She stood in the kitchen doorway, towel still damp from the shower, when her son walked in from the garage. At twenty-five he was bigger than his father ever was, shoulders broad, eyes hard with something she had never seen before. The door clicked shut behind him and the lock turned.
"Get on your knees," he said.
Her mouth opened but no sound came out. The towel slipped from her fingers. He crossed the room in three steps, grabbed a fistful of her wet hair, and pulled her down. The tile was cold under her bare knees.
"You heard me," he growled. "Open that pretty mouth."
Her hands came up on instinct, pushing against his thighs, but he was already unbuckling his belt. The zipper rasped loud in the quiet kitchen. His cock sprang free, thick, veined, already hard. He slapped it against her cheek once, twice, leaving wet streaks.
"No," she whispered. The word cracked.
He didn't answer with words. He pushed the head past her lips, forcing her jaw wide. She gagged immediately, eyes watering, but he kept pushing until her nose pressed against the coarse hair at the base. Her throat convulsed around him. Spit spilled down her chin and dripped onto her bare breasts.
"That's it," he muttered, voice low and filthy. "Suck your son's cock like the free-use slut you are."
Tears ran down her face. She tried to pull back but his grip on her hair tightened. He started thrusting, short and brutal, using her mouth like a hole. Each time the head hit the back of her throat she made a wet, choking sound. Her hands clutched at his jeans, nails digging in, but she couldn't stop him.
He pulled out just long enough for her to gasp for air, strings of saliva connecting her swollen lips to his glistening shaft. Then he shoved back in, deeper, holding her head still while he fucked her face in steady, punishing strokes.
"Look at you," he said, voice rough. "Tits out, mouth full of dick. Been waiting for this, haven't you? Walking around the house in those little shorts, bending over. Free for the taking."
She made a broken noise around his cock. He laughed once, dark and pleased, then pulled out again. He dragged the wet head across her lips, smearing precum and spit.
"Say it," he ordered. "Say you want your son's cock."
She shook her head, but the motion was weak. Her voice came out hoarse. "Please…"
He shoved back in without warning, hips snapping forward until her throat bulged. He held her there, grinding, letting her struggle and choke until her vision spotted. When he finally let her breathe she was coughing, drool pouring from her mouth onto the floor.
He hauled her up by the hair, spun her around, and bent her over the kitchen table. The wood was cool against her cheek. He kicked her legs apart and pressed the fat head of his cock against her pussy. She was dripping wet despite everything. He noticed.
"Look at that," he said, sliding the head up and down her slit, coating himself. "Your cunt's soaking for it. Free mom pussy, dripping for her own son."
He slammed in to the hilt in one thrust. She cried out, the sound raw. He didn't give her time to adjust. He fucked her hard, the table scraping across the floor with every brutal drive. His balls slapped against her clit. One hand stayed fisted in her hair, the other reached around to pinch her nipple, twisting until she whimpered.
"Take it," he grunted. "Take every inch."
He pulled out suddenly and flipped her onto her back. Before she could react he straddled her chest, pinning her arms with his knees. His cock, shiny with her juices, hovered over her face again.
"Open," he demanded.
She did. He fed it back into her mouth, fucking her face while his heavy balls dragged across her tits. Every thrust made wet, obscene sounds. Her throat worked around him, swallowing what she could, the rest spilling out the sides of her stretched lips.
He was close. She could feel it in the way his rhythm stuttered. He pulled back just enough to paint her tongue with the first thick rope of cum. Then he pushed deep again, pumping the rest straight down her throat while she swallowed convulsively around him.
When he finally pulled out she stayed on the table, chest heaving, mouth open, cum and spit glistening on her chin and neck. He tucked himself away, zipped up, and looked down at her.
"Same time tomorrow," he said. "Don't bother getting dressed."
He left her there, legs spread, used, the taste of him still thick on her tongue. The front door opened and closed. The house was silent again except for the sound of her ragged breathing.
She didn't move.
Not yet. Her body was still twitching, pussy clenching around nothing, mouth sore and wet. She closed her eyes and let the shame and heat roll through her in equal measure, already knowing she would be waiting when he came home again.
