Blow That Load For Mommy Ch. 10

Chapter 10

He lined himself up. The tip of his cock nudged her opening and she flinched. Not away. Into it. Her hips lifted off the mattress to meet him. Greedy. Desperate.

He paused.

"Mum. Are you on the..."

She knew what he meant before he finished. Her hand found his wrist. Squeezed.

"Tubes tied after you, baby. You're an only child for a reason." She swallowed. Her voice dropped to something low and raw and stripped of every pretence she'd ever constructed. "Don't worry about anything. Mummy can't get pregnant. You can cum inside Mummy."

That sentence.

Those words arranged in that order in his mother's voice.

Something detonated behind his eyes. Something old and buried and feral that he'd spent nineteen years keeping in a cage. Cum inside Mummy. Three words that shouldn't exist together. Three words that rewired his brain in the space of a single heartbeat. His cock throbbed so hard in his grip that a rope of precum drooled from the tip and landed on her stomach, warm and thick on her tanned skin.

She watched it. Watched him. Green eyes enormous. Lips parted. Waiting.

He pushed.

The head of his cock spread her open. One inch. The thick crown stretching her entrance wide, wider, the resistance of her body giving way to the size of him. She gasped. Eyes blown wide. Mouth falling open into a soundless shape. An O that had no voice behind it. Her fingers dug into the duvet on either side of her hips and her back lifted off the bed and she stared down between their bodies at the place where her son's cock was entering her.

"Mum?"

"Slow." The word came out fractured. Breathless. "Slow. Slow, baby. Mummy needs a..." She gulped air. "Mummy needs a minute, sweetheart. You're so... fuck... you're so thick, baby."

He held himself still. Every muscle in his body screaming at him to thrust forward, to bury himself to the root in the wet, clenching heat of her. But he held. Because she told him to. Because even now, even with his cock inside her, even with every rule in the world broken and burning behind them, he was still the boy who did what his mother asked.

Her chest rose and fell. Rose and fell. Her nipples hard and flushed pink, standing up from the full swell of her tits like they were reaching for him. Sweat had gathered in the hollow of her throat. A bead of it ran down between her breasts, tracing the valley, disappearing beneath the curve.

"Okay." She nodded. Small, quick jerks. "Okay, baby. More. Give Mummy more."

He pushed deeper. Another inch. She made a noise that wasn't language. Something guttural and animal that came from the back of her throat, a sound he'd never heard another human being make. Her pussy clamped down on him so hard his vision blurred. Tight. Hot. Wet. Muscular walls gripping his shaft like a fist made of silk, squeezing him, pulling him deeper even while her body tried to figure out how to accommodate him.

Another inch. Her thighs spread wider. Her right hand left the duvet and grabbed his forearm. Nails biting crescents into his skin. Her left hand went to her own face. Fingers pressing against her mouth. Eyes squeezing shut.

"Keep going." Muffled behind her hand. "All the way, baby. Mummy needs all of it. Give Mummy all of it."

Halfway now. He could feel parts of her he was certain no one had ever touched. Deep. The head of his cock pushing against something soft and yielding inside her. Her whole body trembled. Not the sexy, performative kind she'd used during the yoga and the teasing. Real trembling. Her legs quaking on either side of his hips. Her stomach muscles fluttering. Her fingers white-knuckled on his arm.

He kept going. Slow. So slow. Watching every micro-expression that crossed her face. The furrow between her eyebrows. The way her nostrils flared. The way her bottom lip rolled between her teeth and then released, slick with spit.

Another inch. Another. His hips met the inside of her thighs. He pressed forward one final time and felt the head of his cock hit something deep inside her that made her entire body jolt. He stopped. He was not all the way in. He could feel it. There was still an inch of his shaft that her body wouldn't take. Physically could not take. But his pelvis was flush against hers and her legs were wrapped around him and he was deeper inside his mother than he'd been inside anyone or anything in his life.

They were both still.

One long, suspended moment. The room silent except for the sound of their breathing. Ragged. Uneven. Out of sync. A car drove past on the road outside. A dog barked somewhere down the street. Normal sounds from a normal world that no longer applied to them. To this room. To what they were doing.

Her eyes rolled back. The green disappearing behind white. Her mouth opened and the air came out of her lungs in a long, shuddering exhale.

"Oh my god."

Not loud. Not performative. A genuine invocation. Like she'd found religion at the bottom of a sin. Her hands found his face. Both of them. Cupping his jaw. Pulling him down toward her. She kissed him. Soft. Slow. Her tongue finding his. Tasting him. Tasting herself on him from earlier. Her hips rolled. Just a fraction. Just enough to shift him inside her by half an inch. She moaned into his mouth.

"You have no idea." She whispered it against his lips. "You have no idea how that feels, baby. How full Mummy is. How deep you are. Oh god. Oh god, Charlie."

He pulled back. Slowly. Feeling every ridge and fold of her clenching around his shaft on the way out. To the tip. The thick head of his cock stretching her entrance from the inside. She whimpered. Actually whimpered. Her heels dug into the backs of his thighs, pulling at him, trying to drag him back inside.

He pushed in. All the way. One long, slow, devastating stroke that drove the air from her lungs. She came.

On the first full stroke. Not the third. The first.

Her spine curved upward off the mattress. Her pussy clamped down on him so tight he couldn't move. Couldn't pull out. Couldn't push deeper. Just locked inside her while she shattered around him. Her mouth open in a silent scream. Her nails raking lines down his forearms. Her whole body pulling taut like a bowstring. Wet heat flooded around his cock. He could feel her pulsing. Rhythmic contractions squeezing his shaft in waves.

He panicked. Started to pull back.

"Don't." Her hand shot to his arse. Both hands. Grabbing the muscle. Fingers digging in. Hauling him deeper. "Don't stop. Don't you dare fucking stop. Don't stop, baby, keep going, keep... keep..."

He kept going.

The second stroke was harder. Faster. He pulled back to the tip and drove into her and she cried out, a sharp, cracked sound that bounced off the bedroom walls and the ceiling. Her tits bounced from the impact. Heavy, full, the nipples tracing arcs in the air as her body rocked beneath him.

Third stroke. Fourth. He found a rhythm. Long, deep, pulling out and then filling her completely. Each thrust bottoming out against that soft wall deep inside her. Each withdrawal dragging a different sound from her mouth. Whimpers. Half-words. Fragments of sentences that started as thoughts and dissolved into noise.

"Yes... yes... there... there, baby, right there, right there..."

Fifth stroke. Sixth. He watched her face. Her eyes half-closed, unfocused, the green barely visible beneath heavy lids. Her mouth wet and open. Spit glistening on her bottom lip. Her hair spread across the pillow in tangles, honey-blonde gone dark with sweat at the temples.

Seventh stroke. She came again.

Different this time. Not the sudden detonation of the first one. A wave. Building from deep inside her, rolling through her body. Her stomach muscles rippling. Her legs tightening around him. Her hands clawing at his back. Nails breaking skin. He felt it. Sharp lines of pain across his shoulder blades. She dragged them downward, ten parallel tracks, marking him. Branding him.

"Charlie..." His name came out of her like a prayer. Like a curse. Like something she'd been holding behind her teeth for years. "Charlie, Charlie, Charlie..."

He didn't stop. He couldn't. The bet, his father, Jules, twenty grand, all of it had gone. Burnt away. Incinerated by the wet, brutal, perfect rhythm of his mother's cunt taking his cock. Nothing existed outside this room. Nothing had ever existed outside this room. The world was the size of a double bed and it contained two people and everything else was static.

The long strokes shortened. He couldn't help it. His body taking over. Instinct overriding control. The animal part of his brain seizing the wheel. Shorter. Faster. Harder. The sound of it changing. The slow, slick glide replaced by something sharper, wetter, more percussive. Skin against skin. His hips snapping against hers. Her body jolting beneath him with each impact.

She matched him. Met every thrust with a lift of her hips. Ground against him on every instroke. Used muscles inside her he didn't know existed, gripping him, milking him, pulling him deeper. Her ankles crossed behind his back. Locked. Holding him in.

"Harder, baby. Harder. Mummy can take it. Mummy needs it harder."

He gave her harder. The bed frame protested. A creak, then a groan, then a rhythmic knocking as the headboard met the wall. She didn't care. He didn't care. The noise became part of the soundtrack. Skin on skin. The wet sounds of her pussy. The headboard. Their breathing. Her voice.

He got braver.

He didn't plan it. Didn't think about it. His right hand left the mattress and found her wrists. Both of them. Gathered them together above her head and pinned them to the pillow with one hand. She tested the grip. Pulled against it. Couldn't get free. Her eyes snapped open. Wide. Something new in them. Something electric and dangerous.

His left hand moved to her throat. Not squeezing. Just resting there. His fingers around the column of her neck. Thumb on one side. Four fingers on the other. Gentle. Exploratory. A question asked with pressure instead of words.

She moaned. Deep and guttural, a sound that vibrated against his palm. She tilted her chin up. Bared her throat to him. Offered it.

"Squeeze, baby." Her voice thin now. Reedy. Coming from behind the pressure of his hand. "Squeeze Mummy's throat. Mummy's a slut. Treat Mummy like one."

His fingers tightened. Not much. Enough to feel the tendons in her neck shift beneath his grip. Enough to restrict airflow without cutting it off. Her face flushed. Pink spreading from her chest up through her neck and into her cheeks. Her mouth opened wider. Her eyes glazed.

She came.

Violent. Her whole body bucking against his grip. Wrists straining against his hand. Throat pulsing under his fingers. Pussy clenching so hard around his cock that he had to grit his teeth and hold himself still to keep from losing it. She made no sound. Couldn't. His hand was on her throat and the orgasm had stolen whatever air remained. Her face went red. Then scarlet. Her eyes rolled back and her body went rigid beneath him and for three, four, five seconds she was somewhere else entirely.

He released her throat. She sucked in air. Massive, gasping lungfuls. Her chest heaving. Ribs standing out. Stomach concaving with the force of each breath.

"Oh fuck." She swallowed. Coughed. Swallowed again. "Oh fuck, baby. Where did you... how did you know to..."

He didn't answer. He let go of her wrists. Grabbed her legs instead. Behind the knees. Pushed them up. Up and forward, folding her in half. Her knees beside her ears. Her flexibility from two years of yoga suddenly, gloriously useful. Her arse lifted off the bed. The angle changed.

He could go deeper now.

The first stroke in this new position made her shriek. Not moan, not cry out, not gasp. Shriek. High and sharp and uncontrolled, a sound pulled from somewhere primal. His cock hit a spot inside her that the previous angle had missed. Something deep and electric that made her whole body jerk like she'd touched a live wire.

"There! Fuck! Right there, right there, don't move, don't change anything, just... there!"

He stayed there. The headboard slamming the wall now. Not knocking. Slamming. Plaster dust trickling down behind the bed frame. A picture on the wall rattled. He heard it but didn't process it. The only thing he processed was his mother folded beneath him. Her legs over his shoulders. Her tits bouncing so hard they hit her chin on every thrust. Her hair stuck to her forehead. Her mouth open. Tongue out. Eyes rolled to white.

Mascara from earlier, smudged and running, tracking dark lines down her temples. The woman who raised him. The woman who made him eat his vegetables and brush his teeth and do his homework. Folded in half on her dead husband's bed. Taking her son's cock so deep she could feel it in her stomach. Making sounds that would haunt the walls of this house forever.

She lost her mind. The words came out of her in a torrent, disconnected from thought, disconnected from self-awareness. The verbal equivalent of a dam breaking. Things she didn't know were inside her. Things she'd buried so deep she didn't know they existed until his cock reached them.

"I'm your slut." Her voice cracking. Tears and sweat and spit mixing on her face. "I'm your fucking slut, baby. Mummy's your slut. Mummy's yours. I'm yours, Charlie. I'm yours. I'm yours."

He drove deeper. Faster. She screamed.

"Breed Mummy. Breed me. Ruin me. Cum in Mummy, cum in me, don't ever stop, don't you ever fucking stop."

The headboard cracked something behind the wall. He didn't care. She didn't care.

"I should have done this years ago." Sobbing now. Not sad tears. Something beyond sadness, beyond joy, something that existed in a space between those words where language hadn't caught up to human experience. "I should have given this to you... I should have... oh god, I'm a terrible mummy, I'm such a bad mummy, I'm the worst mummy..."

"You feel so good." A whisper now. Ragged. Vocal cords shredded from screaming. "You feel so big, baby. Mummy can feel you everywhere. Mummy can feel you in her chest. You're so deep, baby. You're so deep in Mummy."

He lost count of her orgasms. They stopped being individual events and became a continuous state, one rolling into the next. Her body perpetually clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing. Each peak slightly higher than the last. Her voice climbing. Her nails tearing fresh tracks down his arms and chest.

One of them was different. Bigger. Her eyes went all the way back. White showing all around. She stopped breathing. Her whole body locked up. Rigid. Frozen. Not a sound coming out of her. He watched her face and a cold spike of fear punched through the fog.

He started to slow.

"Don't." The word came from somewhere deep inside her, dragged up like an anchor from the seabed. "Fucking. Stop."

He didn't stop.

The next one was worse. Or better. He couldn't tell and neither could she. She went limp beneath him. All the tension draining out of her body at once. Her legs sliding off his shoulders. Her arms falling to her sides. Boneless. Slack. Her mouth open against the pillow. A line of spit connecting her lip to the cotton. Just noise now. Small, high, broken sounds on every thrust. Keening. Like an animal in a trap.

Her eyes were open but nobody lived behind them. Gone. Somewhere else. Somewhere his cock had sent her that didn't have a name or a postcode. Just sensation. Just wave after wave of it, crashing, receding, crashing.

He pulled her up. Fisted her hair at the roots and lifted her torso off the mattress. Her head lolling. Eyes struggling to focus. He wrapped her arm around his neck. Held her against his chest. One arm around her waist. The other still in her hair. She clung to him. Fingers weak. Grip failing. But trying.

He kept fucking her. This new position intimate in a way the others hadn't been. Her breasts crushed against his chest. Her face in the crook of his neck. Her breath hot and wet on his skin. Her pussy gripping him from a different angle, tighter, the walls squeezing his shaft in a way that made his balls draw up and his spine tingle and his vision narrow.

She whispered into his neck. Lips moving against his skin. He couldn't hear the words. Didn't need to. The vibration of them was enough.

Close. He was close. Had been close since she said "breed Mummy," since she said his name like a prayer, since the first stroke, since the shower, since sixteen days ago when Jules Hartley vaulted the garden fence and set all of this in motion. Seventeen days of denial compressed into a single point of pressure at the base of his cock. Building. Building. A dam straining against more water than it was designed to hold.

"Mum." The word tore out of him. Rough. Desperate. "Mum, I'm gonna..."

She came back. From wherever she'd been, she came back. Her eyes focusing. Finding his. Green on brown. Mother on son. Her legs wrapped around him. Ankles crossing at the small of his back. Locking tight. Her hands cupped his face.

"Inside." She held his eyes. Held them with everything she had. "Inside, baby. Inside Mummy. Don't you dare pull out. Cum inside Mummy. Cum inside me. Fill me up, baby. Fill Mummy up."

He pinned her hips to the mattress. Both hands on her waist. Pressing her down. Holding her still. Last few thrusts. Brutal. The headboard hit the wall so hard plaster cracked on the other side. He was making noises. Sounds he'd never heard come out of his own mouth. Low, guttural, animal. His vision whited out at the edges. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. His toes curled against the sheets. Every muscle in his body contracting at once, pulling toward a single point.

He came inside his mother.

Deep. Pressed all the way in. His cock buried to the hilt in the woman who gave birth to him. Pulsing. Pumping. Flooding her with seventeen days of everything he had. Hot. Thick. So much of it that she gasped when she felt the first pulse. Her eyes going wide. Her mouth forming that O again.

Her legs tightened around his back. Iron. He couldn't have pulled out if he'd wanted to. She held him. Kept him. Took everything he gave her.

He pulsed. Her pussy contracted around him. Milking. Squeezing. Drawing more out of him. Pulsed again. She moaned, low and satisfied, a sound so different from the screaming that it belonged to a different woman entirely. Again. His whole body shaking now. Trembling. The release so intense it bordered on pain. Again.

She came. One final time. Quiet. Gentle. Her body tightening around his. Her breath catching. Her fingers tightening in his hair. Not the violent, shattering orgasms from before. Something deeper. Something that started in her chest and rolled down through her stomach and settled in the place where his cock still throbbed inside her. She pressed her forehead against his. Breathed his air. Their noses touching. Eyes open. Looking at each other from an inch away.

He collapsed.

On top of her. His full weight. She took it. Wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him and stroked his hair and let him crush her into the mattress. He was still inside her. Still hard. He was never going to go soft today. She could feel it. Him. The warmth of him filling her. His cum and her cum mixed together. Leaking around the seal of his cock and running down between her thighs and soaking into the duvet beneath them.

Silence.

Just breathing. His face buried in the pillow beside her head. Her fingers tracing idle patterns on the back of his neck. The room settling. The headboard still. Plaster dust settling on the carpet behind the bed. The smell of sweat and sex and something sweet that she would later identify as them.

His phone buzzed.

From the floor. From the pocket of his joggers, crumpled beside the bed where he'd kicked them off a lifetime ago. A single vibration against the carpet.

Another.

Another. Several in quick succession. The group chat. The sound of teenage boys typing furiously.

"Should you get that, baby?" Her voice wrecked. Hoarse. She sounded like she'd been gargling gravel. Her fingers still in his hair. Still stroking. Still holding him inside her.

"Probably."

He didn't pull out. Didn't move his hips. Just reached over the side of the bed with one arm. The stretch pulled at the scratches on his back. He fished the phone from the pocket of his joggers. His face still buried in the pillow. Still inside her.

He thumbed the screen. The light reflected in his eyes. She watched his face. Watched it change.

He laughed.

Not a chuckle. Not a polite exhale. A proper laugh. Head back. Mouth open. Chest shaking against hers. His cock shifting inside her with the movement. A laugh that was also relief and disbelief and something close to hysteria.

"What?"

He turned the phone toward her. She squinted at the screen.

A wall of messages. Five names she recognized. Teenage shorthand and capital letters and too many exclamation marks.

JULES IS OUT. TAPPED TWENTY MINUTES AGO. CHARLIE TAKES THE POT. 20K TO THE MAN. CONGRATS YOU ABSOLUTE PSYCHO.

Beneath it, from Jules himself: Fair play mate. Mia happened. I'm not sorry.

Beneath that, a string of replies she didn't read because her brain had stopped processing.

She looked at the screen. Looked at Charlie. At his face, flushed and damp and grinning. At her son, still inside her, still hard, still leaking cum into her body, who had just won twenty thousand pounds because the boy who was paying her to make him lose had lost first.

"Jules tapped out." Charlie's voice was light. Giddy. "Looks like he cracked about twenty minutes ago. I won, Mum."

"You won."

"Twenty grand. All mine."

She blinked. Her brain was doing mathematics that her body was too fucked to perform. Twenty minutes ago. She'd been on her back with her legs over his shoulders twenty minutes ago. She'd been screaming his name twenty minutes ago. He'd already won before he finished.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Charlie."

"Yeah?"

"What... what bet, exactly?"

The question didn't land the way she hoped it would. She'd tried for innocent. For confused. For the woman who knew nothing about any bet, who had simply fallen into bed with her son because she couldn't help herself, because the sexual tension of two weeks had overwhelmed her maternal instincts. But her voice betrayed her. A hairline fracture in the word "what" that shifted its frequency from confused to guilty.

He heard it.

Of course he heard it. He was his father's son. Richard had been the same way. Could hear a lie in a sentence the way a musician could hear a wrong note in a chord. Something imperceptible to everyone else that landed in his ear like a brick.

He pulled back enough to look at her properly. His weight on his elbows. His cock still inside her. His expression changing. The post-orgasm warmth cooling in his eyes, replaced by something sharper.

"You know what bet, Mum."

Not a question.

She held his eyes for three seconds. Four. Five. The silence expanding between them like a balloon filling with something toxic.

"I don't..."

"Mum."

One word. Quiet. The same tone she'd used on him when he was twelve and had broken the kitchen window playing football and told her the cat did it. Charlie. That's all she'd had to say. Charlie. And he'd crumbled. Told her everything. Cleaned it up. Paid for the replacement out of his birthday money.

Now he used the same tone on her. And she understood, for the first time, why it worked.

"Jules." His voice steady. "He approached you. Didn't he."

Her mouth opened. A denial half-formed on her tongue. She could still save this. Could still play the confused mother. Could still...

"He told me he was going to."

She froze.

"Told you?"

"About two weeks ago. He mentioned it. Said he was thinking about asking you to help him win. Getting you to... tease me. Break me. Split the money."

Her heart hammered against her ribs. He was still inside her. His cum was cooling inside her body. And he was looking at her with eyes that knew everything.

"What did you say to him?"

"I told him to fuck off."

A beat. A long one. The house creaked around them, settling, adjusting to the new normal the way houses do.

He was lying. She could see it. The same micro-expression Richard used to get. A tiny flex at the corner of his jaw. The faintest shift of his look, left and up, the direction people look when they're constructing rather than remembering. He hadn't told Jules to fuck off. He probably hadn't known at all. He was testing her.

He was testing her and she was pinned beneath him with his cock inside her and his cum leaking out of her and marks from his fingers on her throat and scratches from her nails on his back and there was nowhere to hide. No distance to retreat to. No hallway to escape down. Just his face above hers and his eyes in hers and the truth sitting between them like a grenade with the pin out.

She started laughing.

It came out of nowhere. Punched through the tension like a fist through glass. Not a giggle. Not a nervous titter. A full, body-shaking, head-back, mouth-open laugh that made her stomach clench around his cock and her eyes water and her chest heave. She laughed until tears ran down her temples and into her hair. She laughed until she couldn't breathe. She laughed with his cock still inside her and his cum still in her and the smell of sex on every surface of the room.

"Oh my god." She pressed her hands over her face. Fingers spread. Peering at him through the gaps. "Oh my god, sweetheart. Oh, Jules Hartley, you absolute snake."

He waited. Patient. Still inside her. Still hard.

She took her hands away. Looked at him. Her face flushed and wet and ruined with mascara and tears and laughter. She told him everything.

The fence. Jules in the garden. The offer. The fifty-fifty split. The thong bikini and the yoga and the banana at breakfast. The pyjama shorts. The fingertip on his thigh during the film. The kiss on his lap. The handjob on the sofa. All of it. The whole two weeks laid out on the bed between them like a deck of cards spread face up.

She told him about the plan dying. When it died. Where.

"The shower." She touched his face. Traced the line of his jaw. "When I saw it. When I saw you. The plan was dead the second I got on my knees, sweetheart. Everything after that was real. The plan has been dead for hours. I forgot about the money. I forgot about Jules. I forgot about everything except wanting you inside me."

He was quiet for a long time. Looking at her. Reading her face the way she'd taught him to read faces, the way his father used to read hers, checking for the tells and the ticks and the microexpressions that separate truth from performance.

He should be furious. She knew it. He knew it. Seventeen days of agony. Sleep deprivation. Blue balls that bordered on medical. Two weeks of his own mother systematically dismantling his willpower for a payday. He should be screaming at her. Pulling out. Getting dressed. Slamming the door. Calling her what she was.

He wasn't furious.

"You owe me ten grand."

She blinked.

"I... what?"

"Ten grand. You were trying to make me lose twenty. Your half of the split. But I won anyway, so you cost me nothing." He paused. Something shifted in his face. The boy receding. The man arriving. "But you put in two weeks of work, Mum. Solid work. Committed. Professional." The ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "I'll pay you for services rendered."

She stared at him. This boy. This man. This person she'd made inside her body nineteen years ago, who was now inside her body again, who had just won twenty thousand pounds and discovered his mother was a scheming, mercenary slut who'd tried to seduce him for cash, and whose response was to make a joke about payroll.

Richard. He was so much like Richard it made her chest ache.

She planted her hands on his chest. Pushed. He went with it, rolling onto his back, and she followed, swinging her leg over his hips, settling on top of him. The shift made them both gasp. His cock finding new angles inside her. Deeper in some ways, shallower in others. She sat up. Straight. Her weight on his pelvis. Her palms flat on his chest. His cock stretching her open all over again. The gravity pushing her down onto him. Taking him deeper than she had on her back.

Her hair hung around her face. Wild. Tangled. Stuck to her cheeks and her neck with sweat. Her tits hung heavy above him. Nipples grazing his chest when she leaned forward. Cum was drying on her inner thighs. His cum. Her cum. Mixed together and cooling on her skin.

She started to move. Slow. A rolling grind that shifted him inside her inch by inch, forward and back. The ridge of his cockhead dragging against her front wall. Hitting that spot. Making her breath catch and her eyes flutter.

"Services rendered." She looked down at him. Her son. On his back beneath her. Hands at his sides. Cock in her cunt. Twenty grand richer. "Sweetheart, Mummy has only just started rendering."

She rolled her hips. Slow. Deliberate. Watching his face change. Watching his jaw clench and his eyes darken and his hands move to her thighs, gripping, fingers sinking into the soft flesh.

"Mummy belongs to you now, baby." She leaned down. Brought her face close to his. Her lips brushing his as she spoke. Her pussy clenching around him on every word. "Mummy belongs to you."

She kissed him. Soft. Long. Her hips never stopping. Slow circles. Taking him deep. Letting him feel every inch of what was his now.

"Mummy belongs to you."