Diane enjoys it

Kyle lunged—not at Tyler, but at Diane's discarded bikini top. He snatched it off the concrete, shaking it in Tyler's face like evidence. "You're gaslighting my mother about a stain—" Diane turned her bleary gaze on Kyle, her breasts still cupped in Tyler's palms. "Sweetheart, don't be crude," she chided, wiggling against Tyler's grip. "Tyler's just helping."

Kyle's nostrils flared. The scent of coconut sunscreen and Diane's sweat hit him like a taunt. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the patio's fountain. He could see Tyler's fingertips denting Diane's flesh, the way her skin blanched under pressure before flooding back pink—her nipples darkening to burgundy under Tyler's cruel attention. Worse? The wet 'click' when Tyler peeled his fingers slightly off her skin, only to resettle with a tighter grip.

Diane sighed happily, rolling her shoulders so her tits pushed deeper into Tyler's palms. "It's nice," she murmured, eyelashes fluttering closed, "having a real man take care of things." Her voice was syrup-thick, oblivious to the way Tyler's thumbs now rubbed slow, deliberate circles around her areolas—not cleaning, claiming. "You're so... thorough," she slurred, hips shifting against empty air. Tyler smirked at Kyle over Diane's shoulder, mouthing _'watch this' _before heaving her breasts upward until they nearly touched her chin. Diane gasped—a high, reedy sound—her back arching instinctively.

Kyle's stomach lurched when his mom giggled breathlessly, "My husband never—oh!—never handled me like this." The admission hung between them, rancid and sweet. Tyler squeezed harder, enjoying the way Diane's knees trembled. "Old men lose their grip," he mused, punctuating each word with a twist of his fingers. Diane whimpered agreement, her nipples now so stiff they strained toward Tyler's palms like magnets. "Always rushed," she confided, swaying drunkenly in Tyler's grasp. "Never took time to—oh, right there—to explore properly."

Kyle's knuckles cracked against his thighs. Diane didn't even notice—too busy marveling at Tyler's "helpfulness." "You're so attentive," she sighed, tilting her head back onto Tyler's shoulder. Her breasts jutted forward obscenely, Tyler's thumbs now tracing lazy circles around each areola. "Most boys your age just stare," she added, blissfully unaware of Kyle's **** noises behind her. "But you? You care about getting every—mmph!—every inch clean."

Tyler's grin was a razor. "Speaking of inches—" His fingers pinched Diane's nipples abruptly, making her squeak. "Kyle, grab your phone. Diane should _document _this stain removal technique." Kyle's face purpled. "Fuck no—" Diane clucked her tongue, still arching into Tyler's touch. "Language, sweetie!" Tyler's hands slid lower, palming the full weight of her tits with a wet smack of skin. "C'mon, Kyle. For research." He squeezed until Diane's breath hitched. "Your mom loves me being helpful."

Diane's eyelids fluttered as Tyler's thumbs found the soft undersides of her breasts. "Mmm, he's right," she sighed, patting Kyle's arm blindly. "Take notes, honey. A real man helps." Kyle's phone trembled in his grip—not recording, but clenched like a weapon. Tyler exploited the hesitation, dragging Diane's nipples upward until they pointed at the sky. "Perfect lighting," he murmured, watching her breasts quiver. Diane gasped when he suddenly released them, letting them bounce freely. "Now lean forward," Tyler instructed, pressing between her shoulder blades. Diane obeyed, her tits swaying like pendulums—nipples grazing her thighs as she bent at the waist.

Kyle's stomach twisted. His mom's ass jutted backward, her thong vanishing between her cheeks while Tyler circled her like a shark. "See how the shadows hide stains?" Tyler traced an invisible line beneath her left breast, his nail scraping lightly. Diane shivered. "Oh! That tingles," she giggled, wobbling on her heels. Tyler steadied her with a hand on her hip—his fingers dipping dangerously low. Kyle's teeth ground together when Diane instinctively arched into the touch, her thong riding higher.

"Problem's deeper than I thought," Tyler announced solemnly. He snapped his fingers toward Kyle. "Hand me your phone." Diane gasped excitedly. "Oh! For before and after shots!" Kyle's vision blurred. His mom was volunteering for this insanity. Tyler smirked, already framing the shot with his fingers. "Diane, lift them properly this time." She obeyed instantly, cupping her tits from beneath with both hands—fingers splayed to expose every inch. Her thumbs brushed her own nipples, making her breath hitch. "Like this?" she asked, squeezing experimentally. The wet smack of flesh made Kyle's knees weak.

"No bras from now on," Tyler decreed, circling Diane with predatory grace. "The friction causes stains." Diane's eyes widened. "Oh! That makes so much sense!" She bounced lightly on her toes, making her tits jiggle. "My husband always said—" Tyler cut her off with a sharp pinch to her left nipple. "Old men don't understand modern fabrics." Diane whimpered agreement, her back arching. Kyle's stomach churned watching his mom nod along as Tyler twisted her nipple like a dial.

"In today's world," Diane panted, swaying into Tyler's grip, "with all those awful men objectifying us—" Tyler's fingers dug deeper, making her gasp. "You're a role model, Tyler." Kyle choked. His mom's breasts glistened with sweat where Tyler had mauled them, the outlines of his fingerprints rising like brand marks. "Respectful," Diane slurred, her thighs rubbing together. "Attentive to women's needs." Tyler smirked, palming both tits at once—kneading them like dough. "Just doing my civic duty," he murmured, watching Diane's eyelids flutter.