

Disclaimer: The following may contain depictions which are graphically adult in nature. Of course, if you've made it this far, then you probably already know that, and I can rest easily knowing that I have thus divested myself of any responsability for the destruction of the moral fabric of society. If you do not enjoy such depictions, then DON'T READ THIS. Of course, I don't really care. I just like writing disclaimers. The following may also contain traces of peanuts. Enjoy.

Curtain rises, lights go up . . .
"Much Sweeter Than Wine"
By: JValet

Eric groaned as consciousness forced itself upon him once more. Pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, he couldn't help but wonder how he'd ended up naked, in bed, and feeling as if he'd been force fed to a trash compactor. Not bad for his first night back home.

Of course, the sad thing was he hadn't even gone out drinking. Not that he could recall, at any rate. In fact, now that he thought about it, the only thing he remembered drinking last night was a glass of wine from that weird, stressed-out bottle his mom had produced from somewhere.

As he lay in bed, Eric recalled the funny way in which the wine had spilt, from the bottle to the glass. It had been slower, apparently thicker than any red he'd ever seen, and looked like liquid silk, dark crimson in colour, and nearly opaque. The taste had been . . . somewhere between spicy and sweet and something else besides, something subtle that seemed (padon the pun) on the tip of his tongue, but refused to identify itself.

Uncleaving his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Eric reflected that it tasted like something had crawled in there and died.

Had mom had any of that shit? He didn't think so. He certainly couldn't recall her having had any, just pouring that one glass for him.

Eric shook his head to clear it, and quickly regretted the action. His brain felt like a soggy sponge in a bucket, swishing around his skull in unpleasant fashion.

Mom . . . there had been something about mom . . . what was it? He knew something important had been said last night, but couldn't manage to push his memory much further past that glass of wine.

Last night was kind of weird anyway; how she kept going on with all that "special occasion" stuff, like he'd never come back from college before. Hell, she had even dressed up, wearing a slinky little black number that had come down to her knees, but was slit up the side maybe a little too far.

Then again, it wasn't as if she didn't have the legs for it. Eric recalled the multiple flashes of upper thigh he'd gotten last night, and quickly found his cock rising to the occasion, if half-heartedly.

"I must REALLY be hung over," he muttered, and rolled over, ignoring his erection, and trying to forget his mother's skirt.

It was quite a while before sleep took hold of him once more.

Eric rolled out of bed at eight in the morning; literally rolled from the matress to the floor, taking a blanket with him. Waking up from the fall, he was somewhat amazed to discover that he was more or less awake; getting up before two in the afternoon was usually an effort for him whilst on mid-term break.

Slowly, he rose from his prostrate position on the carpet, groaning quietly as his stiff limbs made themselves known. He almost walked out his bedroom door before realizing that he was still naked.

After jamming on a pair of shorts from his dresser, and last night's discarded T-shirt, he ambled out of his room, heading towards the kitchen and breakfast.

As he hungrily wolfed down a couple of slices of toast, Eric noticed that his tongue seemed numb, as if burnt. It all tasted like styrofoam to him. His nose was still in good working order, he just couldn't taste anything.

He hunched over the breakfast table in the kitchen, not enjoying his coffee, but taking solace in the caffeine. Suddenly, his mom clicked into the room, wearing one of her "power suits." Once more, Eric found himself admiring the long, firm sweep of leg showing from the the tastefully short skirt, and once more, he found his penis beginning to respond.

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Eric turned his attention once more to the steaming cup of java in his hand, using the other to hold his quickly rising cock down.

"You're up mighty early," his mother, Karla, commented as she opened the pantry to grab a couple of granola bars.

He found himself thinking how good her heels, despite their businesslike two-inch height, made her legs look. Quickly, he screwed his eyes shut, and replied, "yeah, well - seize the day, and all that."

"Well, have a good time, seizing it and all that," she said with a chuckle.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked her in the face. Her make up was tastefully done, as always, but her lips . . .

They were a crimson slash in her face, dark red and smooth like silk. Eric's mouth suddenly flooded with sensation, as he noted how like the colour of the wine her lipstick was. What would they taste like . . . he wondered.

"See you later, hon," with that, she stalked out of the kitchen, stooping to peck him on the cheek. She left in her wake a cloud of perfume, smelling of something somewhere between sweet and spicy and something else besides. It slipped into Eric's head, seizing hold of his brain momentarily.

When he regained control, he could hear the car pulling out of the driveway. Under his hand, his cock was iron-stiff, and precum was starting to soak through his shorts.

What the fuck?

Eric stood over the toilet, trying to force urine out of his still semi-hard penis, and feeling not a little ashamed. It was a dirty kind of a feeling, knowing he'd had a stiffie, watching Mom's legs. Maybe a shower would do him some good. At least the hot water might work out some of the kinks he still felt in his arms and legs.

Whilst looking down into the porcelain bowl, something caught his eye, lying on the floor, next to the wastebasket. It appeared to be a tissue that hadn't quite made it all the way into the garbage. One one side was a vermillion crescent of lipstick, presumably his mom's.

Eric shook the last of the piss from his dick, still staring down at the tissue, remembering how his mother's lips had looked before she left. Like silk . . .

Bending down, he picked up the tissue, intending to toss it into the basket. He paused a moment, remembering how that wine had tasted last night . . . the way his tongue tingled . . . Eric suddenly found his mouth watering. On a whim, he took a sniff of the stained tissue, not really certain of what he was sniffing for. Nothing. Then, for reasons he would never be able to satisfactorily explain, he took a quick lick; his mouth exploded in sensation, where once there had been only numbness. Somewhere between sweet and spicy and something else besides . . .

Quickly realising what the hell he was doing, Eric dropped the tissue into the toilet and flushed it. With a sigh, he stepped into the shower, another erection preceding his entry.

Supper was a wierd event.

Eric found himself sitting next to his mother, feeling guilty and staring down into his food, trying to forget the way his dick was reacting to her perfume. At least she didn't seem to notice, going on at length about something or other. Maybe it was another lecture on fidelity. He'd had to sit through a few of them growing up, especially after his mom found out that he was dating one girl or another. She usually managed to make him feel bad enough about his dad that HIS relationships went to shit not long after.

Eric played with his food whilst she droned on. He had no appetite. He had hoped that after the "event" in the bathroom this morning, his tongue would have woken up, but to no avail. Ashes filled the stomach, but who wanted to eat them?

That's about when he noticed that his mom had stopped talking. Briefly, he looked up. Had she asked him something? Who knew? Best to change the subject.

"Erm, mom . . ." he started, scratching the back of his head.

"Yes?" At least she'd removed that damned lipstick; Eric didn't think he could have looked her in the face, otherwise.

"That wine we had last night . . ."

"You had, you mean." she smiled impishly; Eric had never noticed how cute the freckles on her nose were, before. "You kept asking for more, I never had a chance to take a sip."

"Yeah," he felt himself blush. "Um, what the hell was that stuff?"

"Your Aunt Cheryl sent it to me last Christmas for a gift. She brews it herself, I think." Karla smiled prettily again.

"Aunt Cheryl? I don't . . ."

"Oh, that's right, you probably don't remember her. She's not really your Aunt: she was a very good friend of mine in college. Cheryl used to visit quite alot, before" her tone sunk to the dangerous depths it always did when Eric's mother remembered her time with his father. "You used to run to her every time she came over, shouting 'Aunty Cheryl,' and cling to her leg until she left." Karla looked him right in the eye. "It made me kind of jealous, to tell the truth." She pushed herself away from the table. "Clean up the dishes when you're done, Eric. I'm too tired to bother with them." As she walked away, he watched her go, wearing a pair of skintight, beige capri pants. If he squinted, it almost looked as if she were wearing nothing at all, presenting her shapely little behind to him as she went.

Eric stopped squinting, sighed, and set about clearing the table. At least mid-term break only lasted a week. He wasn't sure how long he could live like this.

The following morning, Eric once again found himself awake well before anybody on vacation ought to be. He shuffled into the kitchen, and attempted to wolf down his breakfast before his mother noticed that he was even up. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of yesterday morning.

He had nearly finished pouring the last of his orange juice down his throat when Karla stalked into the kitchen. Hearing her klick her way into the room, he very nearly choked on the juice, managing to force not a small amount up into his nose.

Eyesonflooreyesonflooreyesonfloor he thought to himself. If he didn't look at her, maybe he wouldn't get a hard-on, and maybe he could make it through the day without feeling like a pervert.

"Ooooh," she mocked, "bright and early two days in a row! Is this going to become a habit?" Eric mumbled something in response.

"Sooo . . . what are your plans for the day? More siezeing?" She ruffled his hair playfully.

"Uhhhh - yeah. I thought I'd look up some of the guys." Keeping his gaze firmly attached to the floor, he saw her walk by out of the corner of his eye, and said a silent prayer of thanks that at least she was wearing pants today. No leg show, no stiffie in his shorts.

"Well, if you're not too busy, maybe you can do a little something for me, hey?" She was standing beside him now. Staring at the floor, he noticed that today his mom was wearing a pair of sandals on her feet, black, and high-heeled. Peeking out from the hem of her pants were her cute little toes, crossed at the top by a narrow black strap. The nails were painted that same deep, bottomless red that captured his eyes, and made him wonder briefly what they tasted like.

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Aren't you late for work?" He shut his eyes tight, rubbing them with the heels of his hands, as if trying to wake up. Down below, his penis was starting to awaken.

"Oh, you're right!" She ruffled his hair again. "I've gotta go, hon. See you later this evening." With that, she klicked hurriedly away.

Eric breathed a sigh of relief, and sat back in the chair. His cock stood straight up out of his crotch like a tentpole. Holy fuck . . . what the hell was he gonna do for the rest of the week . . .

"Oh, Eric," his mom called from the front porch, "I almost forgot: could you fix up the spare room sometime today? We're having someone over."

He groaned silently. What had he done to deserve this? He didn't need strangers running around the house right now.

"Who?" His voice sounded strangled.

"Your Aunty Cheryl's coming to stay for the rest of the week." The front door slammed shut.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck . . .

Eric reclined on his bed, hand flying over the surface of his cock, the springs squeaking and his palm making wet little noises as he wanked. He was getting sick and tired of walking around all day with a fucking hard on; so, after dusting and vacuuming and replacing the sheets in the guest room for whats-her-name, he decided to take the most obvious course of action available to him.

One of his old Playboys lay open in front of him, ostensibly the object of his frantic wank session. The blonde in the centerfold lay prostrate, eyes closed, running an ice cube over her plump nipples. It hadn't worked for Eric. Closing his eyes, he tried one of his favourite fantasies with that pretty little pop diva, the one who'd had the tit-job. He'd just flipped that little plaid skirt up over her ass, and was about to give it to her, when she looked back at him over her shoulder.

Auburn hair, hazel eyes, impish smile: his mom was staring back at him. In desperation, he switched fantasies; his hot biology teacher who always wore the short skirts, that little Russian tennis player with the great ass, that sultry English actress who played the devil in that movie . . .

His mom, his mom, his mom. No matter how he changed the fantasy, no matter whose face he attached to what body, it always turned out to be his mom. Try as he might, Eric always found himself wanking over his mother.

"Ah, Fuck it," he said after forty-five minutes of desperate masturbation; his hand was starting to cramp up, and sweat was streaming down his face.

"What a good boy," she mouthed in his fantasy, and spread her legs wide for him. His masturbation reached a fever pitch; precum covered his cock in a thick slime; his hand was dripping with it. This was it. He was finally going to get off. He . . .

The doorbell rang.

"FUCK!" He shouted in frustration. Screw it, he thought, I'm getting off NOW.

The doorbell rang again, twice this time.

In his mind, his mom clutched his body close, groaning and panting and whispering something into his ear.

Whomever it was rapped sharply on the door. Eric forced himself to stop. What if it was his mom? What if it was Cheryl?

Muttering and cursing under his breath, Eric quickly wiped the precum from his hand and cock with his discarded underwear, and jammed his jeans on. He was just sliding his T-shirt over his head as the person at the door rang and knocked at the same time.

Storming to the door, he turned the knob, and yanked it open.

"Eric? Is that you?" The woman on the other side asked innocently. He had to consciously stop his jaw from dropping. She stood a couple of inches above his own five-seven, and wore a black pantsuit much like his mom's, with a soft blue shirt underneath the jacket. The shirt was open by several buttons, offering a fair expanse of golden, creamy skin and the upper quarters of what appeared to be a pair of fair-sized breasts. Her waist was slender, flowing down into slim hips and long, long, legs.

"Eric?" She asked again, calling his attention to her face. Plush lips, painted a shade of coral that contrasted with her tawny skin, and bottomless brown eyes, framed by a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Raven's wing hair was held behind her head in a loose bun. He couldn't even begin to guess at her age, but the way she carried herself spoke of experience. At her sides, she carried a pair of suitcases.

Some long-forgotten memory stirred in Eric's distracted mind. "A-aunty Cheryl?" He blurted before he could think of anything else. A look of relief crossed her face.

"I was starting to wonder if I had the right house after all; it's been a while, you know," She walked in right past him, and a cloud of perfume, similar to his mother's followed. Eric was suddenly very aware that he probably stank of pre-cum and/or sweat, as well as the erection that had yet to go away.

She turned in the living room, and gave him an appraising look. "I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

"What!? Oh, uh, no. N-nothing. I, uh, I was just about to leap into the shower, actually." He grinned sheepishly.

"Oh, well, I'll just get myself settled while you do that, then. Don't bother showing me to my room; I think I still remember where it is."

"Um," Eric searched for something to say. "Let me at least help you with your luggage, then." Gracing him with a smile, she held out her cases to him. He eagerly took them, and followed her to the modest guest room. He mumbled some more pleasantries, and fairly ran off to the shower.

Cheryl watched him go, smiling predatorily . . .

Once Eric had showered for a satisfactorily long time, he found himself "trapped" in the living room, talking to his mother's friend for the duration of the afternoon. Normally, being obligated to be alone with a bautiful woman for hours on end wouldn't have been all that bad; normally, however, Eric didn't have a very large, very painful erection in his pants for hours on end. He'd tried rather desperately to get off in the shower, but he was afraid that too much time in there would look suspicious, though he wasn't entirely clear on what he was so afraid of her being suspicious OF.

As it was, he probably wasn't that good for company that afternoon. He mostly just sort of sat there on the couch, desperately trying to neither let his mom's friend see his "embarassment" nor stare too blatantly at her. Fortunately, she didn't seem all that interested conversing WITH Eric so much as talking AT Eric, going on at length about her job (she was apparently some sort of muckety-muck executive at some bio-chem corporation), her OWN son (who was a very nice, obedient, clean-cut boy, who Eric immediately tagged a "momma's boy," ignoring the irony of his own masturbation about HIS mother), and, much like his mother, the trials and tribulations of woman in the modern world, including the natural bastardy tendacies of men.

Some time around four-thirty, Eric's mom returned home, and for the first time in a very long time, he was genuinely glad to see her. The two women squealed in delight upon catching sight of one another, hugged, and immediately fell to chatting. Relieved, Eric excused himself, and wandered back to his room.

There, he tried to start masturbating again, but found his mother's actual presence in the other room a little disconcerting. It was one thing to wank about her when she was out of the house, but another thing entirely when she was sitting in the other room, talking and laughing loudly. His cock didn't agree, however, and pulsed every time her laugh reverberated throughout the house.

"What did I do to deserve this?" He muttered, and tried to stick his nose in one of the readings his English Lit prof had assigned for the break. He was halfway through before noticing it was Oedipus Rex.

Eric awoke several hours later, as someone knocked sharply on his bedroom door. Sitting up, the play slid from his face to the floor.

"Eric? Eric, Honey?" His mom called from the other side. His cock, which had been semi-soft, immediately hardened once more, and Eric groaned inwardly.

He scratched his head. "Yeah, mom? What is it?"

"Come out here a moment, will you?" He could hear her heels click against the floor as she stalked away. With a sigh, he stood up, and left the comparative safety of his room.

Karla and "Aunty Cheryl" were standing out in the living room, dressed for a night out. Cheryl was wearing a deep blue slip dress, cut low over her considerable breasts, and high on her magnificent golden legs. His mom, on the other hand, wore dark green, the skirt long but slit high. Eric's mother was, naturally, wearing lipstick and nailpolish in that shade her son had labelled "bottomless red," whilst Cheryl wore a similar, though less entrancing colour. Both women were wearing five-inch spike-heeled sandals, and he could tell that their toenails were painted as well.

"I think that's all the opinion we need," Cheryl said, wearing a quiet, knowing smile.

Eric's mom gave her a cross look. "Aunt Cheryl and I are going out for supper; we'd invite you, but it's kind of a girls' night out. I'm sure you'll find something in the freezer. Bye." With that, both women walked out, Karla giving her son a peck on the cheek as she went. He stiffened at her touch.

As soon as the door slammed, he gave a whoop of joy. Maybe he could get rid of this damn hard-on now. Maybe he could feel comfortable for a couple of hours. Maybe he could filch a pair of mom's panties and . . .

"No, damn it!" Eric admonished himself. "I've gotta stop thinking like this," Even as the words left his lips, an image came unbidden to his mind of his mother's delectable rear sashaying its way out of the house.

Thunking his head with the heel of his hand, Eric stormed into the kitchen, thinking (mostly) about supper.

After a not-so-hearty meal of something unidentifiable he'd found in the freezer, Eric grumbled his way back into the living room. His tongue STILL hadn't woken up. At least it made leftovers palatable, he acknowledged with a grim smile.

He flopped down into the soft embrace of an armchair, and groped for the remote hidden somewhere beneath the cushions. His hand froze when his eyes chanced upon an object standing innocently on the coffee table in the centre of the room.

It was a green bottle, its neck stressed out in a wierd spirally shape. It bore no label, but a card was tied to it.

Eric tried to wet suddenly dry lips with a sandpapery tongue. It couldn't be. Could it? After all, his mother had said that the wine was a concoction of Cheryl's, hadn't she? His mouth cried out for him to take a look.

After a moment of soul-searching, he reached over, and picked up the bottle. Opening the card, he read the flowing script inside.

"Dear Eric," it read, "Your mom told me you liked the last bottle so much you drank the whole thing. Here's another, from my private stash. Try to save some this time, will you? - Your 'Aunty' Cheryl"

His hand started to shake. His mouth cried out for sensation. His heart tried to jump straight out of his chest. For the first time in two days, he forgot about his dick. Digging around in his pocket, Eric fished out his pocket knife, and unfolded the corkscrew.

After a moment's work, the cork came out of the bottle with a satisfying "pop!" and Eric raised the bottle to his lips. The liquid poured into his mouth, and it was like liquid joy. His mouth came alive, and sensation shot from his tongue right to the back of his head. He mmmmm-ed around the bottle, and kept drinking . . .

Eric awoke the next morning, sprawled arcoss the couch, feeling half-dead. His head swam, and his limbs were suffused with a burning pain. His tongue was lifeless in his mouth once more, and there was a strange emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He wanted . . . needed . . .

The bottle sat quietly on the coffee table, empty. With an effort, Eric fell off the couch, and reached for the wine-bottle. After flailing about for a moment, his hand found purchase on the neck, and he managed to raise it over his mouth, ignoring the pain in his arms, hands, and jaw.

Nothing came out. Not a single, solitary drop. He dropped the bottle with a sob.

He lay there for a while, trying to figure out what was going on. This was most definately NOT a hangover. But if it wasn't, then what . . . what . . .

Eric's mind turned over with a quiet flop. Thinking was getting him nowhere. His brain felt as dead as his mouth.

Then his mom walked into the room, heading for the kitchen. She was wearing a blue, satiny robe that he had never seen before. From his vantage point on the floor, he got a good look at her from below the hips as her legs flashed through the opening in the robe.

"Mmmmmmnngh," he managed to groan.

She stopped. "Good morning, Eric. I hope you didn't drink too much last night." She admonished him playfully. He groaned again.

"Awww, poor baby." She chuckled. "Does mommy's little boy feel bad? Does mommy's little baby want mommy to make him feel all better?" She laughed aloud now, mocking her son. "I bet I know what mommy's little man wants: he wants something to drink, doesn't he?" He moved his head slightly, to indicate a nod.

"A little drinky from a green bottle? Like he had last night? Does mommy's little man want that?" He could only moan assent.

"What are you willing to do to get your little drinky-poo, hey? I bet you'd do ANYTHING, wouldn't you? Anything at all, just for a little taste." She giggled. "A teensy drop. WOULDN'T you?" Eric's reply was incoherent, but the meaning was clear. His mouth, his brain, every part of him was crying out for another taste . . . just a little one . . . sweet and spicy and something else besides . . .

"Prove it, then. Why don't you just crawl over here, and LICK MOMMY'S toes." She parted the hem of her robe, revealing her small, shapely feet, the nails still painted.

With a sound of desperation that came from somewhere deep and dark within him, Eric began inching his way towards his mother. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, and saliva dripped copiously from it. Down below, his cock stirred to life once more, getting harder as he neared her.

"That's right," she purred somewhere above him, "come to mommy . . . you know you want to . . . HAVE to . . . NEED to . . . suck mommy's little toes for a taste of what you need . . ."

Like a dying man in the desert presented with an oasis, Eric crawled, ignoring the agony in his limbs, his only thought to reach his mother . . . his mommy . . . and lap at her feet.

After a seeming eternity, he reached his goal, and began suckling at one of her big toes. As his tongue laved over the little appendage, he could feel it come alive, ever so slightly, feeding his need, and pushing his pain back almost imperceptably, but pushing it back nonetheless. He proceeded to work at the others, with growing enthusiasm, whilst his cock pulsed in his shorts. When he had sucked and cleaned her toes until that taste had been wiped from them, Eric found himself able to sit up on his haunches, the burning in his body reduced to an almost bearable level. On another level, he was horny beyond belief, his dick sensitive, pumping out the precum, and iron-hard. Unconsciously, one hand started to massage his prick through his pants.

"No!" She said forcefully. "Hands off, you nasty little prick, or you'll never, EVER, get another taste of what your mommy has to offer." He immediately stopped. He didn't care what it took, he needed it, HAD to have it. He couldn't go back to that kind of pain, not when there was such . . . ecstasy to be had.

"Good." She turned and walked into the dining room. "Follow me, little boy." Karla pulled out a chair and sat down. Eric quickly followed on his hands and knees, stopping just short of her feet. His mother parted the folds of her robe, and spread her legs, revealing a pair of ice-blue silk panties that barely covered her pussy. She pushed the panel aside with a finger, and said "eat up."

Eric's head shot forward, and he buried his face in her crotch, jamming his tongue as far up her cunt as he possibly could. The taste was like musky heaven, feeding the hole in the back of his mind, which asked for more. He complied, laving her juicy pussy whilst she entwined her fingers in his hair, holding him tightly against her vagina.

"Mmmmmmm," she started slowly rocking her hips against his face, rubbing her clit over his nose. "I bet you're not wondering what that taste is now, are you? Wh-when Cheryl told me she had a way to make you a s-slave to my pussy, I said she was in - ah! - insane. But she did it all right, didn't she . . . oh, yesssss . . ." Eric's ministrations became more urgent as the flow of liquid from her vagina became heavier, and she responded by moving her hips faster, mashing her genitalia into his face.

"Of-of course, I probably could have sed-seduced you in a more conventional way." She lifted her legs, and crossed them behind his head to get better leverage. "I saw the way you ch-checked out my legs when you c-came back home. I - ah! - I can't blame you; they are awfully nice, aren't they? But if I - ohhhhhhh - if I had, you would have left . . . like they all leave . . . like your f-father left . . . but NOW," her movements reached a fever pitch, "Now you CAN'T leave, can you? You can't leave my pussy . . . my c-cunt . . . it owns you . . . I own you . . ." Karla gave an inarticulate cry, and came to a shuddering orgasm, filling Eric's mouth with her secretions. He frantically tried to lap it all up, getting her juice all over his face.

They sat there like that for a while, his face in her crotch, whilst she recovered from the intense orgasm that her son had given her. Eventually, she released her hold on his head, and pushed him back. Eric fell back onto the floor, with a confused look on his face.

"W-why?" He panted, trying to catch his breath.

"Because mommys get horny too, baby," Karla replied, straightening her robe. "Because I got sick and tired of the 'singles scene.' Because I got sick and tired of feeble pick-up lines. Because I always wanted a little slave waiting for me when I got home from work."

"Because she saw what I had, and wanted it too," Cheryl walked into the dining room, wearing only a short silky nightie that reached only to the tops of her thighs. She passed Eric to stand next to his mother. "Isn't that a wonderful way to start a morning?" Karla nodded. "Nothing like a good orgasm or two to begin your day."

"Lie back, Eric," Cheryl softly commanded, "I want to see that cock you nearly showed me yesterday." His mind softened by the wine and the still powerful taste of his mother in his mouth, he was in no shape to resist.

Once he was prostrate on the floor, she told him to pull his penis out of his shorts for everyone to see. His mother oooooh'ed at her son's bigger-than-average penis, standing tall from his body like a certain national monument.

Without further ado, Cheryl lifted her skirt, and mounted him.

"Oh, that IS nice," she cooed as Eric entered her.

"Now, try not to cum too soon, son," Karla advised from her chair. "Today's going to be a rather busy day."

Both women cackled with glee, as Cheryl started to ride.
FIN

