I woke to the smell of her hair and the wet heat of her mouth already wrapped around my cock.
Sunlight slanted through the half-open blinds, striping the bed in gold. For one disoriented second I thought I was still dreaming (then her tongue swirled under the head and I remembered everything).
Mom was curled between my legs, cheek pillowed on my thigh, lips stretched wide around the first few inches of me. Her eyes were closed, lashes dark against her cheeks, like she was praying. One small hand cradled my balls, rolling them gently; the other was buried between her own thighs, moving in slow, lazy circles.
She felt me stir and hummed (a low, happy sound that vibrated straight through my spine). Her eyes opened, soft and sleep-drunk, and she pulled off just long enough to whisper, "Good morning," before sinking back down.
I groaned and let my head fall to the pillow. My cock was already slick with her spit and last night's cum; she'd clearly been at this a while. There was a wet spot on the sheet beneath her hips the size of a dinner plate.
"Couldn't wait?" I rasped.
She shook her head without releasing me, cheeks hollowing as she sucked harder. Her fingers sped up between her legs; I could hear how soaked she was.
I reached down and threaded my fingers through her hair, not guiding, just anchoring. She took it as permission and started bobbing in earnest (slow, worshipful pulls that ended with her throat fluttering around the head before she slid back up). Drool spilled over her bottom lip, down my shaft, pooling warm around my balls.
I lasted maybe three minutes.
The orgasm rolled up my spine like a freight train. I tried to warn her (managed a strangled "Mom—") and she just pushed down until her nose pressed against my pelvis and swallowed around me. I came straight down her throat in heavy, endless pulses, hips jerking, vision whiting out. She took every drop, throat working, humming like it was the best breakfast she'd ever had.
When I finally slumped back, boneless, she pulled off with a soft pop and rested her cheek on my thigh again, licking her lips clean.
"Morning," she said again, shy this time, like she hadn't just swallowed her son's load before coffee.
I hauled her up my body and kissed her (deep, filthy, tasting myself on her tongue). She melted against me, small and warm and trembling.
"You're going to kill me," I muttered against her mouth.
She laughed, breathy and delighted, and rubbed her slick thighs together. "Worth it."
We stayed tangled like that for a long minute, trading lazy kisses, my hands roaming her back, her ass, the soft weight of her breasts. She was still dripping (my cum from last night mixed with fresh wetness), and every time she shifted it smeared across my skin.
Eventually the smell of coffee drifted up the stairs (the timer had kicked on at 6:30 like always). Real life trying to muscle its way back in.
She sighed and buried her face in my neck. "I made pancakes," she mumbled. "They're probably cold."
"Fuck the pancakes."
She laughed again, brighter this time, and nipped my collarbone. "Language."
I rolled us so she was under me, pinned by my weight. My cock (still half-hard) slid through her folds without entering, just gliding back and forth, coating itself again. She whimpered and arched up, trying to catch the head.
"Greedy," I teased.
"You have no idea," she breathed. "I woke up aching. Reached for you and you weren't there. I almost cried."
"I was right here."
"Not inside me," she said, like that was the most natural thing in the world.
I kissed her slow and deep, rocking against her until she was panting into my mouth.
"We have to get up eventually," she whispered, even as her legs wrapped around my waist.
"No we don't."
She bit her lip, eyes fluttering. "I want to cook for you. Want to sit at the table like… like nothing's changed. And feel you leaking out of me the whole time."
The image hit me so hard my cock surged fully hard again, nudging her entrance.
"Jesus, Mom."
She smiled (small, wicked, radiant) and pushed me off her with gentle hands. "Pancakes first. Then you can bend me over the table and add another load."
I let her go, mostly because watching her walk naked to the door (hips swaying, my cum glistening on her inner thighs) was its own kind of torture.
She paused in the doorway and looked back. "Bring syrup," she said. "I have plans."
I came downstairs ten minutes later in nothing but sweatpants, cock swinging heavy and obvious. She was at the stove in one of my T-shirts and nothing else, flipping pancakes like this was any other Saturday. The shirt barely skimmed the curve of her ass; every time she reached for something it rode higher.
I walked up behind her, slid my hands under the shirt, and cupped her breasts. No bra. Nipples instantly hard against my palms.
"Daniel," she scolded, but she was already pushing back against me, ass grinding against my cock.
"Keep cooking," I said against her ear. "Don't burn them."
She whimpered but obeyed, flipping pancakes with shaking hands while I rolled her nipples, slow and firm. When the last one was on the plate she turned off the burner and sagged against me.
I spun her around, lifted her onto the counter (same spot I'd fucked her four days ago), and spread her thighs wide. She was dripping again, swollen and pink.
"Syrup," she reminded breathlessly.
I grabbed the bottle from the table, popped the cap, and drizzled a thin stream across her breasts, down her belly, over her clit. She gasped at the cool stickiness, hips jerking.
I dropped to my knees and licked her clean (slow, thorough stripes from her entrance to her clit, sucking the syrup and her taste together until she was clawing at my hair and coming with a sharp cry).
Then I stood, pushed my sweatpants down just enough, and slid into her in one slick thrust.
We ate cold pancakes an hour later, naked at the table, syrup and cum drying on her thighs. She sat on my lap the whole time, feeding me bites from her fork, my cock buried inside her to the root.
Every time she shifted to reach for the orange juice I felt her clench around me.
"Best morning of my life," I said into her neck.
She turned and kissed me, slow and sweet.
"Every morning," she whispered. "Every single one from now on."
Under the table her bare foot stroked my calf, tender and possessive.
We didn't bother getting dressed all day.