Content warning: incest. Everyone is 21+ and consenting. Written as if it happened to "you" so you can know how overwhelming it felt to have mom.

Part 1 [link] | Part 2 [link]

“Three…! Two…!” One image forever burned into your retina: you and your friends swinging mom like a battering ram, until you tossed her (squealing) into a pool. Her arms and legs flailing for two seconds that feel like twenty when you watch it back. Her white bikini swallowed up between her big, pink-gold bum cheeks. Her slow-motion cry, “Brats!” as her chest hit the water with a smack. You and your friends cringing – yikes, I hope that didn’t hurt. The colossal splash created by your mom’s big mommy butt. She swam up to the surface, fixing her bikini top, with the most playful smile on her face. She said, “One more!”

Your mom’s just loveable. That’s a fact of life. And she loves being the centre of attention. After a couple years single, she kind of seemed starved for it.

It probably helps loveability to look amazing in a two-piece.

Brandon’s gated house, which he won’t admit is a mansion, sat behind pine tree cover about an hour out of the city. At the top of a hill, its floor-to-ceiling windows looked out at acres of private green and grey land (spring struggled this year). A field where Brandon’s modestly salaried parents could practice their average middle-class hobbies like clay pigeon shooting and horseback croquet. On Easter Sunday, thanks to his parents’ delayed first-class flight, the house was your one-day vacation home (and Brandon’s, Dom’s, Lucas’, your mom’s). A boxy, cherry wood, modernist playground of landscaped stone and heated floors. The perfect place to whip a towel at mom’s ass.

(Lucas was really good at that. The crack echoed back and forth across the indoor pool room. Mom stuck him in a lifesaver and helped you roll him into a wall.)

The Easter Sundays of your childhood were somber days: spent in church with your grandparents, dressed-up in your slightly oversized suit, listening to sermons that warned you away from masturbation. You never imagined the holiday like this: sitting poolside with your friends, watching your mom’s glistening bikini body swim laps. (Four pairs of eyes traveling left to right, right to left…) Brandon turned off the security camera that watched his parents’ pool. Dom floated on an inflatable donut, Mexican Coke in-hand. You all swam and splashed and cannonballed until the world smelled like chlorine.

Then you hovered behind mom while she marveled at a renovated kitchen. (“Their fridge has a TV that sees into the fridge!”) With a soaking wet hug, mom shooed you back into the pool.

“I’m only gonna cook something small…” she claimed. “Then vacuum and mop… Just quickly! To say thanks for hosting us. Out, go. I need a break from my son’s bare-chested beauty, for god’s sake. You’re distracting me. Swim.”

Whether she was at home under her Snoopy blanket or swimming half-naked, your mom was as ‘mom’ as they come.

Twenty minutes later, mom would strut into the pool room with a tray of fat sandwiches. You all said thanks, and chastised her for being ‘such a mom,’ and urged her to join you all in the pool’s toasty, temperature-controlled water.

“Please, mom! Relax!” Every word echoed in that room.

“I’ll be in in a minute!” She dipped her toes and kicked some water your way. “I like taking care of my guys… Just hearing you four laugh makes me smile.”

Whenever she walked away, whatever you four were doing, you all stared. Mom’s dark hair was soaked black, sticking to her pretty face and dripping down her neck. Mom’s chest was shimmering wet; two perky handfuls tied together with white string, bouncing gently with each step. Mom’s thighs shook wherever she strut; a smooth, hypnotic wobble that magnetized everyone’s eyes.

“Holy hell, Peach looks good,” said Lucas, before she was all the way down the hall. (Mom said, “Thank you~!”) “We’re allowed to call her ‘Peach’ again, right?”

You nodded. “No harm in it now,” you said.

“Surely, this is as far as this goes,” said Lucas. “Whatever this is.”

Brandon said, “I don’t think she meant to, but she kinda felt my dick through my pants yesterday.”

Lucas: “The anaconda?!”

Brandon: “Yep. Sorry, Baby.” (You said, “It’s fine,” jealous/horny.)

Lucas: “God damn. Surely that’s as far as this goes.”

Dom: “Gangbangs don’t happen for real.”

Brandon: “True.”

You: “Yep.”

Dom: “…But if Baby says stop… She’s his mom. We stop.”

You couldn’t believe someone felt the need to say that – but, incredibly, it needed saying. Mom’s openness and flirtiness had gone way outside the norm. When you picked her up in the car that afternoon, she was already wearing her bikini, and little else. Whenever she sat poolside, she was ogling your friends in their swim shorts as liberally as you’d all ogled her. (Sizing up your height, your broadness, your chests, your chest hairs…) The four of you bobbed in blue water, watching tall windows fog, thinking all at once about the detail no one was discussing:

Yesterday, in your apartment, you’d all worked together to make mom wet.

Your friends probably felt guilty out of loyalty to you. You probably felt guilty because of long-ago Sunday church services… But the sinner inside was getting louder. (No one’s getting hurt, you thought.) And louder.

“Mom! You can’t keep cleaning their house! Come! Relax!”

“Well, if you miss me so much…” Mom walked her beautiful, string-tied body toward the hot tub, and slipped one foot at a time into the water’s rolling boil. She sighed, “Ahhh, that’s nice…” and her curves slowly sank. The four of you rushed into the tub to sit around her, in a circle. Her head flew back before she moaned, “This is heaven.”

Her feet floated up into the bubbles and down into your lap. There was, as always around mom, an atmosphere.

“If we get married,” Brandon said to her, “we’ll inherit this house.” (“That would be nice,” said mom.) “Then you can soak your feet all day. But ideally I’d want to live someplace a little bigger.” (“With your art commission money,” said mom.) “When that takes off.” (Mom pet Brandon’s arm. “Let’s do it.”)

You said, “Hold on. Don’t I get a say in this?”

Mom wiggled her toes in your lap, like she knew she was being naughty. She asked, “Which one of you makes out to be the best boyfriend?”

“Me,” said Lucas. (Everyone told him to shut up.) “I’m not kidding – I become such a disgusting softy.” (“I’ve seen that,” said Dom.) “Dom’s seen me simp.” (“But I’m a better boyfriend,” said Dom.)

Mom eyed Dom, up and down. “I feel like you’d have a wandering eye, Dom,” she said. “You’re too muscular. Your jaw’s too strong. Massage therapist boyfriend? I’d be doomed.”

Dom said, “I take care of a woman.” (“Weird thing to say,” said Lucas.)

The line worked on mom. She went, “Oooh, alright…! I like the sound of that…”

You said, “Don’t stroke his ego.” Dom had enough fangirls.

“What are you like to date, Miss Peach?” asked Brandon.

Mom stared at bubbles, seemingly thinking quite seriously about the question. “Sort of clingy, if I’m honest,” she said. “A bit obsessive. I do too much to please – some guys like it, some don’t.” (“Do you like being that way?” Dom asked.) “I don’t know… I always go into relationships thinking I’ll be really casual and cool this time. But then I’m asking him to move in with me, and cooking him three-course meals, and fucking him twice a day. Oops – sorry, Baby. I haven’t done any dating for a while, if that helps.” Under the water, mom’s toes rubbed your thigh.

“No, this is interesting for me,” you said, sort of honestly, sort of hornily. “I like knowing you as, I don’t know, an adult. Not just my mom.”

Mom looked at you like she was in love – like all moms look at all sons, you supposed. She mimed you a quick smooch through the steam, and asked, “What was I saying?” (“You get into relationships and…” Brandon stopped short of fuck your boyfriends a lot.) “Oh, sex. Sex, sex, sex. Do I talk too much about sex?” (Unanimous: “No.”) “Why would I ask four men that question? I guess… I think… It’s like I’ve been clingy as a rule ever since Baby’s dad left. I haven’t had a casual fling since my twenties, if you can believe it. I’d really like to try to stay casual, for once.” (“To have some fun,” said Dom.) “Yeah!” Mom did a dorky ‘fun’ dance – shaking her jiggling chest, left to right, right to left… “I just want an experience. Without the baggage, for once.”

Like a one-time gangbang with your son’s roommates. You tried to keep your perverted thoughts from manifesting in your eyes. Mom’s ass clapping down on twenty-one year-old dick. Mom’s mouth filled with hard cock. Shut up, brain. Under the cloudy water, you grew down your leg, bound inside your swim shorts, inching towards your mother’s foot.

“Next question,” said Lucas. “Ask us who’s got the best stamina.”

“Shush. Guys are so competitive,” mom rolled her eyes. “Alright. Which one of you…? Hmm… Has the best body?” (Three flexed biceps rose out of the water, one by one, and one tree trunk thigh.) “I see, I see…” Mom gave them all equal time. She tried to wrap her hand around Dom’s bulky shoulder. “Wow…” She pressed into the veins running through Brandon’s forearms, and watched with fascination as blue and red rose to the surface. “Gorgeous skin colouring…” She drew a smiley face in Lucas’ thick coat of body hair – she said, sincerely, “Woof. Love that.” She held your hand with her pruned fingers, gently, but had to look away from you to stop from smiling. “I’m biased, but I think Baby’s the best-looking.”

(“Booo!” “Ask us another one.” “I can’t believe I even tried.”)

“Which one of you is the kindest?” she asked.

You said, “Dom.” (Dom said, “Baby.”)

Mom’s smile flickered between the two of you. “Cuties. Who gives the best foot rubs?”

Brandon shrugged, “Uh… It’s sort of my thing…”

And then one of mom’s feet splashed up, out of the water, pivoting slowly and presumptuously toward Brandon’s lap. Under the water, he rubbed and rubbed her sole, his movements slow and considered. (He glanced at you: Stop? You gave him a nod, It’s okay.)

“Oh, that’s rRrRrRrRreal nice…” said mom, sinking deeper into her bubbling seat. Her perky chest floated on the surface. Inside her white bikini top, her nipples pointed to the dim, recessed lights dotting the pool room ceiling. The atmosphere grew thicker – you felt almost short of breath. Mom asked: “Who’s the best kisser?”

Lucas immediately said, “Only one way to find out.”

Mom chuckled. She finger-wagged him, No, bad boy. She also said, “…But good idea.” (!)

Lucas looked at you wide-eyed, like, There’s a chance.

Dom said, “I’m the best kisser.” (He glanced at you: Stop?)

You couldn’t believe the next words out of your mouth were: “Bullshit. Prove it.”

Mom’s eyes were closed in foot rubbed bliss. “Only say it if it’s true, Dom,” she said, her relaxed voice almost lost beneath the sound of rolling water. “I’d be a better judge than any of you. Kiss me and prove it.”

Every nerve in your body erupted, all at once. The hot tub’s water felt almost cool around your waist. You were, like it or not, rock hard against your mother’s heel.

Dom looked to you, and to your friends’ wide eyes, and sidled up to sit thigh-to-thigh with your mom.

Mom tilted her head so casually to his side.

“You sure?” Dom asked her – or asked you.

“Dominic,” mom said, “It’s not like anything serious is going to happen. You’re twenty-one. I’m almost forty-five. We’re on ‘vacation.’ Kiss me.”

Dom took one last look at you, and down at mom’s cupid’s bow mouth, and leaned into her shimmering wet curves for a kiss. Lips locked inside mom’s lips. Slipping tongue between her teeth.

Lucas mouthed, What the fuck…, jaw dropped, staring.

Brandon took a deep breath, trying to keep cool by staring at the water, putting his all into rubbing mom’s feet.

You’d created this situation yourself. You felt like the pervert Sunday masses warned you shouldn’t be. You felt lightheaded. You felt really fucking good.

Mom parted her lips for Dom’s, letting him inside her slowly. Meeting your best friend’s tongue with her tongue. Tickling his lip with a soft, left-right rub of her lip. She kissed like she knew she was a good kisser, but didn’t need to make a big show of proving it. Sealing their mouths together for one second, then two… Gnawing his bottom lip when the time was right.

She opened her dark eyes to look into his, and you’d never seen her flicker with so much fiery confidence.

“Very nice,” she said, holding on to his broadness to slowly, gently push him away. “Who am I judging next?” She was staring at Lucas.

You didn’t say ‘stop.’

Lucas (literally) shook off his nerves, and swam between her legs, and entered the competition.

Sitting behind Lucas, you couldn’t see for sure what went on between their mouths: you heard the click-clack of lips parted; the swill of a tongue, squelch, suckled. Lucas’ hand wandered up from below the water, up mom’s hip, hovering over mom’s breast. She leaned into his unspoken request, slid her stiff nipple under his palm, and let him have the squeeze.

Mom’s body was shifting around, hips rolling into her kiss. One of her hands clutched Dom’s thigh; the other, you weren’t sure where it wandered. You wondered if one foot was rubbing Brandon’s bulge under the water. Her other leg was tense, almost writhing: you know, because it was dragging up and down your thigh.

“You’re so gentle,” mom said to Lucas. She held his gaze as he waded away, back into his seat.

Lucas scratched the back of his head, and wiped his chin on his wrist, and couldn’t look you in the eye – but he looked terribly pleased with himself.

“Brandon?” mom asked. “Would your hands like a break?”

He thought about her question. Then he set down her foot, grabbed hold of mom’s wrist, and tugged her – floating – into his lap.

They locked lips, and his arms locked around the small of her waist, and mom’s mouth parted to swallow his tongue. She was gripping his hair, almost grinding her hips…

Dom stretched back against the tub, watching the show. While mom was busy sucking tongue, he mouthed to you: Gangbang’s don’t happen for real.

You two shared a secret, nervous laugh.

“Really good. Forceful,” mom said, floating off Brandon’s lap, fixing a strand of wet hair off her cheek. “Wow.”

Brandon had the aura of a man who’d done wrong.

You remember the sound of bubbling water. It seemed loud. Really loud.

“Who wins?” Dom asked.

Mom shook her head, fixing her white bikini top snug around her chest. “I don’t know yet.”

You asked, “You need some time to think about it?”

Mom was looking at you, silently.

You said, “You’re joking.”

Mom blinked twice.

(You’ve never seen the whites of Dom’s eyes go so wide.)

You asked her if she’d had a wine in the kitchen. (She was grinning by now, shaking her head, Nope.) You asked her to be serious – and how would you explain this to your future wife, Mrs. Baby? (She said, “You won’t.”)

Your friends were all exchanging looks, keeping quiet, letting the tension boil. You, meanwhile, salivated through your righteous you-can’t-be-serious speech.

Mom was wading toward you. (“This is just a game to you?” you asked her.) “Just a game,” she said. Mom was smiling so mischievously she was practically sparkling. (“No big deal,” you said.) “No big deal.” (“Everyone’s phones are – ?” Off, you confirmed.) “Phones are over there, in everyone’s pants. No one’s taking pictures. This is our secret.”

You’d won your friends a kiss with your mom. They returned the favour. (They said: “I won’t tell.” “Me neither.” “This rules.”)

Mom was holding your pruned hands in hers. Inching her glistening body between your legs. Scrunching her nose, giggling. Looking utterly un-serious while she egged you on to violate this surely sacred boundary.

Gangbangs don’t happen for real, you thought. And if they did, mom wouldn’t invite me.

“Try to win,” mom said, and kissed you.

…

Every time you smell chlorine, you remember kissing mom. The minty taste of mom’s breath, wafting down your chin. The flutter of her wet eyelashes, brushing your skin. A wave of bubbling water as her chest pressed against yours. Whatever your friends were saying, drowned out by adrenaline.

The sound of a smooch in the corner of your mouth. Sunlight fading outside the fogged windows. Mom guiding your hands around her back. Mom placing your hands firmly on her backside. Kissing, cock throbbing, while you felt up mom’s peach.

🍑

Phenomenally fat round firm heavenly cheeks.

And then came her tongue, and more tongue. And whenever her tongue was gone, you were longing for mom’s tongue again.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she whispered, while all her delicate fingers stroked your back.

You did not. You pulled her (by her ass) closer. You thought: I’m part of mom’s fantasy. Part of the flow of hormones and kinks that plagued your mom since menopause.

All those ‘innocent’ hugs, ‘innocent’ kisses on your cheek, ‘innocent’ spooning, hearts messaged and compliments shared and time spent in your lap – not innocent. Not at all.

Mom’s not just ‘a mom.’ She’s the mother of her son, truly: a pervert.

“Mmm…” Mom’s whimpers fought out her throat and swirled between your tongues. Your hands gripped idly hard around her fat ass, digging into softness, exciting whimper after suppressed whimper out of your perverted mom.

Just a game, she’d said. Her thigh was wedged between your legs, rubbing your bulge through your swim shorts.

“Oooh… Wow. Wow, Baby,” mom sighed, and stood out of the water for air, fanning the smile and the peach-pink blush that painted her face. (Your friends’ words returned to your ears: “…no fair…” “He’s got the home advantage.”) Mom wiped her brow, and tried to pay the guys the compliment of giggling, but kept on looking your way, at her son – at your dumbstruck face. She tried to stay composed, “I think I need more evidence – “ but cracked herself up mid-sentence – “before I pick the winner.”

Mom was on your lap on the drive home, sucking your face dry. While Brandon’s front gate rumbled open, she kissed tickles through your chin. You grabbed her everywhere. You pulled apart and pushed together her bikini-wrapped cheeks.

Night had fallen. No one was saying much of anything anymore. For an hour, Brandon drove, and mom swapped from lap to lap: sharing her tongue between you and your friends. Your mind was elsewhere. Your body was underwater: still feeling the back-and-forth motion of the bubbles and waves.

The impossible thing you never thought possible was happening to you, and everyone wanted it. It felt inevitable. Like sunrise: something you all knew was coming but didn’t need to say out loud.

You all knew what she meant when she asked, out of breath: “Tomorrow… What should I wear?”

~

I’ll let you know what she wears in Part 4 next week. ❤️

Content warning: incest. Everyone is 21+ and consenting. Written as if it happened to "you" so you can know how overwhelming it felt to have mom.

“Three…! Two…!” One image forever burned into your retina: you and your friends swinging mom like a battering ram, until you tossed her (squealing) into a pool. Her arms and legs flailing for two seconds that feel like twenty when you watch it back. Her white bikini swallowed up between her big, pink-gold bum cheeks. Her slow-motion cry, “Brats!” as her chest hit the water with a smack. You and your friends cringing – yikes, I hope that didn’t hurt. The colossal splash created by your mom’s big mommy butt. She swam up to the surface, fixing her bikini top, with the most playful smile on her face. She said, “One more!”

Your mom’s just loveable. That’s a fact of life. And she loves being the centre of attention. After a couple years single, she kind of seemed starved for it.

It probably helps loveability to look amazing in a two-piece.

Brandon’s gated house, which he won’t admit is a mansion, sat behind pine tree cover about an hour out of the city. At the top of a hill, its floor-to-ceiling windows looked out at acres of private green and grey land (spring struggled this year). A field where Brandon’s modestly salaried parents could practice their average middle-class hobbies like clay pigeon shooting and horseback croquet. On Easter Sunday, thanks to his parents’ delayed first-class flight, the house was your one-day vacation home (and Brandon’s, Dom’s, Lucas’, your mom’s). A boxy, cherry wood, modernist playground of landscaped stone and heated floors. The perfect place to whip a towel at mom’s ass.

(Lucas was really good at that. The crack echoed back and forth across the indoor pool room. Mom stuck him in a lifesaver and helped you roll him into a wall.)

The Easter Sundays of your childhood were somber days: spent in church with your grandparents, dressed-up in your slightly oversized suit, listening to sermons that warned you away from masturbation. You never imagined the holiday like this: sitting poolside with your friends, watching your mom’s glistening bikini body swim laps. (Four pairs of eyes traveling left to right, right to left…) Brandon turned off the security camera that watched his parents’ pool. Dom floated on an inflatable donut, Mexican Coke in-hand. You all swam and splashed and cannonballed until the world smelled like chlorine.

Then you hovered behind mom while she marveled at a renovated kitchen. (“Their fridge has a TV that sees into the fridge!”) With a soaking wet hug, mom shooed you back into the pool.

“I’m only gonna cook something small…” she claimed. “Then vacuum and mop… Just quickly! To say thanks for hosting us. Out, go. I need a break from my son’s bare-chested beauty, for god’s sake. You’re distracting me. Swim.”

Whether she was at home under her Snoopy blanket or swimming half-naked, your mom was as ‘mom’ as they come.

Twenty minutes later, mom would strut into the pool room with a tray of fat sandwiches. You all said thanks, and chastised her for being ‘such a mom,’ and urged her to join you all in the pool’s toasty, temperature-controlled water.

“Please, mom! Relax!” Every word echoed in that room.

“I’ll be in in a minute!” She dipped her toes and kicked some water your way. “I like taking care of my guys… Just hearing you four laugh makes me smile.”

Whenever she walked away, whatever you four were doing, you all stared. Mom’s dark hair was soaked black, sticking to her pretty face and dripping down her neck. Mom’s chest was shimmering wet; two perky handfuls tied together with white string, bouncing gently with each step. Mom’s thighs shook wherever she strut; a smooth, hypnotic wobble that magnetized everyone’s eyes.

“Holy hell, Peach looks good,” said Lucas, before she was all the way down the hall. (Mom said, “Thank you~!”) “We’re allowed to call her ‘Peach’ again, right?”

You nodded. “No harm in it now,” you said.

“Surely, this is as far as this goes,” said Lucas. “Whatever this is.”

Brandon said, “I don’t think she meant to, but she kinda felt my dick through my pants yesterday.”

Lucas: “The anaconda?!”

Brandon: “Yep. Sorry, Baby.” (You said, “It’s fine,” jealous/horny.)

Lucas: “God damn. Surely that’s as far as this goes.”

Dom: “Gangbangs don’t happen for real.”

Brandon: “True.”

You: “Yep.”

Dom: “…But if Baby says stop… She’s his mom. We stop.”

You couldn’t believe someone felt the need to say that – but, incredibly, it needed saying. Mom’s openness and flirtiness had gone way outside the norm. When you picked her up in the car that afternoon, she was already wearing her bikini, and little else. Whenever she sat poolside, she was ogling your friends in their swim shorts as liberally as you’d all ogled her. (Sizing up your height, your broadness, your chests, your chest hairs…) The four of you bobbed in blue water, watching tall windows fog, thinking all at once about the detail no one was discussing:

Yesterday, in your apartment, you’d all worked together to make mom wet.

Your friends probably felt guilty out of loyalty to you. You probably felt guilty because of long-ago Sunday church services… But the sinner inside was getting louder. (No one’s getting hurt, you thought.) And louder.

“Mom! You can’t keep cleaning their house! Come! Relax!”

“Well, if you miss me so much…” Mom walked her beautiful, string-tied body toward the hot tub, and slipped one foot at a time into the water’s rolling boil. She sighed, “Ahhh, that’s nice…” and her curves slowly sank. The four of you rushed into the tub to sit around her, in a circle. Her head flew back before she moaned, “This is heaven.”

Her feet floated up into the bubbles and down into your lap. There was, as always around mom, an atmosphere.

“If we get married,” Brandon said to her, “we’ll inherit this house.” (“That would be nice,” said mom.) “Then you can soak your feet all day. But ideally I’d want to live someplace a little bigger.” (“With your art commission money,” said mom.) “When that takes off.” (Mom pet Brandon’s arm. “Let’s do it.”)

You said, “Hold on. Don’t I get a say in this?”

Mom wiggled her toes in your lap, like she knew she was being naughty. She asked, “Which one of you makes out to be the best boyfriend?”

“Me,” said Lucas. (Everyone told him to shut up.) “I’m not kidding – I become such a disgusting softy.” (“I’ve seen that,” said Dom.) “Dom’s seen me simp.” (“But I’m a better boyfriend,” said Dom.)

Mom eyed Dom, up and down. “I feel like you’d have a wandering eye, Dom,” she said. “You’re too muscular. Your jaw’s too strong. Massage therapist boyfriend? I’d be doomed.”

Dom said, “I take care of a woman.” (“Weird thing to say,” said Lucas.)

The line worked on mom. She went, “Oooh, alright…! I like the sound of that…”

You said, “Don’t stroke his ego.” Dom had enough fangirls.

“What are you like to date, Miss Peach?” asked Brandon.

Mom stared at bubbles, seemingly thinking quite seriously about the question. “Sort of clingy, if I’m honest,” she said. “A bit obsessive. I do too much to please – some guys like it, some don’t.” (“Do you like being that way?” Dom asked.) “I don’t know… I always go into relationships thinking I’ll be really casual and cool this time. But then I’m asking him to move in with me, and cooking him three-course meals, and fucking him twice a day. Oops – sorry, Baby. I haven’t done any dating for a while, if that helps.” Under the water, mom’s toes rubbed your thigh.

“No, this is interesting for me,” you said, sort of honestly, sort of hornily. “I like knowing you as, I don’t know, an adult. Not just my mom.”

Mom looked at you like she was in love – like all moms look at all sons, you supposed. She mimed you a quick smooch through the steam, and asked, “What was I saying?” (“You get into relationships and…” Brandon stopped short of fuck your boyfriends a lot.) “Oh, sex. Sex, sex, sex. Do I talk too much about sex?” (Unanimous: “No.”) “Why would I ask four men that question? I guess… I think… It’s like I’ve been clingy as a rule ever since Baby’s dad left. I haven’t had a casual fling since my twenties, if you can believe it. I’d really like to try to stay casual, for once.” (“To have some fun,” said Dom.) “Yeah!” Mom did a dorky ‘fun’ dance – shaking her jiggling chest, left to right, right to left… “I just want an experience. Without the baggage, for once.”

Like a one-time gangbang with your son’s roommates. You tried to keep your perverted thoughts from manifesting in your eyes. Mom’s ass clapping down on twenty-one year-old dick. Mom’s mouth filled with hard cock. Shut up, brain. Under the cloudy water, you grew down your leg, bound inside your swim shorts, inching towards your mother’s foot.

“Next question,” said Lucas. “Ask us who’s got the best stamina.”

“Shush. Guys are so competitive,” mom rolled her eyes. “Alright. Which one of you…? Hmm… Has the best body?” (Three flexed biceps rose out of the water, one by one, and one tree trunk thigh.) “I see, I see…” Mom gave them all equal time. She tried to wrap her hand around Dom’s bulky shoulder. “Wow…” She pressed into the veins running through Brandon’s forearms, and watched with fascination as blue and red rose to the surface. “Gorgeous skin colouring…” She drew a smiley face in Lucas’ thick coat of body hair – she said, sincerely, “Woof. Love that.” She held your hand with her pruned fingers, gently, but had to look away from you to stop from smiling. “I’m biased, but I think Baby’s the best-looking.”

(“Booo!” “Ask us another one.” “I can’t believe I even tried.”)

“Which one of you is the kindest?” she asked.

You said, “Dom.” (Dom said, “Baby.”)

Mom’s smile flickered between the two of you. “Cuties. Who gives the best foot rubs?”

Brandon shrugged, “Uh… It’s sort of my thing…”

And then one of mom’s feet splashed up, out of the water, pivoting slowly and presumptuously toward Brandon’s lap. Under the water, he rubbed and rubbed her sole, his movements slow and considered. (He glanced at you: Stop? You gave him a nod, It’s okay.)

“Oh, that’s rRrRrRrRreal nice…” said mom, sinking deeper into her bubbling seat. Her perky chest floated on the surface. Inside her white bikini top, her nipples pointed to the dim, recessed lights dotting the pool room ceiling. The atmosphere grew thicker – you felt almost short of breath. Mom asked: “Who’s the best kisser?”

Lucas immediately said, “Only one way to find out.”

Mom chuckled. She finger-wagged him, No, bad boy. She also said, “…But good idea.” (!)

Lucas looked at you wide-eyed, like, There’s a chance.

Dom said, “I’m the best kisser.” (He glanced at you: Stop?)

You couldn’t believe the next words out of your mouth were: “Bullshit. Prove it.”

Mom’s eyes were closed in foot rubbed bliss. “Only say it if it’s true, Dom,” she said, her relaxed voice almost lost beneath the sound of rolling water. “I’d be a better judge than any of you. Kiss me and prove it.”

Every nerve in your body erupted, all at once. The hot tub’s water felt almost cool around your waist. You were, like it or not, rock hard against your mother’s heel.

Dom looked to you, and to your friends’ wide eyes, and sidled up to sit thigh-to-thigh with your mom.

Mom tilted her head so casually to his side.

“You sure?” Dom asked her – or asked you.

“Dominic,” mom said, “It’s not like anything serious is going to happen. You’re twenty-one. I’m almost forty-five. We’re on ‘vacation.’ Kiss me.”

Dom took one last look at you, and down at mom’s cupid’s bow mouth, and leaned into her shimmering wet curves for a kiss. Lips locked inside mom’s lips. Slipping tongue between her teeth.

Lucas mouthed, What the fuck…, jaw dropped, staring.

Brandon took a deep breath, trying to keep cool by staring at the water, putting his all into rubbing mom’s feet.

You’d created this situation yourself. You felt like the pervert Sunday masses warned you shouldn’t be. You felt lightheaded. You felt really fucking good.

Mom parted her lips for Dom’s, letting him inside her slowly. Meeting your best friend’s tongue with her tongue. Tickling his lip with a soft, left-right rub of her lip. She kissed like she knew she was a good kisser, but didn’t need to make a big show of proving it. Sealing their mouths together for one second, then two… Gnawing his bottom lip when the time was right.

She opened her dark eyes to look into his, and you’d never seen her flicker with so much fiery confidence.

“Very nice,” she said, holding on to his broadness to slowly, gently push him away. “Who am I judging next?” She was staring at Lucas.

You didn’t say ‘stop.’

Lucas (literally) shook off his nerves, and swam between her legs, and entered the competition.

Sitting behind Lucas, you couldn’t see for sure what went on between their mouths: you heard the click-clack of lips parted; the swill of a tongue, squelch, suckled. Lucas’ hand wandered up from below the water, up mom’s hip, hovering over mom’s breast. She leaned into his unspoken request, slid her stiff nipple under his palm, and let him have the squeeze.

Mom’s body was shifting around, hips rolling into her kiss. One of her hands clutched Dom’s thigh; the other, you weren’t sure where it wandered. You wondered if one foot was rubbing Brandon’s bulge under the water. Her other leg was tense, almost writhing: you know, because it was dragging up and down your thigh.

“You’re so gentle,” mom said to Lucas. She held his gaze as he waded away, back into his seat.

Lucas scratched the back of his head, and wiped his chin on his wrist, and couldn’t look you in the eye – but he looked terribly pleased with himself.

“Brandon?” mom asked. “Would your hands like a break?”

He thought about her question. Then he set down her foot, grabbed hold of mom’s wrist, and tugged her – floating – into his lap.

They locked lips, and his arms locked around the small of her waist, and mom’s mouth parted to swallow his tongue. She was gripping his hair, almost grinding her hips…

Dom stretched back against the tub, watching the show. While mom was busy sucking tongue, he mouthed to you: Gangbang’s don’t happen for real.

You two shared a secret, nervous laugh.

“Really good. Forceful,” mom said, floating off Brandon’s lap, fixing a strand of wet hair off her cheek. “Wow.”

Brandon had the aura of a man who’d done wrong.

You remember the sound of bubbling water. It seemed loud. Really loud.

“Who wins?” Dom asked.

Mom shook her head, fixing her white bikini top snug around her chest. “I don’t know yet.”

You asked, “You need some time to think about it?”

Mom was looking at you, silently.

You said, “You’re joking.”

Mom blinked twice.

(You’ve never seen the whites of Dom’s eyes go so wide.)

You asked her if she’d had a wine in the kitchen. (She was grinning by now, shaking her head, Nope.) You asked her to be serious – and how would you explain this to your future wife, Mrs. Baby? (She said, “You won’t.”)

Your friends were all exchanging looks, keeping quiet, letting the tension boil. You, meanwhile, salivated through your righteous you-can’t-be-serious speech.

Mom was wading toward you. (“This is just a game to you?” you asked her.) “Just a game,” she said. Mom was smiling so mischievously she was practically sparkling. (“No big deal,” you said.) “No big deal.” (“Everyone’s phones are – ?” Off, you confirmed.) “Phones are over there, in everyone’s pants. No one’s taking pictures. This is our secret.”

You’d won your friends a kiss with your mom. They returned the favour. (They said: “I won’t tell.” “Me neither.” “This rules.”)

Mom was holding your pruned hands in hers. Inching her glistening body between your legs. Scrunching her nose, giggling. Looking utterly un-serious while she egged you on to violate this surely sacred boundary.

Gangbangs don’t happen for real, you thought. And if they did, mom wouldn’t invite me.

“Try to win,” mom said, and kissed you.

…

Every time you smell chlorine, you remember kissing mom. The minty taste of mom’s breath, wafting down your chin. The flutter of her wet eyelashes, brushing your skin. A wave of bubbling water as her chest pressed against yours. Whatever your friends were saying, drowned out by adrenaline.

The sound of a smooch in the corner of your mouth. Sunlight fading outside the fogged windows. Mom guiding your hands around her back. Mom placing your hands firmly on her backside. Kissing, cock throbbing, while you felt up mom’s peach.

🍑

Phenomenally fat round firm heavenly cheeks.

And then came her tongue, and more tongue. And whenever her tongue was gone, you were longing for mom’s tongue again.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she whispered, while all her delicate fingers stroked your back.

You did not. You pulled her (by her ass) closer. You thought: I’m part of mom’s fantasy. Part of the flow of hormones and kinks that plagued your mom since menopause.

All those ‘innocent’ hugs, ‘innocent’ kisses on your cheek, ‘innocent’ spooning, hearts messaged and compliments shared and time spent in your lap – not innocent. Not at all.

Mom’s not just ‘a mom.’ She’s the mother of her son, truly: a pervert.

“Mmm…” Mom’s whimpers fought out her throat and swirled between your tongues. Your hands gripped idly hard around her fat ass, digging into softness, exciting whimper after suppressed whimper out of your perverted mom.

Just a game, she’d said. Her thigh was wedged between your legs, rubbing your bulge through your swim shorts.

“Oooh… Wow. Wow, Baby,” mom sighed, and stood out of the water for air, fanning the smile and the peach-pink blush that painted her face. (Your friends’ words returned to your ears: “…no fair…” “He’s got the home advantage.”) Mom wiped her brow, and tried to pay the guys the compliment of giggling, but kept on looking your way, at her son – at your dumbstruck face. She tried to stay composed, “I think I need more evidence – “ but cracked herself up mid-sentence – “before I pick the winner.”

Mom was on your lap on the drive home, sucking your face dry. While Brandon’s front gate rumbled open, she kissed tickles through your chin. You grabbed her everywhere. You pulled apart and pushed together her bikini-wrapped cheeks.

Night had fallen. No one was saying much of anything anymore. For an hour, Brandon drove, and mom swapped from lap to lap: sharing her tongue between you and your friends. Your mind was elsewhere. Your body was underwater: still feeling the back-and-forth motion of the bubbles and waves.

The impossible thing you never thought possible was happening to you, and everyone wanted it. It felt inevitable. Like sunrise: something you all knew was coming but didn’t need to say out loud.

You all knew what she meant when she asked, out of breath: “Tomorrow… What should I wear?”

~

I’ll let you know what she wears in Part 4 next week. ❤️

Everyone is 21+ and consenting. Written as if it happened to "you" so you can know how overwhelming it felt to have mom.

Part 1 [link] | Part 2 [link]

“Three…! Two…!” One image forever burned into your retina: you and your friends swinging mom like a battering ram, until you tossed her (squealing) into a pool. Her arms and legs flailing for two seconds that feel like twenty when you watch it back. Her white bikini swallowed up between her big, pink-gold bum cheeks. Her slow-motion cry, “Brats!” as her chest hit the water with a smack. You and your friends cringing – yikes, I hope that didn’t hurt. The colossal splash created by your mom’s big mommy butt. She swam up to the surface, fixing her bikini top, with the most playful smile on her face. She said, “One more!”

Your mom’s just loveable. That’s a fact of life. And she loves being the centre of attention. After a couple years single, she kind of seemed starved for it.

It probably helps loveability to look amazing in a two-piece.

Brandon’s gated house, which he won’t admit is a mansion, sat behind pine tree cover about an hour out of the city. At the top of a hill, its floor-to-ceiling windows looked out at acres of private green and grey land (spring struggled this year). A field where Brandon’s modestly salaried parents could practice their average middle-class hobbies like clay pigeon shooting and horseback croquet. On Easter Sunday, thanks to his parents’ delayed first-class flight, the house was your one-day vacation home (and Brandon’s, Dom’s, Lucas’, your mom’s). A boxy, cherry wood, modernist playground of landscaped stone and heated floors. The perfect place to whip a towel at mom’s ass.

(Lucas was really good at that. The crack echoed back and forth across the indoor pool room. Mom stuck him in a lifesaver and helped you roll him into a wall.)

The Easter Sundays of your childhood were somber days: spent in church with your grandparents, dressed-up in your slightly oversized suit, listening to sermons that warned you away from masturbation. You never imagined the holiday like this: sitting poolside with your friends, watching your mom’s glistening bikini body swim laps. (Four pairs of eyes traveling left to right, right to left…) Brandon turned off the security camera that watched his parents’ pool. Dom floated on an inflatable donut, Mexican Coke in-hand. You all swam and splashed and cannonballed until the world smelled like chlorine.

Then you hovered behind mom while she marveled at a renovated kitchen. (“Their fridge has a TV that sees into the fridge!”) With a soaking wet hug, mom shooed you back into the pool.

“I’m only gonna cook something small…” she claimed. “Then vacuum and mop… Just quickly! To say thanks for hosting us. Out, go. I need a break from my son’s bare-chested beauty, for god’s sake. You’re distracting me. Swim.”

Whether she was at home under her Snoopy blanket or swimming half-naked, your mom was as ‘mom’ as they come.

Twenty minutes later, mom would strut into the pool room with a tray of fat sandwiches. You all said thanks, and chastised her for being ‘such a mom,’ and urged her to join you all in the pool’s toasty, temperature-controlled water.

“Please, mom! Relax!” Every word echoed in that room.

“I’ll be in in a minute!” She dipped her toes and kicked some water your way. “I like taking care of my guys… Just hearing you four laugh makes me smile.”

Whenever she walked away, whatever you four were doing, you all stared. Mom’s dark hair was soaked black, sticking to her pretty face and dripping down her neck. Mom’s chest was shimmering wet; two perky handfuls tied together with white string, bouncing gently with each step. Mom’s thighs shook wherever she strut; a smooth, hypnotic wobble that magnetized everyone’s eyes.

“Holy hell, Peach looks good,” said Lucas, before she was all the way down the hall. (Mom said, “Thank you~!”) “We’re allowed to call her ‘Peach’ again, right?”

You nodded. “No harm in it now,” you said.

“Surely, this is as far as this goes,” said Lucas. “Whatever this is.”

Brandon said, “I don’t think she meant to, but she kinda felt my dick through my pants yesterday.”

Lucas: “The anaconda?!”

Brandon: “Yep. Sorry, Baby.” (You said, “It’s fine,” jealous/horny.)

Lucas: “God damn. Surely that’s as far as this goes.”

Dom: “Gangbangs don’t happen for real.”

Brandon: “True.”

You: “Yep.”

Dom: “…But if Baby says stop… She’s his mom. We stop.”

You couldn’t believe someone felt the need to say that – but, incredibly, it needed saying. Mom’s openness and flirtiness had gone way outside the norm. When you picked her up in the car that afternoon, she was already wearing her bikini, and little else. Whenever she sat poolside, she was ogling your friends in their swim shorts as liberally as you’d all ogled her. (Sizing up your height, your broadness, your chests, your chest hairs…) The four of you bobbed in blue water, watching tall windows fog, thinking all at once about the detail no one was discussing:

Yesterday, in your apartment, you’d all worked together to make mom wet.

Your friends probably felt guilty out of loyalty to you. You probably felt guilty because of long-ago Sunday church services… But the sinner inside was getting louder. (No one’s getting hurt, you thought.) And louder.

“Mom! You can’t keep cleaning their house! Come! Relax!”

“Well, if you miss me so much…” Mom walked her beautiful, string-tied body toward the hot tub, and slipped one foot at a time into the water’s rolling boil. She sighed, “Ahhh, that’s nice…” and her curves slowly sank. The four of you rushed into the tub to sit around her, in a circle. Her head flew back before she moaned, “This is heaven.”

Her feet floated up into the bubbles and down into your lap. There was, as always around mom, an atmosphere.

“If we get married,” Brandon said to her, “we’ll inherit this house.” (“That would be nice,” said mom.) “Then you can soak your feet all day. But ideally I’d want to live someplace a little bigger.” (“With your art commission money,” said mom.) “When that takes off.” (Mom pet Brandon’s arm. “Let’s do it.”)

You said, “Hold on. Don’t I get a say in this?”

Mom wiggled her toes in your lap, like she knew she was being naughty. She asked, “Which one of you makes out to be the best boyfriend?”

“Me,” said Lucas. (Everyone told him to shut up.) “I’m not kidding – I become such a disgusting softy.” (“I’ve seen that,” said Dom.) “Dom’s seen me simp.” (“But I’m a better boyfriend,” said Dom.)

Mom eyed Dom, up and down. “I feel like you’d have a wandering eye, Dom,” she said. “You’re too muscular. Your jaw’s too strong. Massage therapist boyfriend? I’d be doomed.”

Dom said, “I take care of a woman.” (“Weird thing to say,” said Lucas.)

The line worked on mom. She went, “Oooh, alright…! I like the sound of that…”

You said, “Don’t stroke his ego.” Dom had enough fangirls.

“What are you like to date, Miss Peach?” asked Brandon.

Mom stared at bubbles, seemingly thinking quite seriously about the question. “Sort of clingy, if I’m honest,” she said. “A bit obsessive. I do too much to please – some guys like it, some don’t.” (“Do you like being that way?” Dom asked.) “I don’t know… I always go into relationships thinking I’ll be really casual and cool this time. But then I’m asking him to move in with me, and cooking him three-course meals, and fucking him twice a day. Oops – sorry, Baby. I haven’t done any dating for a while, if that helps.” Under the water, mom’s toes rubbed your thigh.

“No, this is interesting for me,” you said, sort of honestly, sort of hornily. “I like knowing you as, I don’t know, an adult. Not just my mom.”

Mom looked at you like she was in love – like all moms look at all sons, you supposed. She mimed you a quick smooch through the steam, and asked, “What was I saying?” (“You get into relationships and…” Brandon stopped short of fuck your boyfriends a lot.) “Oh, sex. Sex, sex, sex. Do I talk too much about sex?” (Unanimous: “No.”) “Why would I ask four men that question? I guess… I think… It’s like I’ve been clingy as a rule ever since Baby’s dad left. I haven’t had a casual fling since my twenties, if you can believe it. I’d really like to try to stay casual, for once.” (“To have some fun,” said Dom.) “Yeah!” Mom did a dorky ‘fun’ dance – shaking her jiggling chest, left to right, right to left… “I just want an experience. Without the baggage, for once.”

Like a one-time gangbang with your son’s roommates. You tried to keep your perverted thoughts from manifesting in your eyes. Mom’s ass clapping down on twenty-one year-old dick. Mom’s mouth filled with hard cock. Shut up, brain. Under the cloudy water, you grew down your leg, bound inside your swim shorts, inching towards your mother’s foot.

“Next question,” said Lucas. “Ask us who’s got the best stamina.”

“Shush. Guys are so competitive,” mom rolled her eyes. “Alright. Which one of you…? Hmm… Has the best body?” (Three flexed biceps rose out of the water, one by one, and one tree trunk thigh.) “I see, I see…” Mom gave them all equal time. She tried to wrap her hand around Dom’s bulky shoulder. “Wow…” She pressed into the veins running through Brandon’s forearms, and watched with fascination as blue and red rose to the surface. “Gorgeous skin colouring…” She drew a smiley face in Lucas’ thick coat of body hair – she said, sincerely, “Woof. Love that.” She held your hand with her pruned fingers, gently, but had to look away from you to stop from smiling. “I’m biased, but I think Baby’s the best-looking.”

(“Booo!” “Ask us another one.” “I can’t believe I even tried.”)

“Which one of you is the kindest?” she asked.

You said, “Dom.” (Dom said, “Baby.”)

Mom’s smile flickered between the two of you. “Cuties. Who gives the best foot rubs?”

Brandon shrugged, “Uh… It’s sort of my thing…”

And then one of mom’s feet splashed up, out of the water, pivoting slowly and presumptuously toward Brandon’s lap. Under the water, he rubbed and rubbed her sole, his movements slow and considered. (He glanced at you: Stop? You gave him a nod, It’s okay.)

“Oh, that’s rRrRrRrRreal nice…” said mom, sinking deeper into her bubbling seat. Her perky chest floated on the surface. Inside her white bikini top, her nipples pointed to the dim, recessed lights dotting the pool room ceiling. The atmosphere grew thicker – you felt almost short of breath. Mom asked: “Who’s the best kisser?”

Lucas immediately said, “Only one way to find out.”

Mom chuckled. She finger-wagged him, No, bad boy. She also said, “…But good idea.” (!)

Lucas looked at you wide-eyed, like, There’s a chance.

Dom said, “I’m the best kisser.” (He glanced at you: Stop?)

You couldn’t believe the next words out of your mouth were: “Bullshit. Prove it.”

Mom’s eyes were closed in foot rubbed bliss. “Only say it if it’s true, Dom,” she said, her relaxed voice almost lost beneath the sound of rolling water. “I’d be a better judge than any of you. Kiss me and prove it.”

Every nerve in your body erupted, all at once. The hot tub’s water felt almost cool around your waist. You were, like it or not, rock hard against your mother’s heel.

Dom looked to you, and to your friends’ wide eyes, and sidled up to sit thigh-to-thigh with your mom.

Mom tilted her head so casually to his side.

“You sure?” Dom asked her – or asked you.

“Dominic,” mom said, “It’s not like anything serious is going to happen. You’re twenty-one. I’m almost forty-five. We’re on ‘vacation.’ Kiss me.”

Dom took one last look at you, and down at mom’s cupid’s bow mouth, and leaned into her shimmering wet curves for a kiss. Lips locked inside mom’s lips. Slipping tongue between her teeth.

Lucas mouthed, What the fuck…, jaw dropped, staring.

Brandon took a deep breath, trying to keep cool by staring at the water, putting his all into rubbing mom’s feet.

You’d created this situation yourself. You felt like the pervert Sunday masses warned you shouldn’t be. You felt lightheaded. You felt really fucking good.

Mom parted her lips for Dom’s, letting him inside her slowly. Meeting your best friend’s tongue with her tongue. Tickling his lip with a soft, left-right rub of her lip. She kissed like she knew she was a good kisser, but didn’t need to make a big show of proving it. Sealing their mouths together for one second, then two… Gnawing his bottom lip when the time was right.

She opened her dark eyes to look into his, and you’d never seen her flicker with so much fiery confidence.

“Very nice,” she said, holding on to his broadness to slowly, gently push him away. “Who am I judging next?” She was staring at Lucas.

You didn’t say ‘stop.’

Lucas (literally) shook off his nerves, and swam between her legs, and entered the competition.

Sitting behind Lucas, you couldn’t see for sure what went on between their mouths: you heard the click-clack of lips parted; the swill of a tongue, squelch, suckled. Lucas’ hand wandered up from below the water, up mom’s hip, hovering over mom’s breast. She leaned into his unspoken request, slid her stiff nipple under his palm, and let him have the squeeze.

Mom’s body was shifting around, hips rolling into her kiss. One of her hands clutched Dom’s thigh; the other, you weren’t sure where it wandered. You wondered if one foot was rubbing Brandon’s bulge under the water. Her other leg was tense, almost writhing: you know, because it was dragging up and down your thigh.

“You’re so gentle,” mom said to Lucas. She held his gaze as he waded away, back into his seat.

Lucas scratched the back of his head, and wiped his chin on his wrist, and couldn’t look you in the eye – but he looked terribly pleased with himself.

“Brandon?” mom asked. “Would your hands like a break?”

He thought about her question. Then he set down her foot, grabbed hold of mom’s wrist, and tugged her – floating – into his lap.

They locked lips, and his arms locked around the small of her waist, and mom’s mouth parted to swallow his tongue. She was gripping his hair, almost grinding her hips…

Dom stretched back against the tub, watching the show. While mom was busy sucking tongue, he mouthed to you: Gangbang’s don’t happen for real.

You two shared a secret, nervous laugh.

“Really good. Forceful,” mom said, floating off Brandon’s lap, fixing a strand of wet hair off her cheek. “Wow.”

Brandon had the aura of a man who’d done wrong.

You remember the sound of bubbling water. It seemed loud. Really loud.

“Who wins?” Dom asked.

Mom shook her head, fixing her white bikini top snug around her chest. “I don’t know yet.”

You asked, “You need some time to think about it?”

Mom was looking at you, silently.

You said, “You’re joking.”

Mom blinked twice.

(You’ve never seen the whites of Dom’s eyes go so wide.)

You asked her if she’d had a wine in the kitchen. (She was grinning by now, shaking her head, Nope.) You asked her to be serious – and how would you explain this to your future wife, Mrs. Baby? (She said, “You won’t.”)

Your friends were all exchanging looks, keeping quiet, letting the tension boil. You, meanwhile, salivated through your righteous you-can’t-be-serious speech.

Mom was wading toward you. (“This is just a game to you?” you asked her.) “Just a game,” she said. Mom was smiling so mischievously she was practically sparkling. (“No big deal,” you said.) “No big deal.” (“Everyone’s phones are – ?” Off, you confirmed.) “Phones are over there, in everyone’s pants. No one’s taking pictures. This is our secret.”

You’d won your friends a kiss with your mom. They returned the favour. (They said: “I won’t tell.” “Me neither.” “This rules.”)

Mom was holding your pruned hands in hers. Inching her glistening body between your legs. Scrunching her nose, giggling. Looking utterly un-serious while she egged you on to violate this surely sacred boundary.

Gangbangs don’t happen for real, you thought. And if they did, mom wouldn’t invite me.

“Try to win,” mom said, and kissed you.

…

Every time you smell chlorine, you remember kissing mom. The minty taste of mom’s breath, wafting down your chin. The flutter of her wet eyelashes, brushing your skin. A wave of bubbling water as her chest pressed against yours. Whatever your friends were saying, drowned out by adrenaline.

The sound of a smooch in the corner of your mouth. Sunlight fading outside the fogged windows. Mom guiding your hands around her back. Mom placing your hands firmly on her backside. Kissing, cock throbbing, while you felt up mom’s peach.

🍑

Phenomenally fat round firm heavenly cheeks.

And then came her tongue, and more tongue. And whenever her tongue was gone, you were longing for mom’s tongue again.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she whispered, while all her delicate fingers stroked your back.

You did not. You pulled her (by her ass) closer. You thought: I’m part of mom’s fantasy. Part of the flow of hormones and kinks that plagued your mom since menopause.

All those ‘innocent’ hugs, ‘innocent’ kisses on your cheek, ‘innocent’ spooning, hearts messaged and compliments shared and time spent in your lap – not innocent. Not at all.

Mom’s not just ‘a mom.’ She’s the mother of her son, truly: a pervert.

“Mmm…” Mom’s whimpers fought out her throat and swirled between your tongues. Your hands gripped idly hard around her fat ass, digging into softness, exciting whimper after suppressed whimper out of your perverted mom.

Just a game, she’d said. Her thigh was wedged between your legs, rubbing your bulge through your swim shorts.

“Oooh… Wow. Wow, Baby,” mom sighed, and stood out of the water for air, fanning the smile and the peach-pink blush that painted her face. (Your friends’ words returned to your ears: “…no fair…” “He’s got the home advantage.”) Mom wiped her brow, and tried to pay the guys the compliment of giggling, but kept on looking your way, at her son – at your dumbstruck face. She tried to stay composed, “I think I need more evidence – “ but cracked herself up mid-sentence – “before I pick the winner.”

Mom was on your lap on the drive home, sucking your face dry. While Brandon’s front gate rumbled open, she kissed tickles through your chin. You grabbed her everywhere. You pulled apart and pushed together her bikini-wrapped cheeks.

Night had fallen. No one was saying much of anything anymore. For an hour, Brandon drove, and mom swapped from lap to lap: sharing her tongue between you and your friends. Your mind was elsewhere. Your body was underwater: still feeling the back-and-forth motion of the bubbles and waves.

The impossible thing you never thought possible was happening to you, and everyone wanted it. It felt inevitable. Like sunrise: something you all knew was coming but didn’t need to say out loud.

You all knew what she meant when she asked, out of breath: “Tomorrow… What should I wear?”

~

I’ll let you know what she wears in Part 4 next week. ❤️

Content warning: incest. Everyone is 21+ and consenting. Continued from Part 1: “Whether or not I made the right choices, I’ll let you decide. So let’s pretend you’re me. My mom is your mom…”

There’s no textbook to teach you how to conduct an orgy with your mom. In the event that an orgy with your mom seems possibly within reach, there is no way of knowing for sure how to stop its momentum. That’s because things like incest and gangbangs never really happen… Right?

“Just a massage,” you told mom, curious enough to test your limits and hers.

“Just a massage,” she assured you, and immediately shouted: “A massage sounds lovely, guys!” out your bedroom door. You knew your roommates would love that she gave in. The fact that they said nothing told you everything.

Mom took her morning shower. You and Dom had a quick and quiet chat over a (kart-racing) game on the TV.

Dom: “How are you feeling about the mom situation?”

You: “What do you mean?”

Dom: “The fact she’s flirting with every one of us – you included. I’ve never seen Lucas spend so much time outside his room.”

You: “Mom’s last relationship ended bad. I think she just needs to get laid.”

Dom: “I think so, too. [He sipped his coffee.]”

You: “…Nothing’s going to happen. It’s fine. Let her flirt.”

Dom: “Friends no matter what?”

You: “Friends no matter what.”

Dom: “…So do you still have that thing for incest porn?” He knows you well.

You: “Do you still have a fetish for older women?” You know him well.

Dom: “Looks like we’re a couple of mama’s boys.”

The two of you shook your heads and grinned stupidly at the TV.

If the universe is doomed to descend into chaos, it might as well descend like this:

Out of a bottle of massage oil, held upside-down, you dripped golden syrup across mom’s freshly showered back, and watched the liquid flow over her smoothness and beauty marks.

“That gave me goosebumps!” she said, lying on her chest. “Oop – it’s going to wet my bra. Here:” She reached behind her back to unclasp her bra strap – the thin layer of fabric and interlocking metal shielding your mom’s bare torso from your friends’ perving eyes. Snap. Chaos reigns. Black straps and black lace cups lay loose beneath her oiled curves. “Nobody can see anything, can you? No, of course not – good, let’s do this.”

At least she was still wearing her skirt.

“Jojoba oil is similar in composition to your skin’s natural oils,” said Dom, remaining calm and cool when faced with your mom’s sideboob. “So it absorbs nicely into the skin, and won’t leave any grease… But you didn’t need to use that much, dude.”

Two golden oil puddles collected inside the dimples of your mom’s hips. “So long as you make me feel good, I don’t mind if there’s some mess,” mom said. “Who’s my first unlucky volunteer?”

“Uh… I’ll tell Baby what to do,” said Dom, professional back rubber in-training. “You want to try to use your palms, not your fingertips…”

Mom lay face-down on a pedestal of sorts: across your hand-me-down coffee table, draped with a tartan bed comforter. A pile of video games and samurai blu-rays (communal) lay neatly stacked on the carpet, pushed aside for the queen. The open plan apartment made it easy for everyone to watch. Lucas sat on the kitchen counter, staring sleepy-eyed as your hands circled near but not across the flesh of mom’s squashed sideboob. Brandon took a phone call on the couch. (“Yeah ma, I’m still good for Easter Sunday dinner… Nothing crazy last night. Peach – I mean Baby’s mom – made us food… Yeah, she’s a super nice lady. Really, really nice…”) You kneeled next to your mother’s infamous ass, round beneath her skirt – which she seemed to have spritzed with a tart, fruity perfume.

Nobody commented on mom’s near-nakedness.

Nobody left the room for any reason.

You focused yourself to stop your hands from shaking.

It’s just a body, some people might say. It’s just a massage. No big deal. They have no fucking clue. When it’s your mom, even innocent touches feel different.

Rubbing her oiled hourglass body felt like sinking your hand through liquid silk. When you hit the right spot, your actions made your mom exhale sharp, pleasured breaths. Your hands made mom’s shoulders flush peach-pink.

How ‘comfortable’ could she get in your apartment? How much teasing could you all take before this fantasy needed to find its happy ending?

You tried to palm the left and right sides of mom’s back and hips at once; to feed her curiosity and yours about what it might be like for mom to be touched by many hands all over. Your mom whimpered, releasing stiffness as your palms glided down the arch of her back.

“Mmph… That’s where I carry all my pain,” mom whined into the blanket. Goosebumps came to greet you across the vast valley of her achey, mommy hips. “Oooh… That’s a good rhythm… Right there. Ugh. You’re gonna make your mother moan.”

Lucas made a face, but mercifully kept his joke to himself.

Brandon placed one Peach-muting hand over his phone call, but stayed put and kept on staring as you rubbed and rubbed.

(Palms turning red as you pressed down, deep. A quiet squelch when you rubbed the puddles pooling in her hip dimples. Mom’s small, sharp breaths.)

“Try not to lift your hands off her skin. Stay on her muscles and… wherever she’s softer,” said Dom. “You want to avoid the spine. Here: like this. Can I?”

(“Please,” said mom.)

You appreciated that he’d waited for your go-ahead. You nodded. “You take her other end.”

(Lucas made another face.)

Dom kneeled near mom’s head, oiled his palms, and then there were three of you. He sunk his hands into your mom’s back, digging wherever her softness needed him most.

You and Dom exchanged awkward smiles and half-hidden laughs like, Can you believe we’re doing this? (Or: I’m not horny for her. Why? Are you?) You’d shared graduations, cars, apartments, controllers, milk cartons, and secrets. You’d never shared mom.

“Ooooh, wow, wow, wow…” Mom’s mouth hung open in lazy, dazed pleasure.

Brandon’s phone call ended. “My ma says thanks for helping take care of our place, Miss Peach – with food and cleaning and stuff.” (“You’re more than welcome…”) “She says I should say thanks by making you a painting.”

(Lucas: “Peach, do you prefer paintings of Tony the Tiger, or Elsa kissing Spider-Man?”)

“I’m sure your commissioned art is lovely, Brandon. If you want to paint anything, you can paint me,” mom slurred her words under yours and Dom’s hands. “Better yet, come rub my legs…”

Brandon looked to you for permission. You cocked your head, C’mere, and he was kneeling between mom’s feet.

“You wanna do long strokes from the calf up to the thighs,” Dom told Brandon. “Always work towards the body… Not too high up the leg, obviously.”

“Three pairs of hands. This is heaven,” mom moaned.

Every push from Brandon’s thumbs up your mom’s legs inspired a small, eye-catching, mind-melting wobble~ on mom’s butt. Even hidden beneath her skirt, her ass was undeniably the sharehouse’s centrepiece.

Your hands all avoided it. Your eyes kept getting caught by its hypnotic wobble.

“All I need is someone’s fingertips on my scalp,” said mom. “And I’ll melt into a puddle of mom. Lucas: make yourself useful for once.”

He hopped off the counter. “I was starting to get FOMO.”

Your mom teased: “Be gentle and be quiet.”

Lucas’ fingers ran through mom’s hair with more delicacy and sincere effort than expected. (You remembered: he’s always had a thing for women with dark hair.)

The coffee table was surrounded. Four-on-one, you massaged mom raw. Her skin looked warm under the late morning light: skin soft and glistening with oil. Your plan that Saturday morning was to test everyone’s boundaries. So far you’d found no boundaries at all.

Under four pairs of hands, mom’s mouth was a fountain of little gasps and little moans.

Your stomach churned with the strangest concoction of jealousy and desire.

Almost everywhere she had to rub was rubbed – but all hands conspicuously avoided the softest pudge of sideboob, where her breasts squashed against the blanket. Everyone watched her bum wobble, but none of you dared to touch it. 

“Baby… Is that you on my lower back?” mom asked. (You confirmed that was you.) “You’re doing amazing work. Could you go a little lower?”

The question must have made your face red. All three friends made a gargantuan effort not to tease, staring at you, waiting on your hands to move.

“…Is that too weird to ask?” Mom sounded convincingly innocent.

“It’s not weird,” you lied.

“I’m just feeling like there are certain parts of me no one’s touching. And I want you guys to be comfortable – don’t gross yourself out on my behalf. But if you’re worried about my comfort, please, don’t be. Massage anywhere. I trust you.”

You palms were the first to venture down – deep breath, don’t blush – over the dramatic curve of mom’s ass. Pushing deep into her roundness. Shocked that there was so much pudgy depth waiting beneath her skin, and yet so much firmness fighting back against your palms.

“That’s a good spot – there,” she groaned. (She jiggled. She wobbled. She drove your churning horny jealous cock to grow down your pant leg.) “Dom, honey – you’ve got such incredible technique. Could you get my ribs?” By her ‘ribs,’ of course, she meant the exposed sides of her squashed mommy tits. “Unless of course you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he said. You haven’t seen Dom blush very often. Mom’s request must have tickled him. “I was just trying to be… respectful.” He was looking at you.

Mom’s peach-gold skin and gentle moans clouded your judgment. The soft-firm perfection of her ass and the beauty of her hot-flushed face clouded your judgment. You nodded to let Dom know: Friends no matter what. Touch her.

“Don’t worry: I feel very respected,” mom said. “Rub as hard as you like – it’s not like we’re going to have a gangbang.” She chuckled. “Be realistic.”

You all laughed, a little awkwardly. She said the word everyone was thinking.

Dom answered the challenge. While your palms sunk into the crack of your mom’s ass, his rolled over the fat and freckled hills of her half-concealed breasts.

You thought: Holy shit. Holy shit.

“Brandon,” she said, “higher – if you could.”

Holy shit. Holy shit.

Mom had started a game of four-on-one chicken.

Brandon’s strokes reached up your mom’s thigh, releasing tension all the way into the shadows beneath her skirt.

Lucas’ fingertips sunk down mom’s neck, caressing goosebumps (and gasps) out of the spots where mom surely loved to be kissed.

Dom’s palms burrowed into and bunched-up beautiful, bulging flesh around mom’s ‘ribs.’

The more the boundaries broke without resistance or comment or even a passing joke, the more boldly you explored your mother’s ass. (“That feels…” Mom lost her words to a long, pleasured exhale.) You pressed her cheeks together, speechless as their roundness grew taller when squeezed. You pushed toward the base of her cheeks, forgetting the rest of the room as you ironed out the creases hiding beneath her ass cheeks, and compacted her firm-softness, and let go to let her wobble.

This was all supposed to be a game. A bit of a laugh. But your friends were silent. They looked lost in concentration: like they needed to focus deeply on their jobs in order not to feel nervous, or giggly, or too-obviously-horny in any way. Slowly, they each worked away from their assigned roles – the neck, the back, the thighs – inching toward the centrepiece.

🍑

All eyes and hands led up that coveted hill.

No one could resist the chance to touch mom’s ass.

“I could do this for hours…” Mom’s eyes were shut. Mom’s face was flushed while the four of you took your turns on her cheeks. Someone’s phone vibrated. No one checked whose. The game on your TV was paused, playing music no one noticed – too fixed on peach, peach, peach.

Lucas wiped his brow. Brandon clenched his jaw. Dom traced a curl up mom’s right ass cheek, and you followed his lead on mom’s left.

Mom gripped the table’s corner. “Dom… Do your girlfriends benefit from your massage therapy training?” Her breath was almost shaky, but controlled.

Always a man of few words, Dom said: “They tend to.”

“Mmm… I love that for them. Why aren’t they all knocking on your door right now?”

“I guess I need more practice,” he said.

“I volunteer for practice – me, please,” mom smiled, sunny as ever, but the smile seemed so much more seductive face-down in your friends’ shadows. She raised one foot to stroke whoever’s thigh was waiting behind her. Brandon’s jeans met mom’s toes. (Brandon’s jaw clenched tighter, and his thumbs reached higher.) “Brandon, my sensitive Brandon: what’s the update? Are you and that barista still going together?”

Brandon said, “We’re on a see-other-people break…” Losing his wrists in the shadows between mom’s supple thighs.

Mom’s breaths shook: “Was the break your idea or hers?” (Brandon: “It was mutual…” Lucas: “That means her idea.”) Mom said, “Oh, you poor thing. A little higher, Brandon, hon.”

Lucas said, “I’m single.”

Mom said, “Obviously,” and laughed into Lucas’ palm, and reached out to stroke Lucas’ fuzzy arm. She said, “It’s nice to be single, sometimes…” Her back was turning peach with her body heat and yours. “I’m lucky: whatever happens, I’ve always got my Baby to keep me company…” Her breasts were pink from all the pawing. Her voice was quiet. Her hands clung to whatever was in reach – the blanket, a wrist, her son’s chest. “When I’m single, I learn about myself, explore my options…” She lost track of her words once again. “What am I even talking about? You guys have shut my brain down.”

“Why do they call you ‘Peach’ again?” asked Lucas, reaching for her ass.

Mom giggled and giggled that good-first-date laugh of hers while you shared the surface of mom’s cheeks. Palm fought palm fought thickness, rubbing through softness and density. Wobble. Swirling over her skirt and under with purpose and strength. All silent with appreciation.

Your mom’s skin was forty-four wherever it battled the sun – on the back of her neck; across her shoulders. But down between her hips, and across her legs, and on her breasts, she looked twenty-five. Supple. Unmarked by wrinkles. Smooth to touch, and touch, and touch…

Mom didn’t bother speaking anymore, or couldn’t. Her words were replaced entirely by gaps of silence and then moans: moans of relief, moans of pleasure, startled moans, and heavy moans. Sometimes, she spoke through silent shivers that gave thanks. Whenever she was rubbed just right, her body replied with a twitch, or sometimes with a squirm. (A slow stretch of her thighs over the blanket. A slow writhe of her hips into the table.) You were rarely sure whose hands inspired it.

Everyone, yourself included, seemed to forget about ‘boundaries’ at all. The hands on her ribs forgot to use their palms, instead grazing fingertips over and under her breasts. Someone’s back rubs pushed her skirt lower, lower… until the tip of mom’s ass crack peeked into the room. Mom welcomed all of it. Her toes rubbed someone’s thighs; her nose nuzzled someone’s wrist. When someone’s grips spread her legs wider, mom spread herself wider than that. Her hair was coiled in someone’s finger and then balled into a fistful of dark strands. She was gasping – literally, without reservation, gasping – her pleasure for everyone to hear.

The sounds she made with her pretty pink mouth made your cock ache. You’d never heard her so mindless; so wholly lost in her all-firing nerves and her own writhing body.

Nothing’s going to happen. Nothing’s going to happen. You replayed those words a hundred times, watching your mom groped all over. Rubbing oils under mom’s small, supple tummy. Gripping a handful of mom’s thigh. Learning firsthand, without doubt: mom was damp between her legs.

Soaked, actually.

She invited your hands, “Higher…,” and your fingertip felt a drop of liquid silk, seeped out the lining of her panties. Mom groaned, “Oh, my god…” You’d felt it personally, but your friends must have known, too: the undeniable scent of wet pussy entered the room, wafting up from beneath mom’s skirt.

“Let’s stop there,” she said, breathless. “Oh my god. Wow. You guys are – … You’re too good to me.”

All at once, your hands left her skin. However much male energy loomed over that table, your mom was absolutely in charge.

The four of you laughed a little too much. (Ignoring that one or two of you were visibly hard in your pants.) Mom fanned herself, and giggled, and said you all passed her test: “It’s so cute how guys of your generation are so into consent. You stopped when I said ‘stop!’ I can trust you. What a treat.” (Dom scratched the back of his head. Lucas took a deep breath. Brandon buried his face in his phone. You helped mom’s arm into her bra strap.) “If we kept going, I would have been naked, and wouldn’t have cared. I feel brainless. It’s bliss. How long was I lying there?”

About twenty minutes, Brandon calculated.

“That’s all??” mom stuffed herself into her bra. “I must be tired from last night. I need to get home. Who’s coming to mine to help me cook dinner tomorrow?”

You helped your mom into her tee.

Dom stared out the window.

Brandon said, “Shit… My parents’ flight got cancelled. They’re not gonna make it back home for Easter.” He showed their message on his phone. (“Sorry, dude.” “That sucks.”) “My parents live in, like, a pretty big house. With its own pool and hot tub. If you guys want, we could go there for Easter Sunday without them – for a swim.”

Mom’s pretty head popped out the neck of her tee, mouth open like she was ready to say, A hot tub?! Yes! But she hesitated, waiting for you to speak first – in case the thought of your mother bikini-clad around friends was too much.

All you said was, “Uh,” words tripping over an invisible boundary. Your mind fell into a whirlpool of perverted thoughts.

“Why not?” Dom asked. “It’s not like we’re going to have a gangbang.”

~

I’ll let you know where you spend Sunday in part 3 next week. ❤️

Everyone is 21+ and consenting. Continued from Part 1 [link]: “Whether or not I made the right choices, I’ll let you decide. So let’s pretend you’re me. My mom is your mom…”

There’s no textbook to teach you how to conduct an orgy with your mom. In the event that an orgy with your mom seems possibly within reach, there is no way of knowing for sure how to stop its momentum. That’s because things like incest and gangbangs never really happen… Right?

“Just a massage,” you told mom, curious enough to test your limits and hers.

“Just a massage,” she assured you, and immediately shouted: “A massage sounds lovely, guys!” out your bedroom door. You knew your roommates would love that she gave in. The fact that they said nothing told you everything.

Mom took her morning shower. You and Dom had a quick and quiet chat over a (kart-racing) game on the TV.

Dom: “How are you feeling about the mom situation?”

You: “What do you mean?”

Dom: “The fact she’s flirting with every one of us – you included. I’ve never seen Lucas spend so much time outside his room.”

You: “Mom’s last relationship ended bad. I think she just needs to get laid.”

Dom: “I think so, too. [He sipped his coffee.]”

You: “…Nothing’s going to happen. It’s fine. Let her flirt.”

Dom: “Friends no matter what?”

You: “Friends no matter what.”

Dom: “…So do you still have that thing for incest porn?” He knows you well.

You: “Do you still have a fetish for older women?” You know him well.

Dom: “Looks like we’re a couple of mama’s boys.”

The two of you shook your heads and grinned stupidly at the TV.

If the universe is doomed to descend into chaos, it might as well descend like this:

Out of a bottle of massage oil, held upside-down, you dripped golden syrup across mom’s freshly showered back, and watched the liquid flow over her smoothness and beauty marks.

“That gave me goosebumps!” she said, lying on her chest. “Oop – it’s going to wet my bra. Here:” She reached behind her back to unclasp her bra strap – the thin layer of fabric and interlocking metal shielding your mom’s bare torso from your friends’ perving eyes. Snap. Chaos reigns. Black straps and black lace cups lay loose beneath her oiled curves. “Nobody can see anything, can you? No, of course not – good, let’s do this.”

At least she was still wearing her skirt.

“Jojoba oil is similar in composition to your skin’s natural oils,” said Dom, remaining calm and cool when faced with your mom’s sideboob. “So it absorbs nicely into the skin, and won’t leave any grease… But you didn’t need to use that much, dude.”

Two golden oil puddles collected inside the dimples of your mom’s hips. “So long as you make me feel good, I don’t mind if there’s some mess,” mom said. “Who’s my first unlucky volunteer?”

“Uh… I’ll tell Baby what to do,” said Dom, professional back rubber in-training. “You want to try to use your palms, not your fingertips…”

Mom lay face-down on a pedestal of sorts: across your hand-me-down coffee table, draped with a tartan bed comforter. A pile of video games and samurai blu-rays (communal) lay neatly stacked on the carpet, pushed aside for the queen. The open plan apartment made it easy for everyone to watch. Lucas sat on the kitchen counter, staring sleepy-eyed as your hands circled near but not across the flesh of mom’s squashed sideboob. Brandon took a phone call on the couch. (“Yeah ma, I’m still good for Easter Sunday dinner… Nothing crazy last night. Peach – I mean Baby’s mom – made us food… Yeah, she’s a super nice lady. Really, really nice…”) You kneeled next to your mother’s infamous ass, round beneath her skirt – which she seemed to have spritzed with a tart, fruity perfume.

Nobody commented on mom’s near-nakedness.

Nobody left the room for any reason.

You focused yourself to stop your hands from shaking.

It’s just a body, some people might say. It’s just a massage. No big deal. They have no fucking clue. When it’s your mom, even innocent touches feel different.

Rubbing her oiled hourglass body felt like sinking your hand through liquid silk. When you hit the right spot, your actions made your mom exhale sharp, pleasured breaths. Your hands made mom’s shoulders flush peach-pink.

How ‘comfortable’ could she get in your apartment? How much teasing could you all take before this fantasy needed to find its happy ending?

You tried to palm the left and right sides of mom’s back and hips at once; to feed her curiosity and yours about what it might be like for mom to be touched by many hands all over. Your mom whimpered, releasing stiffness as your palms glided down the arch of her back.

“Mmph… That’s where I carry all my pain,” mom whined into the blanket. Goosebumps came to greet you across the vast valley of her achey, mommy hips. “Oooh… That’s a good rhythm… Right there. Ugh. You’re gonna make your mother moan.”

Lucas made a face, but mercifully kept his joke to himself.

Brandon placed one Peach-muting hand over his phone call, but stayed put and kept on staring as you rubbed and rubbed.

(Palms turning red as you pressed down, deep. A quiet squelch when you rubbed the puddles pooling in her hip dimples. Mom’s small, sharp breaths.)

“Try not to lift your hands off her skin. Stay on her muscles and… wherever she’s softer,” said Dom. “You want to avoid the spine. Here: like this. Can I?”

(“Please,” said mom.)

You appreciated that he’d waited for your go-ahead. You nodded. “You take her other end.”

(Lucas made another face.)

Dom kneeled near mom’s head, oiled his palms, and then there were three of you. He sunk his hands into your mom’s back, digging wherever her softness needed him most.

You and Dom exchanged awkward smiles and half-hidden laughs like, Can you believe we’re doing this? (Or: I’m not horny for her. Why? Are you?) You’d shared graduations, cars, apartments, controllers, milk cartons, and secrets. You’d never shared mom.

“Ooooh, wow, wow, wow…” Mom’s mouth hung open in lazy, dazed pleasure.

Brandon’s phone call ended. “My ma says thanks for helping take care of our place, Miss Peach – with food and cleaning and stuff.” (“You’re more than welcome…”) “She says I should say thanks by making you a painting.”

(Lucas: “Peach, do you prefer paintings of Tony the Tiger, or Elsa kissing Spider-Man?”)

“I’m sure your commissioned art is lovely, Brandon. If you want to paint anything, you can paint me,” mom slurred her words under yours and Dom’s hands. “Better yet, come rub my legs…”

Brandon looked to you for permission. You cocked your head, C’mere, and he was kneeling between mom’s feet.

“You wanna do long strokes from the calf up to the thighs,” Dom told Brandon. “Always work towards the body… Not too high up the leg, obviously.”

“Three pairs of hands. This is heaven,” mom moaned.

Every push from Brandon’s thumbs up your mom’s legs inspired a small, eye-catching, mind-melting wobble~ on mom’s butt. Even hidden beneath her skirt, her ass was undeniably the sharehouse’s centrepiece.

Your hands all avoided it. Your eyes kept getting caught by its hypnotic wobble.

“All I need is someone’s fingertips on my scalp,” said mom. “And I’ll melt into a puddle of mom. Lucas: make yourself useful for once.”

He hopped off the counter. “I was starting to get FOMO.”

Your mom teased: “Be gentle and be quiet.”

Lucas’ fingers ran through mom’s hair with more delicacy and sincere effort than expected. (You remembered: he’s always had a thing for women with dark hair.)

The coffee table was surrounded. Four-on-one, you massaged mom raw. Her skin looked warm under the late morning light: skin soft and glistening with oil. Your plan that Saturday morning was to test everyone’s boundaries. So far you’d found no boundaries at all.

Under four pairs of hands, mom’s mouth was a fountain of little gasps and little moans.

Your stomach churned with the strangest concoction of jealousy and desire.

Almost everywhere she had to rub was rubbed – but all hands conspicuously avoided the softest pudge of sideboob, where her breasts squashed against the blanket. Everyone watched her bum wobble, but none of you dared to touch it. 

“Baby… Is that you on my lower back?” mom asked. (You confirmed that was you.) “You’re doing amazing work. Could you go a little lower?”

The question must have made your face red. All three friends made a gargantuan effort not to tease, staring at you, waiting on your hands to move.

“…Is that too weird to ask?” Mom sounded convincingly innocent.

“It’s not weird,” you lied.

“I’m just feeling like there are certain parts of me no one’s touching. And I want you guys to be comfortable – don’t gross yourself out on my behalf. But if you’re worried about my comfort, please, don’t be. Massage anywhere. I trust you.”

You palms were the first to venture down – deep breath, don’t blush – over the dramatic curve of mom’s ass. Pushing deep into her roundness. Shocked that there was so much pudgy depth waiting beneath her skin, and yet so much firmness fighting back against your palms.

“That’s a good spot – there,” she groaned. (She jiggled. She wobbled. She drove your churning horny jealous cock to grow down your pant leg.) “Dom, honey – you’ve got such incredible technique. Could you get my ribs?” By her ‘ribs,’ of course, she meant the exposed sides of her squashed mommy tits. “Unless of course you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he said. You haven’t seen Dom blush very often. Mom’s request must have tickled him. “I was just trying to be… respectful.” He was looking at you.

Mom’s peach-gold skin and gentle moans clouded your judgment. The soft-firm perfection of her ass and the beauty of her hot-flushed face clouded your judgment. You nodded to let Dom know: Friends no matter what. Touch her.

“Don’t worry: I feel very respected,” mom said. “Rub as hard as you like – it’s not like we’re going to have a gangbang.” She chuckled. “Be realistic.”

You all laughed, a little awkwardly. She said the word everyone was thinking.

Dom answered the challenge. While your palms sunk into the crack of your mom’s ass, his rolled over the fat and freckled hills of her half-concealed breasts.

You thought: Holy shit. Holy shit.

“Brandon,” she said, “higher – if you could.”

Holy shit. Holy shit.

Mom had started a game of four-on-one chicken.

Brandon’s strokes reached up your mom’s thigh, releasing tension all the way into the shadows beneath her skirt.

Lucas’ fingertips sunk down mom’s neck, caressing goosebumps (and gasps) out of the spots where mom surely loved to be kissed.

Dom’s palms burrowed into and bunched-up beautiful, bulging flesh around mom’s ‘ribs.’

The more the boundaries broke without resistance or comment or even a passing joke, the more boldly you explored your mother’s ass. (“That feels…” Mom lost her words to a long, pleasured exhale.) You pressed her cheeks together, speechless as their roundness grew taller when squeezed. You pushed toward the base of her cheeks, forgetting the rest of the room as you ironed out the creases hiding beneath her ass cheeks, and compacted her firm-softness, and let go to let her wobble.

This was all supposed to be a game. A bit of a laugh. But your friends were silent. They looked lost in concentration: like they needed to focus deeply on their jobs in order not to feel nervous, or giggly, or too-obviously-horny in any way. Slowly, they each worked away from their assigned roles – the neck, the back, the thighs – inching toward the centrepiece.

🍑

All eyes and hands led up that coveted hill.

No one could resist the chance to touch mom’s ass.

“I could do this for hours…” Mom’s eyes were shut. Mom’s face was flushed while the four of you took your turns on her cheeks. Someone’s phone vibrated. No one checked whose. The game on your TV was paused, playing music no one noticed – too fixed on peach, peach, peach.

Lucas wiped his brow. Brandon clenched his jaw. Dom traced a curl up mom’s right ass cheek, and you followed his lead on mom’s left.

Mom gripped the table’s corner. “Dom… Do your girlfriends benefit from your massage therapy training?” Her breath was almost shaky, but controlled.

Always a man of few words, Dom said: “They tend to.”

“Mmm… I love that for them. Why aren’t they all knocking on your door right now?”

“I guess I need more practice,” he said.

“I volunteer for practice – me, please,” mom smiled, sunny as ever, but the smile seemed so much more seductive face-down in your friends’ shadows. She raised one foot to stroke whoever’s thigh was waiting behind her. Brandon’s jeans met mom’s toes. (Brandon’s jaw clenched tighter, and his thumbs reached higher.) “Brandon, my sensitive Brandon: what’s the update? Are you and that barista still going together?”

Brandon said, “We’re on a see-other-people break…” Losing his wrists in the shadows between mom’s supple thighs.

Mom’s breaths shook: “Was the break your idea or hers?” (Brandon: “It was mutual…” Lucas: “That means her idea.”) Mom said, “Oh, you poor thing. A little higher, Brandon, hon.”

Lucas said, “I’m single.”

Mom said, “Obviously,” and laughed into Lucas’ palm, and reached out to stroke Lucas’ fuzzy arm. She said, “It’s nice to be single, sometimes…” Her back was turning peach with her body heat and yours. “I’m lucky: whatever happens, I’ve always got my Baby to keep me company…” Her breasts were pink from all the pawing. Her voice was quiet. Her hands clung to whatever was in reach – the blanket, a wrist, her son’s chest. “When I’m single, I learn about myself, explore my options…” She lost track of her words once again. “What am I even talking about? You guys have shut my brain down.”

“Why do they call you ‘Peach’ again?” asked Lucas, reaching for her ass.

Mom giggled and giggled that good-first-date laugh of hers while you shared the surface of mom’s cheeks. Palm fought palm fought thickness, rubbing through softness and density. Wobble. Swirling over her skirt and under with purpose and strength. All silent with appreciation.

Your mom’s skin was forty-four wherever it battled the sun – on the back of her neck; across her shoulders. But down between her hips, and across her legs, and on her breasts, she looked twenty-five. Supple. Unmarked by wrinkles. Smooth to touch, and touch, and touch…

Mom didn’t bother speaking anymore, or couldn’t. Her words were replaced entirely by gaps of silence and then moans: moans of relief, moans of pleasure, startled moans, and heavy moans. Sometimes, she spoke through silent shivers that gave thanks. Whenever she was rubbed just right, her body replied with a twitch, or sometimes with a squirm. (A slow stretch of her thighs over the blanket. A slow writhe of her hips into the table.) You were rarely sure whose hands inspired it.

Everyone, yourself included, seemed to forget about ‘boundaries’ at all. The hands on her ribs forgot to use their palms, instead grazing fingertips over and under her breasts. Someone’s back rubs pushed her skirt lower, lower… until the tip of mom’s ass crack peeked into the room. Mom welcomed all of it. Her toes rubbed someone’s thighs; her nose nuzzled someone’s wrist. When someone’s grips spread her legs wider, mom spread herself wider than that. Her hair was coiled in someone’s finger and then balled into a fistful of dark strands. She was gasping – literally, without reservation, gasping – her pleasure for everyone to hear.

The sounds she made with her pretty pink mouth made your cock ache. You’d never heard her so mindless; so wholly lost in her all-firing nerves and her own writhing body.

Nothing’s going to happen. Nothing’s going to happen. You replayed those words a hundred times, watching your mom groped all over. Rubbing oils under mom’s small, supple tummy. Gripping a handful of mom’s thigh. Learning firsthand, without doubt: mom was damp between her legs.

Soaked, actually.

She invited your hands, “Higher…,” and your fingertip felt a drop of liquid silk, seeped out the lining of her panties. Mom groaned, “Oh, my god…” You’d felt it personally, but your friends must have known, too: the undeniable scent of wet pussy entered the room, wafting up from beneath mom’s skirt.

“Let’s stop there,” she said, breathless. “Oh my god. Wow. You guys are – … You’re too good to me.”

All at once, your hands left her skin. However much male energy loomed over that table, your mom was absolutely in charge.

The four of you laughed a little too much. (Ignoring that one or two of you were visibly hard in your pants.) Mom fanned herself, and giggled, and said you all passed her test: “It’s so cute how guys of your generation are so into consent. You stopped when I said ‘stop!’ I can trust you. What a treat.” (Dom scratched the back of his head. Lucas took a deep breath. Brandon buried his face in his phone. You helped mom’s arm into her bra strap.) “If we kept going, I would have been naked, and wouldn’t have cared. I feel brainless. It’s bliss. How long was I lying there?”

About twenty minutes, Brandon calculated.

“That’s all??” mom stuffed herself into her bra. “I must be tired from last night. I need to get home. Who’s coming to mine to help me cook dinner tomorrow?”

You helped your mom into her tee.

Dom stared out the window.

Brandon said, “Shit… My parents’ flight got cancelled. They’re not gonna make it back home for Easter.” He showed their message on his phone. (“Sorry, dude.” “That sucks.”) “My parents live in, like, a pretty big house. With its own pool and hot tub. If you guys want, we could go there for Easter Sunday without them – for a swim.”

Mom’s pretty head popped out the neck of her tee, mouth open like she was ready to say, A hot tub?! Yes! But she hesitated, waiting for you to speak first – in case the thought of your mother bikini-clad around friends was too much.

All you said was, “Uh,” words tripping over an invisible boundary. Your mind fell into a whirlpool of perverted thoughts.

“Why not?” Dom asked. “It’s not like we’re going to have a gangbang.”

~

I’ll let you know where you spend Sunday in part 3 next week. ❤️

Content warning: incest. Everyone is 21+ and consenting. There’s some drinking while hanging out in this first chapter, but everything intimate happens sober.

Have you ever felt like there was sexual tension between you and your mom? Like if you said the right thing at the right time, you were one or two choices away from clawing each other’s clothes off?

I have. I felt that tension over the Easter weekend. Whether or not I made the right choices… I’ll let you decide.

So let’s pretend you’re me. My mom is your mom. My sharehouse is yours, too. You’re 21 years-old, playing video games on the couch with three guys who are A) good friends, and B) your roommates, when mom lets herself in. (You cut an extra key for her. A mistake or an excellent choice, depending on your POV.) However many times you ask her not to show up unannounced, she disrespects your boundaries/gets too excited to see you. She’s not a bad mom at all. She’s what some might call ‘quirked up.’

Mom’s an executive assistant for an interior design firm, 44, single, and sorta seeking. She lives ~thirty minutes uptown in a little bungalow grandpa left her. She can’t go five minutes without giggling (usually at a dirty joke) or cleaning (anything in arm’s reach). On the Friday before Good Friday, she entered your apartment ass-first, bouncing the door open with her butt, holding a heaping armful of candy egg cookies, mint chocolate bark, and a refill of dish soap. She looked at you and your friends in your boxers/tees, and the controllers in your hands, and said, patronizingly: “Look at these four young studs, working together to save the world from Bowser!”

(Your friends said, “Anything for you, ma,” and, “We gotta change those locks,” a joke. And, “You’re looking beautiful as ever, Peach,” mom’s nickname.)

She shushed their flattery, laughed at their teasing, and shared a slice of party-sized pizza. Then she sat on your lap to watch you play/block your view of the four-player brawl. (You lost.) She was heavier than you expected – more on that later. Mom’s bouncy dark hair and sunny springtime dress made you and your friends look like apes who’d been taught to dress like people. After some catchup questions about your (failing) love lives, she went for the vacuum.

“You don’t have to clean!” you told her, for the hundredth time since moving in. “We’ll take care of it. Thank you for bringing food. Come hangout. Relax.”

“I’ll just tidy up then join you,” mom said.

This all sounds nice and normal, except for the fact that my mom – I mean, your mom – is ‘Peach.’ That’s the nickname her friends and exes have called her forever. Even you call mom Peach. It suits her. She’s sweet like the fruit. Her skin’s warm and golden, bordering on soft pink (especially when she’s puffed after a workout).

“Oh… That’s not why your dad called me ‘Peach,’” mom said on the Friday before Good Friday, bent over vacuuming, blocking your TV.

“What? Then where’d the nickname come from?” you (← naively) asked. Your friends looked at you strangely, and took strangely quick glances at mom(‘s dress as it rode up her black tights), like they knew something funny that you didn’t know.

“Baby. Are you serious?” mom asked, looking back over her shoulder at the four of you. The vacuum clunked onto the floor. Mom wiggled her butt, and her butt cheeks wobbled side-to-side like a stack of pancakes, like your most primordially horny caveman wet dreams, like the first ten slow-mo minutes of a Bang Bros. production. Then she stood up with a snap, laughing until her face went pink, and you noticed for the first time what had been obvious to your friends always – what they must have been thinking every time Peach bent over your oven; why they sighed whenever Peach used your balcony for yoga stretches in her yoga pants.

Your mom’s got a fat ass. It literally defines her.

🍑

“Oh,” you said. The syllable fell out of your mouth and brought your video game to a chaotic halt. All four-player fighting stopped. Italian plumbers and apes and elves dropped offscreen into the deathly ether. Your friends were wheezing with laughter. Privately, you made sense of those thousand-or-so times you’d searched Spankbang for ‘incest mom son’ porn, addendum, ‘doggystyle.’ “Oh…”

Your friends said, “You idiot,” and, “Holy shit [wheeze],” and, “Hey Peach, I don’t think he gets it. Can you show us that wiggle one more time?”

(Mom scoffed and threw a microfiber cloth at his horny head.)

What would you do? Flex your biceps and demand they all shut up? Write a strongly-worded email to your most cherished friends, and ruin your cozy once-in-a-lifetime sharehouse days, all to protect your insecurity? The thought crossed your mind. Instead, you laughed it off, embarrassed as hell. You later casually suggested to your friends (four or five times) that maybe it was no longer cool for them to call your mom ‘Peach.’ Mom asked you in private if the jokes about her (big juicy wobbly) butt upset you, and you said no/you don’t know/you weren’t sure, and hugged, and life went on as normal. For a week.

The universe is not governed by order, but by entropy. Chaos reigns.

Your friends turned down the heat on their flirty words with mom, but mom seemed determined to reignite the flame. Now, when she used her spare key (Sundays to clean, Mondays to cook, and Fridays to hangout, mostly), you noticed her ass, plump and peach-like on the back of her otherwise small body. An ass mom-wide; an ass mom-jiggly; wrapped in modest but ever-tighter mom-clothes. You noticed the ways your mom’s ass altered your roommates’ behaviour. (Roommates who graciously cleaned their dinner plates when in the vicinity of mom’s ass; suddenly nervous to speak with mom at all.) You noticed the dramatic way her hips moved when she carried those hips through your halls; your mom a short stack of curves among your tall, hormonal friends. The way your mom was comfortable in your home seemed suddenly dangerous: she’d use your shower and then stroll around, each step a bounce, wet cleavage wrapped in your fluffy white towel, ass always on the verge of peeking into view. You noticed the way her yoga pants were replaced that week with pantyhose: nylon stretched thin and see-through around her visibly white panties. Had mom always been so tempting? Or had that bum wiggle that blocked the TV (that dropped your jaw) changed her? Now that your naive eyes had opened, you noticed when she bent over (the oven, the shoe rack, the balcony…). When she’d look back over her shoulder as if checking to see if someone might be sneaking peeks at her big, defining asset – with a flip of her dark hair and curiosity in her dark eyes. Her confident sex appeal, seen, could not be unseen.

Yet her efforts seemed to fail: your roommates’ eyes seemed to dart away from what they’d always ogled, respectfully ignoring her big/sweet/irresistibly fat peach.

They’re pervs, yes, but they’re also loyal friends. There was no doubt they liked mom’s seductive tactics. How long could they practice self-control?

To your surprise, it was mom who made the first move.

“NEVER HAVE I EVER…” Before you got your key in the front door, you heard those four alarming words on mom’s lips. You were home late from work on Good Friday. (Product launch scheduled for June. Game dev crunch is real.) Mom had let herself in. ‘Peach’ and your roommates were sitting around your small, circular kitchen table with five shot glasses – one saved for you.

The guys looked at you apologetically like, Sorry, man. She started it. (You chuckled away their pity. A silent, It’s OK that my mom’s hot and flirty. I am fine. I am fun.)

“Baby!” Mom threw her arms in the air and welcomed you into the fold with a tighter-than-normal hug, and a plush (somewhat damp, somewhat exciting) kiss on your five o’clock shadow. Minty. She pulled you into the circle to sit shoulder-to-shoulder beside her. The old kitchen chair groaned when she sat (her wagon) down. Her curves were wrapped in a cute, yellow dress that would suit an Easter Sunday mass (or knock any MILF-loving man off his feet).

Mom was either fishing for compliments or feeling out-of-place. “You guys really don’t mind me hanging out?” she asked the table, looking only at you. (“No way, never.” “Absolutely not.” “You’re one of the guys.”) “I honestly really do like living alone – but on the holidays, it’s harder.” (“Aw, no, come over any night.” “Our casa tu casa.” “Su casa.” “Su casa.”) When you nodded your approval, she smiled, squeezed your hand, and explained: “I wanted to play something fun over drinks – for the special occasion. But your buddies couldn’t convince me to learn a card game, or a board game… or how to use a controller.” Mom giggled, and wow does she have a pretty laugh. “So we’re sharing dirty secrets. My idea.”

“Like Jesus would have wanted,” you said. The canned joke relaxed the room.

From the top to the bottom of a vodka bottle, the five of you played “Never Have I Ever,” and got to know each other way too well. The table, tucked into a corner wall covered in movie posters (yours) and hockey memorabilia (roommates’), was toasty warm thanks to liquor, and body heat (yours and mom’s). The windows were fogged and wide open so the breeze could chill four men, one woman, and any impure thoughts. Beneath a leathery veil of men’s cologne was mom’s fruity perfume: lightening the mood, just like mom’s sunny smile and her always-too-loud laugh. At first, everyone attempted to remain respectful… but it was a testosterone-filled room with testosterone-filled jokes. Mom loved it.

“Contrary to popular belief,” said roommate #1, Lucas, “never have I ever sucked a dick.”

Mom said, “That’s not fair,” because she was the only one at the table to down a shot of vodka. She fought off the drink’s burn with a wince, then finger-wagged Lucas. “You knew I was the only one who’d drink. If I’m the only one sharing sexy secrets, I’m leaving.”

Everyone was laughing a little too much, drowning out shared thoughts of your mom on her knees, looking up at a man with her wide, dark mommy eyes.

“I didn’t think you’d drink!” said Lucas. “I thought we’d invited a virtuous woman into our home.” He smiled at everyone like you knew he was teasing, but mom might not. “Can you believe she kisses her son with that mouth?” (You kicked Lucas under the table.)

“Oh, shut up,” your mom said, and spoke quietly: “…Blowjobs are too basic for this game, anyway. Level one. Give me something juicy to confess.”

That drew a round of OooOos and Wows and Damn mommys from the table. Your mom shook her head in disappointment at Lucas, barely fighting back her tipsy smile.

💡 TRIVIA: Lucas’ jokes are always crass, his politics are inscrutable, but he’s rugged and 6’4, so women rarely seem to mind. He is 23. Nobody knows where he gets rent money.

“Never have I ever,” said roommate #2, Brandon, “had sex – in public.”

Lucas downed a shot of vodka. (“Where?” mom whispered. Lucas whispered an answer in her ear, and her eyebrows shot up.) Your mom downed a shot of vodka, too.

“Wow, mom!” You didn’t mean to say it out loud. Your friends’ laughter felt like it might shake your head off your shoulders.

“Well…!” Mom’s tone was defensive. “We all go through… phases in life…” You were both blushing. Every word seemed to make your roommates rowdier. “Your mother went through a phase, in her twenties, where hotel pools… brought out her exhibitionist side.” Her eyes were wide~~, dick-sucking wide,~~ silently apologizing or on the verge of laughter.

“It’s not a big deal. I was just surprised because you’re usually so, uh, clean,” you said, and some other things, too: about how mom’s had her own life, mistakes, and lessons… Mom deserves fun, too, and you were comfortable with that. (To be honest, you laid it on a little thick.)

“Momma, no joke, you’re the coolest,” said Lucas.

“Miss, uh, Peach,” Brandon timidly requested her attention: “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, of course. But when you stay at hotels: curtains open or shut?”

“…Oh, definitely open,” mom said. Shame left her voice, and in its place came a torrential mom giggle.

She squeezed your hand, Sorry, Baby. It’s kind of funny, right, Baby? (You nodded, A little funny.)

The table fell to a few titters, halfway-nervous glances, and your roommates’ quietly ironic smirks. You and Brandon shared a look like he was sorry for putting the image in your head. (An image you tried to delete of mom’s ass, carried and smothered against a hotel window. Fucked and jiggling. Pale where its curves pressed most tightly to the glass.)

💡 TRIVIA: Brandon, 24, is an Uber driver who moonlights as a commissions painter of Rule 34 masterpieces. Certainly, his dirty mind imagined the hotel window, too.

“Never have I ever…” shrugged roommate #3, Dom. “…had a threesome.”

Brandon drank. (Lucas said, “Let’s go, Brandon.” Brandon hates that.)

“I need a glass of water,” mom said. “Am I having a hot flash, or are men just furnaces?” She stood up, a yellow totem of mommy tits and mommy ass for all to quickly see and nervously un-see, before her peach swayed away from your averted eyes.

There was warm, awkward silence. “You’ve really never had a threesome?” you asked Dom.

“Nah,” said Dom. “Came close once. With my economics prof and her husband.”

💡 TRIVIA: Dominic AKA ‘Dom,’ 21, has been your best friend since he was fat and you were 5. As a massage therapist in-training, Dom bulked out and grew up into a man in-demand, and he’s therefore had many more sexual experiences than you.

The kitchen chair groaned (🍑), and all eyes turned to mom.

“What was the ‘never ever?’” she asked. “Oh, have I ever had a threesome…?” With a sigh, she threw back another shot of vodka, then buried her bright peach face in her palms. Threesome confirmed. (The crowd roared.)

“Sweet Jesus,” you said.

Mom winced as she swallowed. “Don’t worry,” she choked up. “It was with two women. No big deal.” (Cough.) “But good for you, Dom: flirting with an older woman professor. I always knew you had good taste.” (“Thank you, Peach.”)

“Cool [haha], I never knew,” you said. Below the table, out of your control, you were nursing the beginnings of a confused, hard problem.

You were supposed to hate this situation, weren’t you?

You weren’t enjoying the flirt fest, were you?

“Oh. Two girls,” said Lucas. “Just to clarify: What exactly happened in this boring, no-big-deal story? How big were the other women’s boring breasts?” He yawned.

Your mom laughed with that hungry look women get on good first dates with funny guys. “I’m not telling,” she said, shoving Lucas’ 6’4 chest with her 5’4 strength. (You imagined mom’s jelly-thick thighs slapping against another woman’s thighs. Mom’s dark hair sweating, caressed and grabbed by another woman’s hand.) She whispered to Dom, “They were both busty – and older,” and wiggled her eyebrows. She stretched out across the kitchen chairs, resting her back against Dom, laying her thick mommy thighs across your lap, and plopping her feet across the table on Brandon. “It was just after college – after your dad left.” (Mom’s breasts squashed between two coworkers’ big, writhing, rubbing breasts. Mom’s soft mouth sucking on her girlfriend’s tongue.) “Me and some girlfriends at work were done with men. We all thought we were gay for five minutes. It wasn’t as good as men, for me – but it was fun to be surrounded like that. I’m proud of you.”

“Proud of me?” asked Brandon.

“I’m proud of Baby, dummy. My son,” mom said. “I’m proud of you for acting very grown-up tonight – while I’m not.” (Your dick grew down your thigh.) “Is it your turn, Baby? Yay! Give us a good one. This is fun. I want to know what’s on your to-do list.”

💡 TRIVIA: Mom, and everyone else, calls you ‘Baby.’ ‘Because you’re so painfully cute,’ mom claims.

Mom’s teasing smile is one of her best smiles. You’d had just enough to drink that mom looked more beautiful than usual – relaxing into your friends like she ruled over them. And just enough to drink that you forgot about your secret hard-on. Mom absent-mindedly stroked Dom’s arm, waiting for your reply. Wiggled her toes in Brandon’s lap. Exchanged a cheeky smile with Lucas.

“Never have I ever…” You couldn’t decide what to say.

A) ‘Cum inside a woman’? That way, only your roommates could drink.

B) ‘Jerked off to incest porn’? A lie that would surely reveal the truth.

You went with none of the above. Instead, you said the worst thing possible: the first thing that came to mind. “Never have I ever been part of a gangbang.”

Lucas glanced at his shot glass, shaking his head, Not me. Brandon shrugged. Dom said, “I wish. Me neither.” You all looked at mom.

Mom was silent, swirling her shot glass over her breasts. “A ‘gangbang’? …Wow, no. Never had one.” She looked around the quiet table of young, horny men as if asking you all, Why? Are you surprised? “If no one’s done it, that means you drink, Baby. Rules are rules.” (The vodka hit your throat, boiling.) For once, the jokes were absent. Everyone was too busy mulling over the word ‘gangbang’ – four-on-one, your mom surrounded, her pink-gold legs in the air, her soft mouth moaning. The images you’d stupidly shoved into their heads. “Wait. That’s where multiple men share one woman? At the same time, right?” asked mom. “Wow. No. I’ve never experienced that…” Mom squirmed in her seat. Her famous(ly fat) ass on the hand-me-down chair sent another wooden groan through the tense silence. She said it like she knew she shouldn’t: “…But to be honest, a gangbang’s always been my number one fantasy.”

You waited for the laughter and teasing, but they didn’t come. Your friends were effectively struck stupidly horny.

You’ve never felt such tight silence, wrapped around your throat.

Everyone was thinking about passing your mom around, and everyone – your mom included – knew it. Your heart raced with jealousy, protectiveness, and dumb curiosity.

“What makes it such a big fantasy? For you?” Brandon asked, tripping over his words and/or dick.

You wanted to kick him. / You wanted to know, too.

“Oh… I guess…” Your mom paused in sincere thought, burning under the spotlight of four men’s gazes. “I guess it’s that feeling of being small, and helpless – but wanted… All that strength around me, all at once, taking care of me… These men who could crush me, weighing down on me, but making sure I feel pleasure. And I guess…” She shook her head. Her pretty face cracked into a devious smile. “You probably don’t want to hear this. I should shut up.”

“It’s okay,” you said, too curious for your own good. “Say.”

Mom’s heavy eyes stared straight through your eyes and into your thousand-odd searches for incest porn. She said, “I’m a neat freak, right?” (You + your 3 friends nodded.) “This is going to sound crazy to you, especially, Baby. But… This is so embarrassing. It’s the mess. Everyone’s hair, and sweat, and… – everything that comes with sex, all over me.” You could hear, as they say, a pin drop. Your heartbeat. Mom’s every uninhibited breath. “So it’s not just the thought of men pleasuring me – I’m not all the way selfish. It’s also the thought of them using me, until I’m just… covered in them. Like I’m not a neat freak mama for a night. I’m an object.”

“Like they can’t help themselves.” Dom cleared his throat. “They’ve got to have you.”

Someone’s knee was bouncing under the table.

“Exactly,” said mom. “I know: feminism, agency… I know it sounds bad. But it would make me feel like a sort of, toy… And I think I’d probably like that.” She was still staring into you. Watching the fantasy play out behind your eyes: of you, D, B, and L, standing in a circle around her, staring down at her dark pleading eyes and her fat peach. Each of you hard, eager, and nervous – as her knees hit the carpet. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve probably said too much.” she said. (Unbuckling your belt behind your eyes. Kissing your bulge. Reaching blindly to unzip D’s jeans.) Mom fixed her dress, wrestling her cleavage into submission. “It’s funny: menopause was supposed to shut down my libido… but I’ve heard some women have the total opposite experience. I think that’s what’s been happening to me. Or I’m reading too many dirty novels. A ‘gangbang’ – ha. I’m being silly.”

“Never give up on your dreams,” said Lucas.

Mom laughed her big, first-date laugh into the silence. “Thanks, Lucas.” Normally confident to a fault and flirty at all costs, your mom’s voice was soft beneath her embarrassment. Everyone leaned a millimetre into the steaming hot table, waiting on her words. “Anyway, these things are probably rare, right? I’d have to be really attracted to the guys. All of them.” (Behind your eyes: she kissed your neck; dragged her fingers down D’s broad chest; side-eyed swarthy L’s bulge, while B kissed up her thighs and between her cheeks.) “And… I’d have to really, really trust them. Right? Before I let them strip me down.” (B pulled mom back into her arms, and you pulled her stockings off, and her eager hands found a cock for the first, worshipful stroke.) “And obviously, they’d have to be attracted to me,” she said.

“That part’s easy,” said your MILF hunter bestie, Dom.

“Stop~!” Mom flipped her hair off her blushing face, whipping Dom with the dark strands. (Your friends said, “It’s true.” “You’re a babe, Ms. Peach.”) “You’re a bunch of charmers,” she rolled her eyes like this was all a big joke. Easing the tension as you all imagined stripping her there, now, on that table. “You are charmers, aren’t you? You’re ‘fuckboys.’ Stop with the flattery. Leave this old woman alone. Poor Baby. Now he’s gonna tell me to stop coming over.”

You assured her you were okay. A half-truth and a throbbing lie.

“Never have I ever felt this warm,” said mom, practically lying down across your laps. She fanned herself, tugging at her dress to release the hot menopausal air from her chest. “When did we all start cuddling? You all need a cold shower,” she laughed. Mom stood up, and her ass knocked her kitchen chair back with a whack onto the floor, and the four of you leapt to catch her before she fell ass-first. (Her ass would’ve left a crater in the kitchen tile.)

The four of you hoisted her – dress and hair hanging – into the air.

“Is it okay if I spend the night in your bed, Baby?” she giggled and giggled through the question, squirming to find her balance, small in four men’s arms.

Together, you carried her kicking and laughing onto your bed. You handed her a tall bottle of water and a blanket, and slept next to her in your work clothes, too distracted to change, mind racing with horny thoughts. The bed was small and thanks to mom, softer. The kitchen took hours to cool.

You heard your friends outside say, “That ruled.”

----------------THE SOBER PART----------------

In the morning, you woke up to your phone buzzing. Your windowless room was dark, except for the fairy lights mom hung months ago – “to impress any ladies you invite inside.” Mom was awake.

She cooed, "Spoon me?" and you did. She was sober, slow, and sleepy.

Mom was holding her phone, messaging you words she found too difficult to say out loud: I’ve been replaying last night in my head over and over
Mom: You’re always so understanding and patient with me
Mom: I’m worried I was too chaotic
Mom: I don’t want to upset my number one man

You sometimes message her like this, sitting side by side, when talking’s hard. Speaking of hard: your morning wood was wedged between her cheeks.

You replied, typing while you warmed her chilly backside with your thighs: You’re allowed to be tipsy and horny like anybody else
You: I had fun
You: But the guys probably think you want to bang them now haha

Mom: lol
Mom: They must be terrified
Mom: They’ll be boarding up the windows next time I’m coming over

You: More like rolling out the red carpet

Mom: They’re good-looking young guys. They don’t need your mother’s attention
Mom: (Not as good-looking as you, of course ❤️)

You: Can I ask you a question?

Mom: Always, Baby

You: When you flirt with my friends, is it all the way a joke? Or do you ever want more?

Outside your closed bedroom door, you heard your roommates talk in whispered tones. (“…What the hell was last night…?” “…so hot…”) A podcast on someone’s phone. The coffee maker. Bacon sizzling. Light Saturday traffic.

Mom’s sleepy, happy moan in your ear.

The toasty scent of her skin first thing in the morning.

Her silky hair nuzzling through the dark against your chin.

A kiss on your cheek.

The ass – the world’s most forbidden ass – slipping across the bed and under the sheets until its endlessly soft-firm-round weight dropped onto your lap.

Mom was wrapped around your neck, sitting on your bulging jeans, yawning in your face for a weirdly sexy morning cuddle. You couldn’t see, but you were pretty sure sleep had hiked her yellow dress above her wide, mommy hips. You couldn’t know, but you guessed the pudge at the tip of your bulge was the cotton shield of mom’s panties.

Was she determined to flirt with your friends… or you?

You held mom, and knew now that you were holding a diary’s worth of dirty secrets. A woman with a past and her own private perversions.

“Is it all the way a joke…?” she repeated your question in sleepy, whispered form, like she was hoping you would answer for her. “Or do I want more…?” She swallowed as her lips came to life, and her nose nuzzled your ear, and every single syllable from mom’s breathy-raspy-sleepy voice made you harder. “I always thought I was just being friendly with your friends – for fun. Like nothing would ever happen, obviously,” the ‘obviously’ almost defensive, “so I might as well tease.” Every ‘s’ was a click of mom’s wet tongue next to your perked-up ear. Every ‘t’ a tap of tongue-on-teeth so near it almost made you shiver. “But everything felt different last night. Not ‘on edge,’ but… You felt it, too.” You nodded, and you swear you felt it: mom’s butt clenching around your bulge on the words, ‘You felt it, too.’ “I know, I know: it was confusing for both of us. I don’t know what to make of the tension last night… I’ll stop flirting with you guys forever if you want.” You could hear the cute, seductive pout on her lips.

You were throbbing hopelessly into the shadows. Lightheaded under the weight of mom’s tits, ass, and teases: “What do you want?” you asked her.

“I want you to love your mommy more than anyone, no matter what happens.”

“Of course… What does that mean?”

A knock at the door. Lucas’ voice: “Peach? Are you okay, my queen?” (Mom seemed to roll her eyes – and smile.) “Do you need four charitable men to massage you better? Kidding. Kind of…”

Mom dragged a fingertip from the top of your horny head to the back of your tingling neck, like she was asking permission. She whispered in your ear: “Do I need a massage?”

~

I’ll let you know what you said in part 2 next week. ❤️

Everyone is 21+ and consenting. There’s some drinking while hanging out in this first chapter, but everything intimate happens sober.

Have you ever felt like there was sexual tension between you and your mom? Like if you said the right thing at the right time, you were one or two choices away from clawing each other’s clothes off?

I have. I felt that tension over the Easter weekend. Whether or not I made the right choices… I’ll let you decide.

So let’s pretend you’re me. My mom is your mom. My sharehouse is yours, too. You’re 21 years-old, playing video games on the couch with three guys who are A) good friends, and B) your roommates, when mom lets herself in. (You cut an extra key for her. A mistake or an excellent choice, depending on your POV.) However many times you ask her not to show up unannounced, she disrespects your boundaries/gets too excited to see you. She’s not a bad mom at all. She’s what some might call ‘quirked up.’

Mom’s an executive assistant for an interior design firm, 44, single, and sorta seeking. She lives ~thirty minutes uptown in a little bungalow grandpa left her. She can’t go five minutes without giggling (usually at a dirty joke) or cleaning (anything in arm’s reach). On the Friday before Good Friday, she entered your apartment ass-first, bouncing the door open with her butt, holding a heaping armful of candy egg cookies, mint chocolate bark, and a refill of dish soap. She looked at you and your friends in your boxers/tees, and the controllers in your hands, and said, patronizingly: “Look at these four young studs, working together to save the world from Bowser!”

(Your friends said, “Anything for you, ma,” and, “We gotta change those locks,” a joke. And, “You’re looking beautiful as ever, Peach,” mom’s nickname.)

She shushed their flattery, laughed at their teasing, and shared a slice of party-sized pizza. Then she sat on your lap to watch you play/block your view of the four-player brawl. (You lost.) She was heavier than you expected – more on that later. Mom’s bouncy dark hair and sunny springtime dress made you and your friends look like apes who’d been taught to dress like people. After some catchup questions about your (failing) love lives, she went for the vacuum.

“You don’t have to clean!” you told her, for the hundredth time since moving in. “We’ll take care of it. Thank you for bringing food. Come hangout. Relax.”

“I’ll just tidy up then join you,” mom said.

This all sounds nice and normal, except for the fact that my mom – I mean, your mom – is ‘Peach.’ That’s the nickname her friends and exes have called her forever. Even you call mom Peach. It suits her. She’s sweet like the fruit. Her skin’s warm and golden, bordering on soft pink (especially when she’s puffed after a workout).

“Oh… That’s not why your dad called me ‘Peach,’” mom said on the Friday before Good Friday, bent over vacuuming, blocking your TV.

“What? Then where’d the nickname come from?” you (← naively) asked. Your friends looked at you strangely, and took strangely quick glances at mom(‘s dress as it rode up her black tights), like they knew something funny that you didn’t know.

“Baby. Are you serious?” mom asked, looking back over her shoulder at the four of you. The vacuum clunked onto the floor. Mom wiggled her butt, and her butt cheeks wobbled side-to-side like a stack of pancakes, like your most primordially horny caveman wet dreams, like the first ten slow-mo minutes of a Bang Bros. production. Then she stood up with a snap, laughing until her face went pink, and you noticed for the first time what had been obvious to your friends always – what they must have been thinking every time Peach bent over your oven; why they sighed whenever Peach used your balcony for yoga stretches in her yoga pants.

Your mom’s got a fat ass. It literally defines her.

🍑

“Oh,” you said. The syllable fell out of your mouth and brought your video game to a chaotic halt. All four-player fighting stopped. Italian plumbers and apes and elves dropped offscreen into the deathly ether. Your friends were wheezing with laughter. Privately, you made sense of those thousand-or-so times you’d searched Spankbang for ‘incest mom son’ porn, addendum, ‘doggystyle.’ “Oh…”

Your friends said, “You idiot,” and, “Holy shit [wheeze],” and, “Hey Peach, I don’t think he gets it. Can you show us that wiggle one more time?”

(Mom scoffed and threw a microfiber cloth at his horny head.)

What would you do? Flex your biceps and demand they all shut up? Write a strongly-worded email to your most cherished friends, and ruin your cozy once-in-a-lifetime sharehouse days, all to protect your insecurity? The thought crossed your mind. Instead, you laughed it off, embarrassed as hell. You later casually suggested to your friends (four or five times) that maybe it was no longer cool for them to call your mom ‘Peach.’ Mom asked you in private if the jokes about her (big juicy wobbly) butt upset you, and you said no/you don’t know/you weren’t sure, and hugged, and life went on as normal. For a week.

The universe is not governed by order, but by entropy. Chaos reigns.

Your friends turned down the heat on their flirty words with mom, but mom seemed determined to reignite the flame. Now, when she used her spare key (Sundays to clean, Mondays to cook, and Fridays to hangout, mostly), you noticed her ass, plump and peach-like on the back of her otherwise small body. An ass mom-wide; an ass mom-jiggly; wrapped in modest but ever-tighter mom-clothes. You noticed the ways your mom’s ass altered your roommates’ behaviour. (Roommates who graciously cleaned their dinner plates when in the vicinity of mom’s ass; suddenly nervous to speak with mom at all.) You noticed the dramatic way her hips moved when she carried those hips through your halls; your mom a short stack of curves among your tall, hormonal friends. The way your mom was comfortable in your home seemed suddenly dangerous: she’d use your shower and then stroll around, each step a bounce, wet cleavage wrapped in your fluffy white towel, ass always on the verge of peeking into view. You noticed the way her yoga pants were replaced that week with pantyhose: nylon stretched thin and see-through around her visibly white panties. Had mom always been so tempting? Or had that bum wiggle that blocked the TV (that dropped your jaw) changed her? Now that your naive eyes had opened, you noticed when she bent over (the oven, the shoe rack, the balcony…). When she’d look back over her shoulder as if checking to see if someone might be sneaking peeks at her big, defining asset – with a flip of her dark hair and curiosity in her dark eyes. Her confident sex appeal, seen, could not be unseen.

Yet her efforts seemed to fail: your roommates’ eyes seemed to dart away from what they’d always ogled, respectfully ignoring her big/sweet/irresistibly fat peach.

They’re pervs, yes, but they’re also loyal friends. There was no doubt they liked mom’s seductive tactics. How long could they practice self-control?

To your surprise, it was mom who made the first move.

“NEVER HAVE I EVER…” Before you got your key in the front door, you heard those four alarming words on mom’s lips. You were home late from work on Good Friday. (Product launch scheduled for June. Game dev crunch is real.) Mom had let herself in. ‘Peach’ and your roommates were sitting around your small, circular kitchen table with five shot glasses – one saved for you.

The guys looked at you apologetically like, Sorry, man. She started it. (You chuckled away their pity. A silent, It’s OK that my mom’s hot and flirty. I am fine. I am fun.)

“Baby!” Mom threw her arms in the air and welcomed you into the fold with a tighter-than-normal hug, and a plush (somewhat damp, somewhat exciting) kiss on your five o’clock shadow. Minty. She pulled you into the circle to sit shoulder-to-shoulder beside her. The old kitchen chair groaned when she sat (her wagon) down. Her curves were wrapped in a cute, yellow dress that would suit an Easter Sunday mass (or knock any MILF-loving man off his feet).

Mom was either fishing for compliments or feeling out-of-place. “You guys really don’t mind me hanging out?” she asked the table, looking only at you. (“No way, never.” “Absolutely not.” “You’re one of the guys.”) “I honestly really do like living alone – but on the holidays, it’s harder.” (“Aw, no, come over any night.” “Our casa tu casa.” “Su casa.” “Su casa.”) When you nodded your approval, she smiled, squeezed your hand, and explained: “I wanted to play something fun over drinks – for the special occasion. But your buddies couldn’t convince me to learn a card game, or a board game… or how to use a controller.” Mom giggled, and wow does she have a pretty laugh. “So we’re sharing dirty secrets. My idea.”

“Like Jesus would have wanted,” you said. The canned joke relaxed the room.

From the top to the bottom of a vodka bottle, the five of you played “Never Have I Ever,” and got to know each other way too well. The table, tucked into a corner wall covered in movie posters (yours) and hockey memorabilia (roommates’), was toasty warm thanks to liquor, and body heat (yours and mom’s). The windows were fogged and wide open so the breeze could chill four men, one woman, and any impure thoughts. Beneath a leathery veil of men’s cologne was mom’s fruity perfume: lightening the mood, just like mom’s sunny smile and her always-too-loud laugh. At first, everyone attempted to remain respectful… but it was a testosterone-filled room with testosterone-filled jokes. Mom loved it.

“Contrary to popular belief,” said roommate #1, Lucas, “never have I ever sucked a dick.”

Mom said, “That’s not fair,” because she was the only one at the table to down a shot of vodka. She fought off the drink’s burn with a wince, then finger-wagged Lucas. “You knew I was the only one who’d drink. If I’m the only one sharing sexy secrets, I’m leaving.”

Everyone was laughing a little too much, drowning out shared thoughts of your mom on her knees, looking up at a man with her wide, dark mommy eyes.

“I didn’t think you’d drink!” said Lucas. “I thought we’d invited a virtuous woman into our home.” He smiled at everyone like you knew he was teasing, but mom might not. “Can you believe she kisses her son with that mouth?” (You kicked Lucas under the table.)

“Oh, shut up,” your mom said, and spoke quietly: “…Blowjobs are too basic for this game, anyway. Level one. Give me something juicy to confess.”

That drew a round of OooOos and Wows and Damn mommys from the table. Your mom shook her head in disappointment at Lucas, barely fighting back her tipsy smile.

💡 TRIVIA: Lucas’ jokes are always crass, his politics are inscrutable, but he’s rugged and 6’4, so women rarely seem to mind. He is 23. Nobody knows where he gets rent money.

“Never have I ever,” said roommate #2, Brandon, “had sex – in public.”

Lucas downed a shot of vodka. (“Where?” mom whispered. Lucas whispered an answer in her ear, and her eyebrows shot up.) Your mom downed a shot of vodka, too.

“Wow, mom!” You didn’t mean to say it out loud. Your friends’ laughter felt like it might shake your head off your shoulders.

“Well…!” Mom’s tone was defensive. “We all go through… phases in life…” You were both blushing. Every word seemed to make your roommates rowdier. “Your mother went through a phase, in her twenties, where hotel pools… brought out her exhibitionist side.” Her eyes were wide~~, dick-sucking wide,~~ silently apologizing or on the verge of laughter.

“It’s not a big deal. I was just surprised because you’re usually so, uh, clean,” you said, and some other things, too: about how mom’s had her own life, mistakes, and lessons… Mom deserves fun, too, and you were comfortable with that. (To be honest, you laid it on a little thick.)

“Momma, no joke, you’re the coolest,” said Lucas.

“Miss, uh, Peach,” Brandon timidly requested her attention: “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, of course. But when you stay at hotels: curtains open or shut?”

“…Oh, definitely open,” mom said. Shame left her voice, and in its place came a torrential mom giggle.

She squeezed your hand, Sorry, Baby. It’s kind of funny, right, Baby? (You nodded, A little funny.)

The table fell to a few titters, halfway-nervous glances, and your roommates’ quietly ironic smirks. You and Brandon shared a look like he was sorry for putting the image in your head. (An image you tried to delete of mom’s ass, carried and smothered against a hotel window. Fucked and jiggling. Pale where its curves pressed most tightly to the glass.)

💡 TRIVIA: Brandon, 24, is an Uber driver who moonlights as a commissions painter of Rule 34 masterpieces. Certainly, his dirty mind imagined the hotel window, too.

“Never have I ever…” shrugged roommate #3, Dom. “…had a threesome.”

Brandon drank. (Lucas said, “Let’s go, Brandon.” Brandon hates that.)

“I need a glass of water,” mom said. “Am I having a hot flash, or are men just furnaces?” She stood up, a yellow totem of mommy tits and mommy ass for all to quickly see and nervously un-see, before her peach swayed away from your averted eyes.

There was warm, awkward silence. “You’ve really never had a threesome?” you asked Dom.

“Nah,” said Dom. “Came close once. With my economics prof and her husband.”

💡 TRIVIA: Dominic AKA ‘Dom,’ 21, has been your best friend since he was fat and you were 5. As a massage therapist in-training, Dom bulked out and grew up into a man in-demand, and he’s therefore had many more sexual experiences than you.

The kitchen chair groaned (🍑), and all eyes turned to mom.

“What was the ‘never ever?’” she asked. “Oh, have I ever had a threesome…?” With a sigh, she threw back another shot of vodka, then buried her bright peach face in her palms. Threesome confirmed. (The crowd roared.)

“Sweet Jesus,” you said.

Mom winced as she swallowed. “Don’t worry,” she choked up. “It was with two women. No big deal.” (Cough.) “But good for you, Dom: flirting with an older woman professor. I always knew you had good taste.” (“Thank you, Peach.”)

“Cool [haha], I never knew,” you said. Below the table, out of your control, you were nursing the beginnings of a confused, hard problem.

You were supposed to hate this situation, weren’t you?

You weren’t enjoying the flirt fest, were you?

“Oh. Two girls,” said Lucas. “Just to clarify: What exactly happened in this boring, no-big-deal story? How big were the other women’s boring breasts?” He yawned.

Your mom laughed with that hungry look women get on good first dates with funny guys. “I’m not telling,” she said, shoving Lucas’ 6’4 chest with her 5’4 strength. (You imagined mom’s jelly-thick thighs slapping against another woman’s thighs. Mom’s dark hair sweating, caressed and grabbed by another woman’s hand.) She whispered to Dom, “They were both busty – and older,” and wiggled her eyebrows. She stretched out across the kitchen chairs, resting her back against Dom, laying her thick mommy thighs across your lap, and plopping her feet across the table on Brandon. “It was just after college – after your dad left.” (Mom’s breasts squashed between two coworkers’ big, writhing, rubbing breasts. Mom’s soft mouth sucking on her girlfriend’s tongue.) “Me and some girlfriends at work were done with men. We all thought we were gay for five minutes. It wasn’t as good as men, for me – but it was fun to be surrounded like that. I’m proud of you.”

“Proud of me?” asked Brandon.

“I’m proud of Baby, dummy. My son,” mom said. “I’m proud of you for acting very grown-up tonight – while I’m not.” (Your dick grew down your thigh.) “Is it your turn, Baby? Yay! Give us a good one. This is fun. I want to know what’s on your to-do list.”

💡 TRIVIA: Mom, and everyone else, calls you ‘Baby.’ ‘Because you’re so painfully cute,’ mom claims.

Mom’s teasing smile is one of her best smiles. You’d had just enough to drink that mom looked more beautiful than usual – relaxing into your friends like she ruled over them. And just enough to drink that you forgot about your secret hard-on. Mom absent-mindedly stroked Dom’s arm, waiting for your reply. Wiggled her toes in Brandon’s lap. Exchanged a cheeky smile with Lucas.

“Never have I ever…” You couldn’t decide what to say.

A) ‘Cum inside a woman’? That way, only your roommates could drink.

B) ‘Jerked off to incest porn’? A lie that would surely reveal the truth.

You went with none of the above. Instead, you said the worst thing possible: the first thing that came to mind. “Never have I ever been part of a gangbang.”

Lucas glanced at his shot glass, shaking his head, Not me. Brandon shrugged. Dom said, “I wish. Me neither.” You all looked at mom.

Mom was silent, swirling her shot glass over her breasts. “A ‘gangbang’? …Wow, no. Never had one.” She looked around the quiet table of young, horny men as if asking you all, Why? Are you surprised? “If no one’s done it, that means you drink, Baby. Rules are rules.” (The vodka hit your throat, boiling.) For once, the jokes were absent. Everyone was too busy mulling over the word ‘gangbang’ – four-on-one, your mom surrounded, her pink-gold legs in the air, her soft mouth moaning. The images you’d stupidly shoved into their heads. “Wait. That’s where multiple men share one woman? At the same time, right?” asked mom. “Wow. No. I’ve never experienced that…” Mom squirmed in her seat. Her famous(ly fat) ass on the hand-me-down chair sent another wooden groan through the tense silence. She said it like she knew she shouldn’t: “…But to be honest, a gangbang’s always been my number one fantasy.”

You waited for the laughter and teasing, but they didn’t come. Your friends were effectively struck stupidly horny.

You’ve never felt such tight silence, wrapped around your throat.

Everyone was thinking about passing your mom around, and everyone – your mom included – knew it. Your heart raced with jealousy, protectiveness, and dumb curiosity.

“What makes it such a big fantasy? For you?” Brandon asked, tripping over his words and/or dick.

You wanted to kick him. / You wanted to know, too.

“Oh… I guess…” Your mom paused in sincere thought, burning under the spotlight of four men’s gazes. “I guess it’s that feeling of being small, and helpless – but wanted… All that strength around me, all at once, taking care of me… These men who could crush me, weighing down on me, but making sure I feel pleasure. And I guess…” She shook her head. Her pretty face cracked into a devious smile. “You probably don’t want to hear this. I should shut up.”

“It’s okay,” you said, too curious for your own good. “Say.”

Mom’s heavy eyes stared straight through your eyes and into your thousand-odd searches for incest porn. She said, “I’m a neat freak, right?” (You + your 3 friends nodded.) “This is going to sound crazy to you, especially, Baby. But… This is so embarrassing. It’s the mess. Everyone’s hair, and sweat, and… – everything that comes with sex, all over me.” You could hear, as they say, a pin drop. Your heartbeat. Mom’s every uninhibited breath. “So it’s not just the thought of men pleasuring me – I’m not all the way selfish. It’s also the thought of them using me, until I’m just… covered in them. Like I’m not a neat freak mama for a night. I’m an object.”

“Like they can’t help themselves.” Dom cleared his throat. “They’ve got to have you.”

Someone’s knee was bouncing under the table.

“Exactly,” said mom. “I know: feminism, agency… I know it sounds bad. But it would make me feel like a sort of, toy… And I think I’d probably like that.” She was still staring into you. Watching the fantasy play out behind your eyes: of you, D, B, and L, standing in a circle around her, staring down at her dark pleading eyes and her fat peach. Each of you hard, eager, and nervous – as her knees hit the carpet. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve probably said too much.” she said. (Unbuckling your belt behind your eyes. Kissing your bulge. Reaching blindly to unzip D’s jeans.) Mom fixed her dress, wrestling her cleavage into submission. “It’s funny: menopause was supposed to shut down my libido… but I’ve heard some women have the total opposite experience. I think that’s what’s been happening to me. Or I’m reading too many dirty novels. A ‘gangbang’ – ha. I’m being silly.”

“Never give up on your dreams,” said Lucas.

Mom laughed her big, first-date laugh into the silence. “Thanks, Lucas.” Normally confident to a fault and flirty at all costs, your mom’s voice was soft beneath her embarrassment. Everyone leaned a millimetre into the steaming hot table, waiting on her words. “Anyway, these things are probably rare, right? I’d have to be really attracted to the guys. All of them.” (Behind your eyes: she kissed your neck; dragged her fingers down D’s broad chest; side-eyed rugged L’s bulge, while B kissed up her thighs and between her cheeks.) “And… I’d have to really, really trust them. Right? Before I let them strip me down.” (B pulled mom back into her arms, and you pulled her stockings off, and her eager hands found a cock for the first, worshipful stroke.) “And obviously, they’d have to be attracted to me,” she said.

“That part’s easy,” said your MILF hunter bestie, Dom.

“Stop~!” Mom flipped her hair off her blushing face, whipping Dom with the dark strands. (Your friends said, “It’s true.” “You’re a babe, Ms. Peach.”) “You’re a bunch of charmers,” she rolled her eyes like this was all a big joke. Easing the tension as you all imagined stripping her there, now, on that table. “You are charmers, aren’t you? You’re ‘fuckboys.’ Stop with the flattery. Leave this old woman alone. Poor Baby. Now he’s gonna tell me to stop coming over.”

You assured her you were okay. A half-truth and a throbbing lie.

“Never have I ever felt this warm,” said mom, practically lying down across your laps. She fanned herself, tugging at her dress to release the hot menopausal air from her chest. “When did we all start cuddling? You all need a cold shower,” she laughed. Mom stood up, and her ass knocked her kitchen chair back with a whack onto the floor, and the four of you leapt to catch her before she fell ass-first. (Her ass would’ve left a crater in the kitchen tile.)

The four of you hoisted her – dress and hair hanging – into the air.

“Is it okay if I spend the night in your bed, Baby?” she giggled and giggled through the question, squirming to find her balance, small in four men’s arms.

Together, you carried her kicking and laughing onto your bed. You handed her a tall bottle of water and a blanket, and slept next to her in your work clothes, too distracted to change, mind racing with horny thoughts. The bed was small and thanks to mom, softer. The kitchen took hours to cool.

You heard your friends outside say, “That ruled.”

----------------THE SOBER PART----------------

In the morning, you woke up to your phone buzzing. Your windowless room was dark, except for the fairy lights mom hung months ago – “to impress any ladies you invite inside.” Mom was awake.

She cooed, "Spoon me?" and you did. She was sober, slow, and sleepy.

Mom was holding her phone, messaging you words she found too difficult to say out loud: I’ve been replaying last night in my head over and over
Mom: You’re always so understanding and patient with me
Mom: I’m worried I was too chaotic
Mom: I don’t want to upset my number one man

You sometimes message her like this, sitting side by side, when talking’s hard. Speaking of hard: your morning wood was wedged between her cheeks.

You replied, typing while you warmed her chilly backside with your thighs: You’re allowed to be tipsy and horny like anybody else
You: I had fun
You: But the guys probably think you want to bang them now haha

Mom: lol
Mom: They must be terrified
Mom: They’ll be boarding up the windows next time I’m coming over

You: More like rolling out the red carpet

Mom: They’re good-looking young guys. They don’t need your mother’s attention
Mom: (Not as good-looking as you, of course ❤️)

You: Can I ask you a question?

Mom: Always, Baby

You: When you flirt with my friends, is it all the way a joke? Or do you ever want more?

Outside your closed bedroom door, you heard your roommates talk in whispered tones. (“…What the hell was last night…?” “…so hot…”) A podcast on someone’s phone. The coffee maker. Bacon sizzling. Light Saturday traffic.

Mom’s sleepy, happy moan in your ear.

The toasty scent of her skin first thing in the morning.

Her silky hair nuzzling through the dark against your chin.

A kiss on your cheek.

The ass – the world’s most forbidden ass – slipping across the bed and under the sheets until its endlessly soft-firm-round weight dropped onto your lap.

Mom was wrapped around your neck, sitting on your bulging jeans, yawning in your face for a weirdly sexy morning cuddle. You couldn’t see, but you were pretty sure sleep had hiked her yellow dress above her wide, mommy hips. You couldn’t know, but you guessed the pudge at the tip of your bulge was the cotton shield of mom’s panties.

Was she determined to flirt with your friends… or you?

You held mom, and knew now that you were holding a diary’s worth of dirty secrets. A woman with a past and her own private perversions.

“Is it all the way a joke…?” she repeated your question in sleepy, whispered form, like she was hoping you would answer for her. “Or do I want more…?” She swallowed as her lips came to life, and her nose nuzzled your ear, and every single syllable from mom’s breathy-raspy-sleepy voice made you harder. “I always thought I was just being friendly with your friends – for fun. Like nothing would ever happen, obviously,” the ‘obviously’ almost defensive, “so I might as well tease.” Every ‘s’ was a click of mom’s wet tongue next to your perked-up ear. Every ‘t’ a tap of tongue-on-teeth so near it almost made you shiver. “But everything felt different last night. Not ‘on edge,’ but… You felt it, too.” You nodded, and you swear you felt it: mom’s butt clenching around your bulge on the words, ‘You felt it, too.’ “I know, I know: it was confusing for both of us. I don’t know what to make of the tension last night… I’ll stop flirting with you guys forever if you want.” You could hear the cute, seductive pout on her lips.

You were throbbing hopelessly into the shadows. Lightheaded under the weight of mom’s tits, ass, and teases: “What do you want?” you asked her.

“I want you to love your mommy more than anyone, no matter what happens.”

“Of course… What does that mean?”

A knock at the door. Lucas’ voice: “Peach? Are you okay, my queen?” (Mom seemed to roll her eyes – and smile.) “Do you need four charitable men to massage you better? Kidding. Kind of…”

Mom dragged a fingertip from the top of your horny head to the back of your tingling neck, like she was asking permission. She whispered in your ear: “Do I need a massage?”

~

I’ll let you know what you said in part 2 next week. ❤️