Masturbate to son

Julia slipped into her bedroom and locked the door with trembling fingers, the click echoing louder than it should have in the quiet house. Her back pressed against the wood for a moment, eyes closed, breathing shallow and ragged. The image of Nick—her own son—stroking that massive cock while moaning her name refused to fade. It looped behind her eyelids: the slow, deliberate pumps of his fist, the way pre-cum glistened on his knuckles, the **** way his hips bucked as he whispered “Mom… fuck… Mom…”

She crossed the room on unsteady legs, sundress already clinging to her sweat-damp skin. The mirror across from the bed caught her reflection—cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide, nipples straining visibly against the thin fabric. She looked wrecked. She felt wrecked. And she was so fucking wet she could feel it dripping down her inner thighs.

Julia collapsed onto the edge of the bed, legs falling open almost without thought. Her hand slid under the hem of her dress, fingers finding the soaked cotton of her panties and pushing them aside. She was drenched—slippery, swollen, clit throbbing under the lightest brush. A soft whimper escaped her as she circled it once, twice, then plunged two fingers deep inside herself.

Her mind went straight to Nick.

That cock. God, that cock. Thick, veined, longer than anything William had ever offered—longer than most of the men she’d taken in her wilder days. She remembered the glimpse that morning: flushed dark, curving slightly upward, the head glistening, the way it pulsed in his grip as he jerked himself to thoughts of her. William’s pathetic little dick had never filled her like that, never made her feel stretched and claimed and ruined. Nick’s would. She knew it instinctively. It would split her open, bottom out against her cervix, make her scream in a way her husband never could.

She fucked herself harder, fingers curling against that spot inside, thumb grinding circles on her clit. Her free hand shoved the sundress up to her waist, then yanked the neckline down to free her breasts. She pinched one nipple—hard—imagining Nick’s mouth there instead, teeth grazing, sucking until she bruised.

“Fuck… Nick…” The name slipped out in a broken whisper. She bit her lip to stifle it, but the sound escaped anyway—needy, shameful, ****. She pictured him catching her like this: door cracked the way his had been, watching her spread and dripping, stroking that monster cock while she came apart thinking of him. Would he step inside? Would he climb onto the bed, push her thighs wider, replace her fingers with that thick length?

The thought sent her over the edge.

Her back arched off the mattress, hips bucking against her hand as the orgasm ripped through her—hard, violent, waves of pleasure crashing so intensely her vision whited out for a second. She clamped down around her fingers, slick gushing over her palm, thighs trembling as she rode it out with soft, choked moans.

When it finally ebbed, she collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, fingers still buried inside her twitching pussy. The room smelled of sex and guilt. Her phone sat silent on the nightstand—no new texts from Master, no updates on Riley—but the weight of everything pressed down anyway.

Julia stared at the ceiling, sticky and spent, the aftershocks still fluttering through her core.

She didn’t move to clean up. Not yet.

She just lay there, replaying the sight of her son’s cock in her mind, wondering—against every shred of decency she had left—how it would feel to take it for real.