Olivia should have recoiled from his words. She should have stayed firmly grounded in her logical protest, waved away the blush painting her cheeks, and snapped something flustered to shut him down.
But instead, she found herself...stuck.
Trapped in the cadence of his voice. The intimate detail of his description. The imagery he wove into every syllable.
The way he talked about Abigaille, about tasting her, drinking her in, lips and tongue lost between her thighs like he'd found his purpose there, Olivia could see it.
Not just imagine it vaguely, but vividly.
The way he might have laid Abigaille back, spread her legs open, pressed his face into her softness and let his mouth sink deep, lapping and sucking, slow at first, then eager, greedy.
The way his fingers might have held her hips down while she squirmed beneath him, moaning, dripping for him.
A shiver coiled through Olivia's spine.
And just as fast, her imagination twisted the scene, swapped bodies. Suddenly she was the one he had between his hands. Her legs being pried open. Her hips squirming, heels scraping across the floor as he pulled her closer.
She imagined Kafka's mouth pressed right against her, warm breath against her wet lips, tongue slipping between, drinking every drop as her thighs shook and her back arched helplessly.
The image slammed into her like a wave. A warm pressure pulsed low in her belly, and she stifled a breath...Then another.
Her underwear clung to her now, wet, embarrassingly so, and when she shifted, she could feel it: a traitorous, unmistakable squirt dampening the center of her panties even more. Her ears went scarlet.
No...No, she had to stop this.
"I-It's not the same, Kafi." She stammered, voice shaking but defiant as she stared at him through a veil of heat. "Abi is...she's different. Beautiful, confident, and so, so sweet. It makes sense that her...her juices would taste sweet too."
Kafka didn't respond, only kept watching her with that maddening calm.
Olivia's voice strengthened, if only out of sheer panic. "But it's not like that for every woman! Don't assume that because hers tastes good, anyone else's will."
"I'm not her. I'm not sweet like her. Mine probably just tastes...bitter. Weird. It's not something anyone would want to put their mouth on."
She looked away as soon as the words left her, heat crawling down her neck. And still, he didn't back off. In fact, he shifted closer.
His fingers reached for her jaw, and gently, so gently, they turned her face back toward his. His thumb brushed her cheek as he leaned in, voice a murmur just for her.
"You're right, Mom." He said softly. "Not every woman tastes the same."
His palm slid down from her cheek, until it grazed the curve of her chest, his fingers pressing lightly, teasing, against her breast.
"But I already know yours would be amazing."
Olivia gasped softly, body trembling under his touch, her thighs squeezing tighter.
"I smelled it yesterday." He added casually, almost like an afterthought. "When my finger was rubbing your secret garden. You were pressed so close to me, Mom...and that warmth between your legs? That scent clinging to your thighs?"
She squirmed.
"I could smell your arousal. Rich. Sweet. Not subtle, either. It hit me like a wave. I remember thinking, 'Fuck, I want to taste her.'"
Her legs pressed tighter. She felt like her body was betraying her second by second.
"The scent was thick. Not like perfume. Not artificial. Just...you. And it made my mouth water. I kept imagining what it'd be like if I got down there. If I slid my tongue through your folds and tasted what was making that scent so strong."
He licked his lips, deliberately, watching her.
"And now? Now I think you might taste even better than Mom."
That hit like a lightning bolt.
Her pride, her stupid, trembling, reactive pride, flared to life.
She was competitive. Especially with Abigaille. Always had been when it came to her son, even if she didn't admit it out loud.
Abigaille was always so effortlessly adored. It made Olivia feel like the awkward one. The sidekick.
But better than Abigaille?
That thought clung to her like heat. Her eyes flicked to Kafka's face, searching for some hint of mockery, but he was serious. Serious and still too close.
"You're just saying that." She mumbled, unsure. "You don't...actually know."
He leaned in closer, until their noses were almost brushing.
"You're right." He murmured. "I don't. Not yet."
A pause.
"The only way to know for sure...is to try."
She gasped. Her whole body jerked once, barely noticeable unless you were looking, Kafka was absolutely looking.
"Or..." He added. "You try. Just a little taste. You said it's not sweet, not worth anything. So prove it. Taste yourself. Tell me what you think."
Her lips parted, stunned.
"I, You—" She sputtered, breath catching, face impossibly hot. "Why would I—?!"
"Because..." Kafka said, smirking. "You want to know now. You need to know. And besides..."
His hand brushed her thigh gently, not moving too high, but enough to make her breath hitch.
"...do you really think that I'm going to let you leave without tasting your own juice after working me up so much?"
Olivia stared at him. And then, as if helplessly pulled by some invisible thread, she whispered,
"...Would you taste it too?"
Kafka grinned.
"Mom..." He said. "I wouldn't let a drop go to waste."
That did it.
She looked away, pressing her palms against her knees, lips trembling.
"Fine..." She whispered. "Only because you forced me too. And because it's your fault my brain's thinking like this. The old me wouldn't have..."
She trailed off, flustered fingers twisting in her lap, head slightly bowed as if the confession itself scorched her...And it did, in a way, because it was true.
A day ago, she'd never have agreed to something so bold. She would've protested, fled, blushed herself half to death before even considering such filth aloud.
But ever since last night, ever since the way he touched her, teased her, looked at her like she was the most forbidden thing in the world, something in her had started to shift.
Kafka was relentless. Shameless. And damn him, he made it fun.
Even now, the way he looked at her, like he could already see through her panties, taste her heat on the air, it made her thighs tighten all over again.
Still, her eyes darted around the bustling café, and she leaned in with a nervous whisper.
"But...how?" She asked, heart hammering. "There are so many people here. We could get caught, someone could notice—"
Kafka silenced her with a slow press of his hand over hers, eyes gleaming.
"Shhh." He murmured. "Let me handle all that."
His fingers slid over her breasts, and then down, sneaking onto her thigh, firm, confident. He gave a slow knead, and Olivia gasped under her breath, her lips trembling as her legs nearly jolted apart from the contact.
"All you need to do..." He said softly. "...is relax. Pull up that dress. Slide those panties to the side. And show me what's mine to taste."
Olivia whimpered, genuinely whimpered, and turned her face away, her breath hitching as the words bloomed through her like fire.
But it was his gaze that undid her. The intensity. The total certainty in his voice. And that promise hidden underneath it: I want you.
Her blush deepened, but her fingers were already twitching toward the hem of her dress.
"You're such a perverted son, Kafi...Wanting your own mother to taste her own bodily fluids." She whispered, barely audible. "But if I don't do it now...you'll just keep teasing me, so—"
Then, trembling but determined, Olivia reached down and slowly gathered the fabric of her dress.
Inch by inch, the hem rose, revealing the soft curve of her calves, her knees, the smooth stretch of her thighs. Kafka watched every movement with an intensity that made her knees weak until finally her panties were revealed.
The lavender panties that clung to her center were soaked, utterly soaked, so wet that the delicate fabric had turned translucent with the slick sheen of her arousal.
The color had darkened near the gusset, where a glossy wet patch spread wide, glistening under the low light like dew pooled in silk.
The thin material had molded itself to every curve, outlining the swollen contour of her mound, the plump pout of her lips beneath, drawn tight and glossy as syrup.
She was dripping.
"Holy fuck, Mom..." He exhaled.
Her legs shifted instinctively, thighs twitching inward like they could somehow hide the pulsing mess between them, but it was too late. She was soaked. Visibly. Her body had already screamed what her mouth hadn't dared to say.
"You're drenched." Kafka said with a voice gone husky and low, reaching out to press a warm palm to her inner thigh. The slick there made his fingers slide easily. "Your pussy's begging for attention, and I haven't even touched it yet."
She whimpered, not from shame, but from the pressure building inside her.
"Be quiet, Kafi." She whispered, glancing toward the door even though they were already locked in. "J-Just...be quick."
"I will." He whispered. "But first..."
His fingers hooked the side of her panties and peeled them down. As it peeled away, strings of glistening slick stretched between her pale lips and the fabric, shimmering in the light, wetness that refused to let go. He watched them snap one by one as her panties slid down to her thighs.
And then...she was bare.
Completely exposed.
Her pussy was flushed, puffy, and glistening with arousal. The skin were slick, pink and delicate, coated in a wet shine that caught the dim light like glass. Her lips were full, parted just slightly from how swollen she was. Her clit stood taut and trembling at the top, a shy little pearl peeking out from under its hood, already hard.
She was dripping in the most obscene, motherly, beautiful way, slick slowly sliding down, forming another thin line along her inner thigh.
She was throbbing. Visibly pulsing. Her body completely undone by the heat of her own desire and terribly ashamed that her own son was seeing her like this once again, when she promised herself that this would never happen again...