I woke up in my bed, my cock still rock hard from that relentless morning erection, throbbing warmly against the soft cotton sheet tangled around my thighs. The faint scent of last night's sweat lingered on my skin as I stretched, the cool morning air brushing over my bare chest and tightening my nipples.
I swung my legs out of bed and padded to the bathroom, the wooden floor cool under my feet. In the shower, hot water cascaded over me, steam filling the small space with a clean, soapy fragrance. I lathered up, feeling the slick suds glide over my shoulders, down my chest, and across my still-stiff cock, the warmth and pressure making me half-close my eyes in lazy pleasure. The water drummed against my back, loud and rhythmic, washing away the last traces of sleep.
I stepped out, skin tingling and flushed pink, the mirror fogged completely. A quick swipe of my towel—rough, warm from the radiator—dried me off, leaving that fresh, slightly scratchy feeling. I pulled on a clean pair of boxer briefs, the elastic snapping lightly against my hips, then jeans and a soft hoodie that carried the faint scent of laundry detergent.
Back in my room, sunlight slanted through the half-open blinds, dusting the floor with gold. I stuffed my textbooks into my backpack—heavy, corners worn—the zip rasping as I closed it. I flipped open my laptop one last time; the screen's cool glow confirmed everything was done, assignments submitted, no red flags.
Satisfied, I headed downstairs. The smell of toasted bread and brewing coffee drifted up the stairwell, warm and inviting. My stomach growled in response as I stepped into the kitchen, the tiled floor cold against my bare feet, ready to grab breakfast before heading out to university
I jogged down the stairs, the rich aroma of sizzling butter and fresh coffee thickening the air, mingling with something warmer, muskier, unmistakably feminine. In the kitchen, Mom stood at the stove, her back to me at first, hips swaying slightly as she flipped pancakes. She was barefoot on the cool tiles, wearing nothing but a thin, pale-pink camisole that clung to the heavy swell of her breasts, the fabric stretched so tight her dark nipples pressed visibly against it. Below, a tiny pair of white cotton shorts rode low on her wide hips and barely covered the lower curve of her plump, jiggling ass; every little shift made the soft cheeks bounce and part.
When she turned to greet me with a sleepy smile, the front of those shorts was soaked through—dark, clinging, almost translucent—outlining the plump lips of her pussy in explicit detail. A faint sheen glistened along her inner thighs, the scent of her arousal drifting toward me like warm honey mixed with something saltier, more intimate. She didn't bother closing her legs; one foot rested casually on the lower rung of a stool, letting everything stay on lazy display.
I'd seen that soft, pink slit a thousand mornings like this—smooth, flushed, glistening with her own wetness—and the sight still sent a hot pulse straight to my already-hard cock. She caught my stare, laughed softly, the sound low and throaty, and flicked the spatula toward me.
"Morning, baby," she said, voice still husky from sleep. "You came out of this pussy, remember? You're allowed to look as much as you want." She gave a playful little shimmy that made her heavy breasts sway and the wet fabric cling even tighter to her folds, a fresh bead of moisture slipping down the inside of her thigh as if to prove her point.
I stepped behind her, the heat radiating off her body like a furnace. My cock, already freed from my jeans and slick with a bead of precum, sprang up against the soaked crotch of her tiny shorts. The wet cotton was scalding hot, clinging to her swollen lips, and when I pressed forward the fabric mashed softly between us, letting me feel every plush fold through the thin barrier.
I wrapped my arms around her waist, hands sliding up to cup the heavy weight of her breasts, thumbs brushing over the stiff peaks of her nipples straining against the camisole. She leaned back into me with a low, breathy hum, tilting her hips so my shaft nestled right along her dripping slit. The soaked cloth dragged over my length with each slow rock, slick, slippery sounds mixing with the faint sizzle of pancakes on the griddle.
I locked eyes with her (hazel, sleepy, sparkling with lazy amusement) while I ground forward, the ridge of my cockhead nudging and rubbing the swollen nub of her clit through the drenched cotton. Her breath hitched, warm against my cheek, carrying the faint sweetness of coffee and the deeper, intoxicating scent of her arousal filling the kitchen like steam. Each roll of my hips smeared her wetness higher, coating my shaft in glossy heat, the friction deliciously muted yet maddening.
Minutes blurred. Her thighs trembled; the soft flesh of her ass pressed back against my stomach, jiggling with every thrust. A low moan slipped from her throat, vibrating through her back into my chest. I felt her pussy flutter against me through the fabric, a sudden rush of fresh warmth soaking us both as she came with a soft, shuddering gasp. The sensation dragged me over too—hot pulses streaked up my cock, thick ropes of cum painting the front of her shorts and dripping down her thighs in slow, creamy rivulets.
She exhaled a satisfied little laugh, reached for a dish towel hanging off the oven handle, and casually wiped the mess from her skin and the ruined cotton, the motion making her breasts sway heavily. "Go ahead, baby," she murmured, voice husky and warm, giving my hip a playful pat. "Sit down and relax. Breakfast'll be ready in a few minutes."
I nodded, still catching my breath, the taste of her scent lingering on my tongue as I slid into my usual chair at the table, the wooden seat cool against my bare thighs while the rich smells of butter and maple syrup started to win over the musk in the air.
Mom turned from the stove with two steaming plates, the golden pancakes stacked high and glistening with melted butter, the scent of warm vanilla and maple syrup curling through the air. She set mine in front of me, her heavy breasts swaying under the thin camisole as she bent, nipples still stiff and dark against the fabric. Then she settled into the chair across from me, the wooden legs scraping softly over the tiles.
She sat with her thighs shamelessly parted, the ruined white shorts now completely soaked and clinging like a second skin. Under the table her pink, swollen pussy stayed on full display, glossy lips parted and still leaking slow, creamy trails of our earlier mess down the insides of her thighs onto the seat. The faint wet sound of skin shifting reached me every time she moved.
Without looking up from her fork, she lifted one bare foot and slid it between my legs. Her warm sole pressed along the underside of my half-hard cock, toes curling gently to cradle me. She started a slow, lazy massage (heel rolling up my shaft, arch gliding down, toes teasing the sensitive ridge beneath the head) while the maple-syrup scent mixed with the thicker, heady smell of her arousal rising between us.
Her other foot stayed planted on the floor, giving her leverage to rock her hips in tiny circles. I watched her free hand disappear beneath the table; two fingers slipped easily into her slick heat with a soft, wet sound. She scooped a bite of pancake, brought it to her lips, chewed slowly, eyes half-lidded and locked on mine while her foot kept stroking me in the same unhurried rhythm her fingers used on herself.
The kitchen filled with quiet, obscene noises: the scrape of forks, the wet glide of her fingers plunging in and out, the slick drag of her sole along my now-throbbing cock. Syrup dripped from her lip; she licked it away with a slow swipe of her tongue.
Minutes stretched. Her breath grew shallow, foot pressing harder, toes flexing tight around my shaft. A soft whimper escaped her as her thighs tensed; I felt the sudden rush of heat as she came again, fresh wetness spilling over her fingers and pattering onto the chair beneath her. The sight and the rhythmic squeeze of her foot dragged me right after—thick pulses shot across her instep and ankle, warm and sticky, dripping between her toes.
She sighed, satisfied, then casually reached for a napkin and wiped her foot clean, the paper rasping softly over her skin. Still flushed and glowing, she looked up at me with that sleepy, loving smile.
"My love," she murmured, voice low and syrupy, "come back early today, okay? You know Mom can't live without you."
I swallowed the last bite of pancake, tasting butter and salt and her on the air. "Same here, Mom," I said, voice rough. I stood, slung my heavy backpack onto my shoulder, the strap pulling tight across my chest, and headed for the door, the echo of her wet fingers still ringing in my ears as I stepped out into the bright morning.