She was forty-two, thick in the hips and heavy in the tits, the kind of Bangla mother who still wore her sari low on her waist so the soft roll of belly showed when she bent to cook. Her son, twenty-five and built from hauling bricks, had been staring at that belly for months. Tonight the house was empty. His father was away for work in Dhaka and the power had cut, leaving only the yellow flicker of a kerosene lamp.
Ma, its too hot, he said from the doorway, voice already thick. Take the sari off.
She turned, sweat shining on her collarbones. Dont talk like that, beta.
But she didnt move away when he stepped close. His hand went straight to the knot at her waist. One tug and the sari pooled at her feet. Underneath she wore only a thin petticoat and blouse soaked through. Her dark nipples poked hard against the fabric.
Fuck, Ma, he growled, yanking the blouse open. Buttons popped. Her heavy brown tits spilled out, nipples fat and long. He grabbed one and squeezed, milk beading at the tip even though she hadnt nursed in years. These are mine tonight.
She moaned, low and dirty. Youre my son. This is wrong.
Wrong feels good, he answered, shoving the petticoat down. Her thick bush was already wet, curls glistening. He pushed two fingers straight into her cunt, no teasing. She was dripping, hot and tight around his knuckles. Listen to that pussy talk. It wants its sons cock.
She grabbed his wrist but didnt pull him out. Instead she rocked her hips, fucking herself on his fingers. Then give it to me. Fuck your ma like a whore.
He ripped his lungi off. His cock sprang up, thick and veined, the head already leaking. He spun her around, bent her over the wooden table, and slammed in to the root in one thrust. She cried out, the sound raw and wet. Her cunt clenched, sucking him deeper.
Harder, she panted. Fuck me like you hate me.
He did. Hips slapping loud against her fat ass, the table scraping the floor with every thrust. Sweat dripped from his chest onto her back. He reached around and pinched her clit, rubbing fast circles while he pounded her. Her juices ran down his balls.
Tell me whose pussy this is, he snarled.
Yours, beta. Your mas cunt is yours to ruin.
He pulled out, spun her, and lifted her onto the table. Legs spread wide, he drove back in. Her tits bounced with every stroke. He leaned down and sucked a nipple hard, teeth scraping, drinking the thin sweet milk that leaked out. She held his head to her chest, moaning filthy Bangla curses.
Chod amake, chod tomar ma ke. Fill your mothers hole.
He fucked her through two shaking orgasms, her cunt fluttering and squirting around his cock. When he was close he pulled out, shoved her to her knees, and fed his cock into her mouth. She took it deep, gagging, spit and cunt juice coating her chin. He came with a grunt, thick ropes shooting down her throat. She swallowed every drop, then licked him clean like a good mother.
They didnt stop there.
He carried her to the bed, spread her legs again, and ate her sloppy cunt until she screamed. Then he flipped her onto all fours and took her ass, slow and deep, while she fingered her own clit and begged for more cum.
By morning she was covered in his seed, sari ruined, body marked with bite marks and handprints. She kissed his forehead like always, but her voice was hoarse from screaming.
Tomorrow night your father is still gone. Come to Ma again.
He grinned, already hard. Every night, Ma. This pussy belongs to your son now.
