The room was saturated in the aftermath of their first fall: the air cloying with the briny reek of cum, the metallic bite of spit, and the feral musk of a mother's surrender, thick enough to taste on the tongue.

Peter lay sprawled, chest heaving in jagged, sweat-sheened pulls, his cock—titanic, glazed with her throat's worship and his own spend—pulsing against his thigh, already swelling with a hunger that gnawed at his bones.

Linda hovered besides him, the blanket draped over her shoulders like a funeral veil, her silhouette a shadowed idol etched in the bruised gold of the morning, skin glistening where stray sunbeams licked her curves.

She didn't speak. Words would shatter this.

Her eyes—laced with her unsatisfied lust, pinned his, pupils blown to pits of devotion and his own lust.

A silent covenant passed through them both: This is ours. This is ruin. This is all.

She moved. Knees slithering into place, thighs scraping his hips with the satin drag of fevered skin, gooseflesh blooming in their wake. The blanket billowed over them, a suffocating dome of cotton and panted breath, trapping heat, scent, sin.

No light pierced this underworld. Only sensation.

Her hand—quivering, hallowed—closed around his cock, fingers sinking into the slippery girth still dripping with her spit, his cum, her tears.

The scald of her palm branded him, her grip reverent as she hoisted him, aligning the bloated head with the sodden lips of her pussy—swollen, glistening, quaking. A single bead of her arousal—blazing, syrupy—slid down his shaft, searing the throbbing vein like liquid mercury, pooling sticky at his base, stinging with salt.

Then she sank her pussy onto his cock.

Torturously. Sublimely. Interminably.

One inch. Stretched her walls as they convulsed, a molten glove of slick and fire, clamping around the invasion, gushing nectar that slathered him in scorching silk.

Two inches.

Her breath fractured, a shredded moan smothered by the blanket, the sound thrumming through her ribs, her womb.

Three. Full.

Her hips swirled, a languorous corkscrew, pussy stretching, devouring, molding to her son in a vice of velvet agony.

She didn't rush. Didn't bounce. Didn't fuck.

She rode.

Glacial. Virtuosic. Apocalyptic.

Her ass—flawless, plump, shrouded in darkness—contracted beneath the blanket in a clandestine ballet.

Each twerk was a revelation.

A deliberate roll forward, pussy engulfing him to the hilt, walls undulating in a tidal surge of wet heat.

A tormenting grind back, her clit engorged and pulsing, scraping his pelvis, igniting lightning behind her eyes. A clench, savage and precise, her cunt squeezing him in rhythmic spasms, milking him with a mother's ferocity.

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

The sound was lascivious, claustrophobic, sacrilegious—her pussy slurping him in with a greedy, squelching pull, releasing him with a wet pop, reclaiming him in a chorus of depravity.

Her juices poured, a deluge of scalding slick coating his balls, cascading down his thighs, saturating the sheets in a puddle of ruin with each rise and fall, the scent overpowering—cloying, tangy, hers, clinging to every breath.

This was the wettest she'd ever fucked him.

She was wetter than usual.

Her hands braced on his chest, nails gouging crescents into muscle, drawing beads of blood that stung and healed in the same heartbeat, anchoring her as she twerked—languid, mesmerizing, divine.

Each flex of her ass was a triumph

Glutes clamping, iron-hard, a ripple of power beneath dewy skin. Hips undulating, a serpentine wave of flesh and craving, each motion calculated, catastrophic. Her ussy pulsing, a living heartbeat of slippery fire, caressing every ridge, every throb of his cock with fanatical precision.

She rose—just enough for the head to nuzzle her entrance, slick lips clinging to him like molten wax—then sank again, slow, deep, devoted, her walls stretching, scorching, adoring.

Her back bowed and arched, a sculpture of grace; spine arching like a drawn bow. Her head fell back, hair cascading like liquid obsidian, a silent wail of rapture stifled by the fabric, her throat convulsing with unvoiced oaths.

Peter's hands clawed her hips—bruising, worshipful, fingers sinking into flesh that quivered under his grip, slick with sweat.

He didn't thrust. Didn't seize. Let her reign.

She twerked again—slower, deeper, annihilating—ass bouncing once, a wet smack against his thighs that echoed like a gunshot in the dark, then melting into a grind that shredded his sanity. Her pussy vacuumed him in, trapped him in a furnace of velvet, released him in pulses that mirrored her pulse.

Her clit rasped against him, turgid, throbbing, chasing friction with agonizing finesse.

"Peter…" A whisper, splintered, sanctified, barely audible over the squelch of her cunt. "My baby… my son…"

She rode him like a goddess claiming her tribute. Like a mother sacrificing every vow. Like a woman who'd starved for decades, finally gorging on the only cock that mattered.

Her rhythm was unbreakable. Glacial. Deep. Cosmic.

Her ass flexed—clamped—released—a clandestine orchestra in the void. Each twerk unleashed a shockwave through her pussy, a maelstrom of scalding slick that engulfed him.

Her walls rippled, stroked, venerated every vein, every spasm, every surge of his cock.

She came—soundlessly, cataclysmically—pussy seizing, squirting in a blazing torrent that drowned his cock, his balls, the sheets in a flood of sin. Her body quaked, thighs spasming, ass clenching so ferociously it bruised, but she didn't stop.

Didn't falter. She rode herself through it, milking herself on her son's cock like it was redemption and ruin.

Peter roared, the sound torn from his core, raw and ravaged. His hips jerked, frantic, but she pinned him with her weight, her love, her dominion.

"Not yet, baby…"

"Let Mommy feel you… every vein…"

She twerked again—slower, deeper, obliterating—ass clamping like a fetter, pussy sucking him in with a wet, ravenous vacuum that shattered his mind. Her walls caressed, kneaded, claimed him in a rhythm that transcended flesh.

"Come inside now... give Mommy everything; give mommy a baby..."

He detonated.

Cum erupted—dense, searing, infinite—flooding her pussy, painting her walls, branding her from within with pulse after pulse.

She moaned—a soft, devastated sound—pussy clamping, milking every drop, refusing to release him, her cunt ravenous for her son's seed.

She rode through his climax, slow, tender, devoted, her hips circling, grinding, coaxing every spasm, every throb, until he was drained, shivering, hers.

Then she collapsed onto his chest, blanket still draped over them, a sanctum of sin and love. Her pussy fluttered around his softening cock, clinging, locking him inside like a sacred seal. Her lips grazed his ear, breath scorching and shattered.

"I love you, Peter…"

"Always… even if it devours us."

He wrapped his arms around her, crushing, possessive, devoted, fingers digging into the sweat-drenched curve of her ass, branding her with his grip.

"You're not devoured by anything else, Mom. Only by ME. You're mine."

And beneath the blanket, in the dark where no light could condemn, a mother and her son remained fused, still, whole, forbidden, perfect.

The blanket ripped away with a single, savage yank— thrown to the floor like a curse, exposing them to the raw gold of morning.

Light poured over their joined bodies: sweat-slick skin, trembling thighs, the obscene union of mother and son still locked together, her pussy clamped around his half-hard cock like a vice of love.

Peter rose to his knees in one fluid surge, muscles coiled, eyes feral. Linda gasped, a sharp, shattered sound as he lifted her— hands under her ass, fingers digging into the plump, sweat-drenched flesh, hoisting her clean off the mattress.

Her legs snapped around his waist on instinct, ankles locking behind his back, thighs quaking with the effort to hold on; just below his cock that speared the air and settled between the bridge of her ass.

Now she was weightless.

Now she was his to fuck in the open.

His cock—monstrous, veined, glistening with her motherly-juice and his own cum—slid out of her pussy with a wet, filthy schlorp, the swollen head dragging through her clinging lips, coated in a thick, creamy sheen of their combined sin.

The air hit them both—cold on scalding flesh—and her pussy clenched hard, empty, aching, a gush of her love-juice dripping down his shaft, splattering his balls, running in rivulets over his knuckles.

He gripped her ass harder, fingers sinking deep into the soft, jiggling flesh, spreading her cheeks wide so the morning light poured over her exposed core.

Then he thrust.

UP. IN. DEEP.

His giant cock speared her in one brutal, perfect stroke— head punching through her clenching entrance, shaft stretching her walls wide, veins dragging against her rippling insides like ridges of fire.

SCHLICK. SCHLICK. SCHLICK.

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