“Yes, Richie!” bellowed Mag as she lifted up her crotch from the drenched, squished face. It was an orgasmic announcement AND warning. Mother and son were so incestuously in synch. He quickly turned his head to the right side. This was so that when his mother shoved down her twat on him, the force didn’t break his nose.
Mag groaned, “Aggghhhh!” as her slobbered cunt quickly dropped back onto Richie’s head like a ton of bricks. She rode his face—and rode, and rode. The orgasm was electric, causing her lush, curvy body to shake in the throes of unmitigated pleasure. It wasn’t only from the unfathomable physical delight which incited the pleasure, but for the decadent mental relishing in the forbidden sex between parent and offspring.
When Mag’s orgasm finally ended, she lifted her leg over so she was no longer sitting on Richie’s face, now sitting along side of it. She looked at him. His entire face had the shiny appearance of a Crispy Crème donut. They shared a smile, he also licking his lips and making “Mmmm” sounds.
“You like your mother’s muffin?” she jokingly inquired with a smile.
“Oh yeah! Your muffin—especially the cream in the middle—is my favorite breakfast!”
They both laughed heartily at the double entendre. Then he hooked his arm around her neck and playfully pulled her face towards hers. Her own pussy perfume and tartness assailed her nose and mouth as she desirously kissed him. Their tongues danced with each other, sharing her juices and their mutual saliva. The kiss was very sensual, and gave way to the two staring longingly in their eyes.
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, Richie.”
– – –
One year ago.
It seems Richie’s father had a habit of fucking…any woman but his wife. When this had been discovered, Mag was crushed and immediately filed for divorce. Richie was also crushed—and pissed at his old man.
It was a late Friday afternoon when Mag’s husband cleared out all his belongings from their apartment. Only Richie was present for this exit. Mag was too distraught to be around her louse spouse. She volunteered for overtime at the accounting firm where she worked as an administrative assistant.
The son glared evilly at his father as he piled a duffel bag, knapsack, and three suitcases near the doorway. He caught Richie’s eye.
“What are you looking at?” the deposed husband asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“A piece of shit.”
“You watch your mouth, young man. I’m still your father.”
“And, you’re still a piece of shit.”
Enraged, he rushed toward his son. Richie, a brown belt in Tae Kwon Do, leaped from the recliner where he was and at once got into a fighter’s stance. Seeing Richie’s pose and remembering how he polished off his opponent in his last belt test, the parent put the brakes on. Father and son viewed each other like two snarling male lions preparing to combat for the pride’s control. The older man wanted to teach his belligerent child a lesson. The younger man wanted to kick his dad’s ass for hurting him and, most of all, his mother. The standoff ended when the father “blinked.” He silently returned to gathering his things together and then called a cab. He looked back at his son, who was still in his fighter pose without every taking his eyes off the philander.