firmly from her chest. They were exactly what she had wanted. My mouth must have hung open.
“Well?” she prompted, leaning forward slightly. “Go on. You can touch them, if you want.”
The invitation was like a jolt of electricity. I took a hesitant step closer and lifted my hands.
They felt firm, but the skin was unbelievably smooth and soft. Warm, too.
I was supposed to just touch them. But the excitement and the absolute taboo of the moment were too much. My desire jumped the tracks.
I let my thumb move slowly across the curve of one breast, reaching the centre. I started to rub her nipple softly.
Her eyes closed instantly. A soft, airy sound escaped her lips—a little sigh of pure pleasure.
The nipple responded immediately, hardening into a tight, dark peak between my fingers.
And in my pants, the sudden, rock-hard bulge of my erection pressed painfully against my jeans.
“Hmm, Ethan,” she murmured, her eyes still closed. “You shouldn’t really do that.”
But the dreamy, lost look on her face told me she wasn’t going to stop me. She wasn’t even asking me to stop.
I cupped the whole weight of one breast in my palm, pulling it gently forward. I applied a little pressure to the erect peak with my index finger and thumb.
A guttural growl, heavy with unexpected pleasure, rumbled from deep in her chest.
Her eyes snapped open. She glanced down at my hand gripping her breast, then lifted her eyes back to mine. They were glazed over, heavy with want.
At the same time, her hand moved. It settled on my thigh, resting dangerously close to the hard ridge in my jeans.
God, my cock was throbbing. It was practically demanding attention, pressing against the unforgiving denim.
She let me keep touching her, stroking the new, firm fullness of her tits. Then, she shifted her hand. It moved from my thigh, gliding over the heavy bulge of my fly. She caressed the prominent ridge there.
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Our faces were only inches apart now. We were breathing the same heated, tight air. Who would move next?
It was me. I closed the distance, lowering my head until our lips met.
I waited for the slap. I waited for her to push me away, to hear her voice snap with anger or shock.
Instead, she returned the kiss, instantly. Her lips were soft, warm, and giving. Our mouths opened, tongues meeting hesitantly, then plunging together with sudden urgency.
I knew it right then. I wanted to fuck her. There was no going back from this kiss.
Her hand was fumbling with my belt, working the heavy buckle free. Then it moved to the zipper, pulling it down with a rasping sound.
I felt her hand slide inside my underwear. She found me—hard, hot, and straining. She gripped my cock firmly.
She eased the skin up and down the length of me. I worried she might be disappointed. I was just normal. Just me. But she made a contented little noise in her throat, a soft mmph.
I couldn’t abandon her breasts yet, but my other hand—the free one—dropped lower. It found her knee, then slid purposefully beneath the hem of her loose skirt.
Up her thigh I went, past soft, smooth skin.
When I finally touched her pussy through the thin, slick material of her panties, she let out a soft, sharp moan right into my mouth.
I was still half-convinced she would suddenly decide this had gone too far. That she would push my hands away and demand I leave.
What I wasn’t expecting was for her to break the kiss, pull back just enough to look me in the eyes, and whisper, “Undress, Ethan. Now.”
We were both shaking a little. Nervous, but burning.
As we stripped, the air in the room felt thick and hot. I got rid of my clothes, then watched her push her skirt and panties down her legs. She kicked them away.
No, neither of us were disappointed.
Naked, we stretched out on the bed, facing each other.
“Be tender,” she instructed, her voice a rough whisper. “Be so gentle with my tits, Ethan. They’re still a little new, honey. But the rest of me? You can do whatever you want.”
What I wanted was her mouth. I leaned in, kissing her again. Her lips tasted sweet, like sun-warmed skin and pure desire.
She pressed her new breasts into my chest, their firmness a beautiful contrast to my skin. I ground my throbbing erection against the soft, warm mound of her pelvis.
Our tongues danced wildly. Her instructions were clear: soft on the chest, wild everywhere else.
My hand traveled southward, seeking the heat between her spread thighs. She complied, opening her legs wide, inviting me in. My fingers found her most intimate place. The warmth. The slick, velvety softness of her pussy hair.
As I started to stroke her, her breathing changed, becoming ragged gasps. A wetness was already coating the thin skin of her fanny.
Her hips were bucking wildly, lost in the feeling. A deep, wet grunt tore from her throat. She was already so close.
I was focused on her center, sliding my thumb across the wet folds. When I finally found her tight opening and slipped one finger inside, she jolted hard. A high, sharp gasp escaped, quick and stunned.
“Oh! God, yes, Ethan!” she cried out.
In response, she tightened her grip around my throbbing shaft. Her hand started pumping me fast and hard. The quick, slick friction—thwack, thwack—made me groan loud, a painful sound caught between pleasure and need.
No words were needed anymore. We were beyond dialogue, acting purely on instinct. She understood what I needed.
She gripped my hips and pulled me forward, dragging me on top of her. I settled between her wide, welcoming legs. My thick cock pressed eagerly against her entrance, slick and hot with anticipation.
I found the very edge, the slick, tight opening. The seam of her sex was wet, warm, and inviting.
I leaned forward slowly, pushing just the tip. I wanted to test the heat. My slickness met hers, warm and liquid, and the head of my cock slid inside the first tight inch.
She let out a sharp, immediate intake of breath—Hiss!—and her entire body arched slightly, almost imperceptibly, beneath my weight.
I froze, holding still. I looked down at her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, focused entirely on the internal sensation. Her mouth was slack, tasting the air. A faint, beautiful flush was rapidly spreading from the base of her throat up to her cheeks. She was stunning.
I took a slow, deep breath, controlling the urge to plunge in.
I pushed again. Slow. Careful. Sliiiiide.
I felt the dense barrier, the hot, tight resistance, then the glorious, wet give. My head pushed deeper, finding a new, tighter place inside her.
A soft, prolonged sigh escaped her lips—Aaaahhh. Her hips lifted then, just a fraction, pressing herself up onto my rigidity. She was silently demanding more.
It was a desperate, electric command, and I instantly obeyed.
I leaned down, burying my face deep in the curve of her neck. It smelled like her clean shampoo, but the scent was now mixed with musk, deep sweat, and something raw—pure female desire.
I gripped her waist, threading my fingers into the soft, yielding skin of her sides. I pulled her to me and pushed one final time.
Ffffrrrk!
I was in. Completely. All the way to the hilt.
Her legs, which had been spread wide for my entry, instantly snapped shut. They locked tight around my middle. Her heels dug hard into my lower back, securing me in place, making me fully hers.
A deep, rolling moan—guttural and shocked—swelled in her chest.
I felt everything at once: the impossible tightness, the burning friction, the overwhelming, consuming, liquid heat. It was a dizzying, head-spinning rush.
I stayed still for a long moment, allowing our merged bodies to settle, letting the monumental shock wash over me. My heart hammered hard against her ribs, each frantic beat vibrating through our joined flesh.
I lifted my head. Her eyes remained closed, her expression a mask of exquisite pain and pleasure.
I noticed a single tear track, leaving a shining path down her temple and disappearing into her hairline. She was crying, but her mouth was curled in a sensual, demanding grimace.
I saw it. I knew what I was doing. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t even allow the thought of stopping to take root. Nothing else mattered now.
I kissed her then. A long, slow, lingering kiss that tasted like salt, desperate need, and our shared, forbidden secret. Her lips were soft beneath mine, moving with a hungry, seeking rhythm.
My hips began to move tentatively. A careful, measured push. A slow, agonizing pull back.
She responded instantly, forcefully. Her hips rose to meet mine, thrusting back with surprising strength. Her legs tightened further, squeezing my middle like a vice. Her hands, which had been resting lightly on my shoulders, moved down, gripping my buttocks. She squeezed fiercely, pulling me deeper with every stroke.
“Ah! Oh, honey,” she gasped, her voice broken, thick with lust. Her head thrashed weakly on the pillow. “There, Ethan. Yes. That’s it. That’s so good. Don’t slow down.”
I started to thrust faster, harder, finding a primal rhythm. The sound of our bodies slapping together was wet, thick, and loud in the quiet room—Ssshhh-thwack, Ssshhh-thwack.
“Fuck me, baby,” she urged, her voice escalating from a moan to a demanding cry. “Yes! You feel so big! Ooh, please, harder! Deeper!”
I locked my gaze on her cunt, watching my thick, rigid cock slide in and out of her slick, hungry pink opening. The visual was overwhelming, the taboo reality of it pushing me closer and closer toward the edge of control.
“I need you to take me,” she pleaded, her breathing turning to frantic, ragged pants. “Take your time, but don’t you dare stop. God, I needed this. I truly needed this.”
I slammed into her, burying myself to the hilt with every single stroke. I felt the sharp ache of my pelvis hitting hers, the deep, satisfying thud reverberating between us.
“Yes! That’s my boy,” she screamed, almost shouting now, her hips slamming up hard to meet me. “Oh, Ethan! Don’t stop! You’re pushing me over!”
Her grip on my waist was iron. She was fully lost, completely wrapped up in the pleasure I was delivering. Her beautiful, smooth breasts bounced with every deep thrust. I leaned down, latching onto a hard, eager nipple, sucking it into my mouth fiercely.
She screamed—not a shock, but a raw, volcanic sound of tension snapping.
“The tits, Ethan! Oh, ahhh! Yes! Suck them! Pull me, baby! Pull me down!”
The combination of her raw words, the dizzying tightness around my cock, and the sound of her shattering beneath me was too much. The climax hit me like a physical blow to the head.
I drove into her, one final, excruciatingly deep stroke, roaring her name—”Mom!”—as I poured my hot seed deep inside her.
Her entire body seized, convulsing beneath me. Her legs tightened around me like a painful, demanding vice. She cried out, a long, drawn-out wail of absolute release, her nails digging sharp canyons deep into the skin of my lower back.
We collapsed together, both of us sweating, heavy, and spent. My heart slowed, heavy and satisfied, as I rested deep inside her tight, warm slickness. I could feel her pulsing around me, milking the last throbs of my release.
She didn’t move for a long time, just breathing raggedly beneath me, her hot face nestled against my shoulder.
Finally, she spoke, her voice still trembling with residual shocks.
“That was… perfect,” she whispered, kissing my neck lightly, sweetly. “Perfect, my love. Our secret, Ethan. Always.”