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His words – not mine.

What can I say?

A very filthy mother raised a very filthy son.

Surprise, surprise.

In all seriousness though…

Fucking him is as close to bliss as I’ve ever gotten – and trust me, I’ve got quite a few miles on my tank.

Hardly a spring chicken – you know the score.

My experience apart, how can I not be utterly cock drunk off him ?

One of his favorite moves as of late has been holding me down, ripping off the condom, and sliding in completely bareback before I can stop him (*let’s face it: not that I would…*), and every time, it takes everything inside of me not to wrap my legs around him and let him completely drain those enormous balls of his entirely inside of me.

I’m talking every sticky, forbidden drop.

Oh, the wrongness of it all…

It never ceases to make my thighs begin sticking together.

Frankly, he makes me feel like…like a hormonal teenager again.

Our greatest taboo. Our biggest boundary.

I’m not ashamed to admit it: I’ve thrown caution to the wind on quite a few occasions only to end up at our local Walgreens or CVS buying Plan B behind big sunglasses or a baseball cap.

It wasn’t like the cashier knew I kept purchasing it because ***MY OWN SON*** had fucked me raw and emptied his baby juice deep inside of me…yet somehow, that seemed to do little to ever ease my shame.

***Bad mom. Bad mom. Bad mom.***

The term rattles in my head on a neverending loop, and yet…

I can’t bring myself to withstand him.

How can I when he fucks me so tenderly? So lovingly? So…when it comes right down to it…artfully?

Above all else:

So much better than his rotten father ever could.

NSFW: yes

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