Mad Son’s Peach Blossoms [Crazy]

Her peach blossoms are so tight, I can feel them gripping my cock like a vice. She’s my mother, but I don’t care—I’ve been dreaming of this moment since I hit puberty. Her moans are muffled by the pillow, but I hear every whimper, every gasp as I pound into her. The way her hips buck against me, she’s loving it, even if she won’t admit it. I grab her hair, pull her head back, and whisper filthy things in her ear—how I’ve watched her in the shower, how I’ve jerked off to her sleeping body. She cries out, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

Her pussy is drenched, a sticky mess of our combined juices. I flip her over, spread her legs wide, and bury my face between her thighs. She tastes like sin—sweet and salty, with a hint of her own desperation. I lick and suck her clit until she’s shaking, begging me to stop, but I know she wants more. I slide two fingers inside her, curling them to hit that spot that makes her scream. She comes hard, her body convulsing, and I drink every drop of her cum. Then I’m inside her again, fucking her with a fury that borders on violence.

Afterward, I lie beside her, my cum dripping out of her cunt onto the sheets. She’s crying softly, but I don’t care. I’ll do it again tomorrow, and the next day, until she’s completely broken. This is my house, my rules, and she’s my personal slut. I kiss her forehead, whisper ‘goodnight, mommy,’ and roll over to sleep. The smell of sex fills the room, a testament to our twisted bond.