I never planned for it to happen, but in our small two-bedroom flat, things just boiled over one sticky Mumbai night. My mom, 42, had been widowed five years, and I was 22, back from college, sharing the space with her. She walked around in thin nighties that clung to her heavy tits and wide hips, no bra, nipples poking like they were begging. I jerked off thinking about her every night, hearing her soft moans from the next room when she thought I was asleep.
That evening the power went out. We sat on the floor with candles, drinking cold beer she’d brought home. Her saree pallu slipped, showing deep cleavage and the dark valley between her breasts. “Beta, it’s so hot,” she said, fanning herself. Her voice was low, thick. I couldn’t stop staring. She caught me, didn’t look away. Instead she leaned forward, letting the fabric fall more. “You keep looking at your mother like that. What are you thinking?”
I told her straight. “I want to fuck you. I’ve wanted to for months.” No soft words, just the truth. Her eyes went dark. She stood, pulled the saree off in one tug, standing there in just a tiny blouse and petticoat. Her thighs were thick, her pussy mound obvious through the cloth. “Then come here and do it,” she said, voice rough.
I got up, grabbed her, shoved her against the wall. My hands went straight under the blouse, squeezing those fat tits, thumbs rubbing her hard nipples. She moaned loud, reached down, grabbed my cock through my shorts. “It’s so big, beta. Bigger than your father’s.” She yanked my shorts down, wrapped her fingers around my shaft, stroking hard and fast. Pre-cum leaked and she smeared it over the head.
I pushed her petticoat up, found her cunt already wet and dripping. Two fingers slid inside her easily. She was tight, hot, clenching around me. “Fuck, your pussy is so wet for your son,” I growled. She spread her legs wider. “Yes, put it in me. Fuck your mother’s cunt right now.”
I lifted one of her legs, lined my cock up, and slammed in deep in one thrust. She cried out, nails digging into my back. I fucked her standing there, hard and fast, the wet slap of skin loud in the dark room. Her tits bounced out of the blouse. I sucked one nipple hard while pounding her. She kept talking dirty. “That’s it, fuck me like a whore. Your mother needs this cock every night.”
We moved to the floor. She got on all fours, ass up, saree bunched at her waist. I knelt behind her, spread her cheeks, and drove back into her sloppy pussy. I reached around, rubbed her swollen clit while I fucked her deep. She pushed back, meeting every thrust. “Harder, beta. Make your mother cum on your cock.” Her cunt squeezed me when she came, juices running down my balls.
I flipped her onto her back, hooked her legs over my shoulders, and fucked her even deeper. Her big tits shook with every slam. She grabbed my ass, pulling me in. “Fill me up. Cum inside your mother’s pussy.” I groaned and unloaded, thick ropes of cum pumping into her, overflowing around my cock.
We didn’t stop.
After a few minutes she sucked me hard again, tasting our mixed cum on my dick, then climbed on top and rode me, grinding her clit against me until she came twice more. By morning we were still at it, her riding reverse so I could watch my cock disappear into her used cunt while I slapped her ass.
From that night on, every evening after the house was quiet became our time. She’d come to my bed in just her blouse, spread her legs, and say, “Come fuck your mother again.” Raw, no hiding it. We both knew it was wrong, but her wet pussy and my hard cock didn’t care. We kept it our dirty secret inside those four walls.
