They have thier fun

Peter’s head spun in a storm of guilt, panic, and raw, unwanted pleasure as the two women—his former parents, now these insatiable Latina girlfriends—took complete control. The mature one (his transformed mom) rode him with relentless ****, her thick hips slamming down again and again, her tight heat gripping him so hard he could feel every inch of her sliding along his length.

Each violent bounce made her heavy breasts slap against her chest, the thin white dress now bunched around her waist, the red thong pulled to the side. Her dark waves whipped with every thrust, her crimson nails digging into his shoulders as she growled in Spanish, “¡Dame más, Papi! ¡Así, así!”

The younger one (his former dad) straddled his chest, facing her “sister,” and leaned forward to kiss the mature girlfriend deeply over Peter’s body. Their tongues tangled in the air above him, wet and hungry, before they broke apart with breathy laughs. The younger one reached down, cupping the older woman’s bouncing breasts, pinching her dark nipples until she moaned louder and rode Peter even harder. Their gold jewelry clinked together like wind chimes in a hurricane.

Peter’s hands were no longer his own. The younger girlfriend grabbed his wrists and planted his palms firmly on the mature one’s ass, forcing him to squeeze the plush flesh as she slammed down onto him. “Help her, Papi,” she purred, grinding her own soaked heat against his stomach, leaving slick trails on his skin. “Mami likes it rough.”

He couldn’t fight it. Couldn’t think. The remote lay forgotten on the floor now, kicked aside in the frenzy. Every thrust from the mature girlfriend dragged him deeper into the haze—her walls fluttering, clenching, milking him mercilessly. The younger one slid forward, planting her knees on either side of his head, and lowered herself onto his face without asking.

“Eat me, Papi,” she commanded, voice thick with lust, and ground her dripping folds against his mouth. Peter’s muffled groan vibrated into her as his tongue moved on instinct, tasting her sweetness mixed with the lingering scent of jasmine. She rocked against his face, riding his tongue in slow circles while reaching forward to make out sloppily with the woman riding his cock.

The room filled with wet sounds: the slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed, the filthy symphony of their moans in Spanish and broken English. The mature girlfriend’s pace turned frantic—her thighs trembling, her breath hitching. “¡Me vengo, me vengo!” she cried, and her whole body seized, inner muscles clamping down so hard Peter saw stars. She came with a guttural scream, juices flooding over him as she kept bouncing through her orgasm, forcing him deeper into overstimulation.

The younger one followed seconds later, grinding hard against Peter’s mouth, her thighs locking around his head as she shuddered and gushed over his tongue, crying out, “¡Sí, Papi, bébeme!”

The dual climaxes dragged Peter over the edge again—he hadn’t even recovered from the first. His hips jerked up involuntarily, burying himself fully in the mature girlfriend as he spilled inside her with a strangled shout muffled against the younger one’s pussy. They rode it out together, the three of them locked in a sweaty, trembling heap.

When it finally slowed, the two women collapsed onto him, one on each side, their legs tangled with his, their hands possessively stroking his chest and thighs.

The mature one (his mother no longer, just this heavy-breasted, cinnamon-scented woman) let out a long, satisfied sigh against his neck and went limp, her arm draped possessively across his chest. Within seconds her breathing deepened, soft and even, her dark hair spilling over his shoulder like spilled ink.

The younger one lasted a few heartbeats longer. She pressed one last lazy kiss to the corner of Peter’s mouth, murmured something sleepy in Spanish that might have been “te quiero, Papi,” and then curled into his side, one smooth thigh thrown over his, her gold bangles cool against his ribs. Her hand, which moments ago had been clawing at him, now rested open and trusting on his stomach. She was out cold before her next exhale.

The room settled into the low hum of the house at night: the faint tick of the hallway clock, the distant rumble of a car passing outside, the soft rustle of sheets as the two women shifted closer in their sleep, instinctively seeking his warmth.

Peter lay pinned between them, chest still heaving, skin slick with sweat and the mingled scent of jasmine and sex. Every muscle felt wrung out. His mind (what was left of it) spun in useless circles: horror, guilt, a sick thrum of lingering pleasure he couldn’t quite kill. He stared up at the dark ceiling, afraid to move, afraid to wake them.

The remote lay on the carpet three feet away, half-hidden in shadow, its little red power light pulsing like a heartbeat.

For the first time since he’d picked the damn thing up, the house was quiet.