The first thing he felt was sound, a forbidden psalm that shredded the silence of sleep.

Wet. Sacred. Damned.

A thick, rhythmic schluck-schluck-schluck throbbed in the dark, each pull of lips and tongue a slick, treasonous drag that branded his soul. Muffled moans—raw, guilty, devoted—vibrated through the mattress, a low, throaty confession of a love that should never be spoken, sinking into his bones like poisoned honey.

The bedframe creaked, a slow, blasphemous groan under the weight of taboo, wood weeping with the rhythm of his mother's lust.

Sheets she was buried in whispered, heavy with the scent of home and heresy, cotton clinging to her skin like a shroud.

And beneath it all, the sucking—wet, ravenous, unforgivable, lips sealed in a vow no mother should make, tongue tracing veins like forbidden scripture, throat opening in a prayer to take her son whole.

Peter stirred, body igniting before his conscience could scream, a wildfire of heat and lust and the need to fuck his mother coiling in his gut, his cock—monstrous, a cosmic blessing—throbbing in a furnace of Linda's spit and sin, veins pulsing against a tongue that knew him too well, loved him too much, damned them both.

He didn't open his eyes. Couldn't. The scent choked him—her, musky and sweet, the sharp tang of his precome, the air thick with mother, with incest, with a love so fierce it burned the world down.

The covers were a confessional over his hips, a trembling mound of her head moving in slow, heretical waves.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

Each bob of her head a sin, a slick schlorp as lips dragged up his shaft, a guttural gluck as throat swallowed her son nearly to the root of his monstrously big cock.

GLUCK. GLUCK. GLUCK.

The sound of her slippery warm throat breaking for him as she took him in and out with complete disregard for her small throat, opening, surrendering to a love that shouldn't exist—a soft gag, choked back with a moan that was love twisted into lust, vibrating through his cock, his balls, his damned soul.

Saliva poured down his cock, hot and thick, pooling at his base, soaking the sheets, the scent sharp and filthy, a baptism in their forbidden bond.

His hand moved—trembling—fingers threading into dark, sweat-damp hair beneath the blanket, feeling the heat of her scalp, the fervor of her damnation, the way her soul poured into every touch even as it condemned her.

The mouth was hell—hot, wet, tight, tongue swirling in adoration of her son, lips stretched in a vow that broke every law, spit bubbling at the corners like tears of shame.

He opened his eyes.

Golden sunlight bled through the curtains, a cruel glow bathing the room in molten amber—walls pulsing with judgment, dust motes dancing like witnesses to their crime. Linda's bedroom. Their gallows.

And there—hidden beneath the blanket, on her knees between his thighs, ass arched in sacrilege—was his Mom.

Linda Carter. His mother. His ruin.

The blanket rose and fell in a rhythm of pure damnation. Her head bobbed slow, sacred, taking him to the root—all of him, every inch of her son's cock she could take vanishing into her throat, lips stretched thin and glistening, nose buried in the coarse hair at his base, breathing him in like he was salvation and sin.

Her hands gripped his thighs, nails carving love and guilt into his skin, crescent moons of possession and penance.

Her throat fluttered, a wet, pulsing embrace, milking her son with every swallow, spit dripping down his balls, pooling hot and devoted in their forbidden rite.

Slurp. Gluck. Hnnng.

She didn't stop when she felt him wake. Didn't falter.

She poured her damned soul (that shamelessly loved her son) into it.

Tongue swirling—hot, slick, unforgivable, tracing every vein like a prayer to her son, lapping at the slit, drinking his precome like communion from a chalice of sin.

Cheeks hollowing, sucking with a fervor that broke her vows, her heart, her motherhood.

Throat opening, taking her son deeper than mortal limits, gagging softly, the sound a sob of love and shame, swallowed with a moan that shattered them both.

Peter groaned, a sound torn from his damned soul, hips bucking, the headboard thudding like a gavel against the wall.

The blanket slipped—just enough to reveal her.

Linda. Eyes squeezed shut in rapture and agony, lashes wet with tears of love and guilt, mascara smudged into streaks of surrender to her son.

Lips swollen, glossy with spit and precome, chin dripping, throat working visibly as she swallowed her son whole, a mother at her altar of sin.

Her nightgown was a shroud—straps fallen, fabric bunched at her waist, ass bare and trembling, her pussy weeping for her son, swollen lips parted and gushing, a thick strand of her arousal stretching to the sheets, snapping with every rock of her hips, her body offering itself to the forbidden.

She was drowning. Burning.

His.

"Mom—" His voice broke, raw with love, lust.

She pulled off slow—agonizingly slow—lips dragging, tongue swirling, cleaning every inch of her son with reverent licks, spit stringing from her mouth to his cock, thick and glistening, a bond that condemned them both.

Her voice was wrecked, a whisper of love and sin: "Shh, baby. Let Mommy love you..."

Then she swallowed him again—to the root, nose pressed tight, throat convulsing, milking her son with a mother's love.

The best mother's love there is!

GLUCK. GLUCK. GLUCK.

Her rhythm frenzied—desperate, holy, damned. Head bobbing fast, hair swinging, spit flying, the wet schlorp-schlorp-schlorp a canticle of forbidden love.

Peter's hand fisted in her hair. Not pushing. Clinging. Needing her.

She hummed—deep, vibrating, eternal, the sound a vow through her son's shaft, his balls, his damned soul.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

Tongue flicking the underside, teasing the vein that pulsed with his heart. Lips sealing, sucking with a love that broke her motherhood.

Throat taking her son like she was born for it—wet, hot, damned.

Her hand slipped between his legs—cupped his balls, heavy with incoming cum, rolled them in slick fingers, squeezed with tenderness and guilt.

And then she moaned—loud, shattering, a sob of ecstasy and shame—her pussy clenching, squirting onto the sheets in a hot, damned flood for her son. Her body convulsed, thighs shaking, ass bouncing as she came hard, from the taste of her son, from the act of loving him in sin.

Her throat milked him—tight, wet, unforgivable.

Peter erupted.

Thick, scalding ropes of cum flooded into her throat—pulse after pulse, a tithe of forbidden love.

She swallowed—greedy, devoted, throat working, gulping every drop of her son with wet, damned gluck-gluck-gluck. Her eyes rolled back. Her pussy squirted, soaking the sheets, her thighs, him, a baptism in their sin.

She didn't spill a drop.

When he was spent, trembling, cock twitching in her mouth, she pulled off slow—lips dragging, tongue swirling, cleaning her son with reverent licks, lapping up every trace of cum and spit until he gleamed, hers in damnation.

Then she crawled up his body, blanket falling away, nightgown a relic, pussy leaving a wet trail of forbidden love up his thigh, hot and slick.

Then, making sure she'd swallowed everyhting to not leave any after taste, she kissed him—deep.

"Good morning, baby," she whispered, voice wrecked, lips swollen, chin glistening, eyes shining with love and tears of guilt. "Sleep well?"

He laughed—breathless, shattered, whole, cock already stirring against her thigh, damned with her.

"Yeah, Mom. I slept perfect… because it was you."

She smiled—soft, wicked, his in sin.

And curled back into his side, one hand possessively wrapped around her son's softening cock, fingers slick with spit and cum, like she'd never let go.

Like she loved him too much to ever stop, even if it damned them both.

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