Well, Clearly I have to Fuck Her

Mom’s latex stockings and heels **** her to march to the sink. The dishwasher’s already fixed through her magic, but instead of loading it up, she clears a sink out and plugs it, filling it with hot, soapy water. Her face seems to be a mix of surprise and pained anticipation.

“Why am I cleaning?” She asked aloud. “I’m supposed to be getting FUCKED here!” My cock lifted from the **** of my blood flow once again, and I looked down at the ridiculous thing in front of me.

“Gosh, I get it, I get it!” I practically whispered to my dick. “Mommy’s so fucking sexy when she does mommy things,” I purr to my modified mom, really playing it up. I see her hips wiggle in front of the sink a little as she whimpers, rinsing dishes by hand with her opera length white latex gloves, and setting them in the soapy wash sink. She keeps up the work even as she turns over her shoulder and looks at me with her green eyes. I realized this form of her is sort of what my mom would look like if she spent all her time trying to be good at Instagram.

Now, to a woman something like that might sound like an insult, but the thought of it only tweaks my cock skyward again.

“Do you like when Mommy cleans for you, John?” That voice is like honey…a sweeter, lighter mommy. It came from her winding her clock back to about 20, and I wouldn’t have it any other way except for one thing.

“Johnny, mommy. Call me Johnny.”

“Oh, of course it is, baby. Johnny likes watching mommy, doesn’t he?”

“Mommy keeps up all her cleaning, ‘cause it keeps her pussy gleaming, yet hovers o’er the kitchen tile, while I fuck her doggie style!” I’m extremely proud of my improv skills on that! Not one, but two rhyming couplets…and they both seem to work, because now mom takes special care as she rinses each dish—like it’s doing something for her.

“J-Johnny…did you say h-hover?!” Her legs seem to pick themselves up from behind the sink, and she squeaks and tries to lean forward on her hands to steady herself from her stockings suddenly leaving the ground. Her gloves don’t allow it for long, and they pull her palms out from the ledge of the sink. She gasps, but when no part of her threatens to smash against the floor or the cabinetry, she lets out a relieved giggle. “Johnny, you made mommy fly!”

I’m practically drooling at the sight. My latex-covered mother is hoist over the sink, her gloves still directing her to wash dishes—but now her trunk is parallel with the floor. She’s lifted about two feet into the air, and as her latex stockings both gracefully curl at the knee, her frilled skirt lifts on its own in front of me, exposing her amazingly tight, rounded ass.

“Oh my god…fuck me, honey,” Mom says, looking over her shoulder at you again. “Fuck your latex-maid mommy like a good boy…keep her company while she does her chores.” I gasp as I’m lifted into the air behind her. There’s some kind of acting synthesis with all of this. My body has to obey her will, yet her will happens to be submissive for the moment—and she also has to obey my clearly-functional spells.

When I sail through the air, toward her presented backside, her latex briefs stretch and slide out of the way of my cock. I moan as I slide into her pussy from behind, reaching out and grasping the shoulders of her latex maid uniform.

“Fuck me, mommy—you are so damn tight…” I pull myself against her, using my grip on her shoulders as leverage. Actual zero-gravity sex is supposed to be a real pain in the ass. Apparently magical zero-gravity sex doesn’t share its issues, because this is like fly-fucking some kind of latex-clad gothic pixie.

I can hear her moaning, but her shiny white gloves never stop doing the dishes. Her head is thrown back, singing my praises as I ride her hovering body, impeccable in every curve and coated in sleek, shiny latex to the tune of a classic maid’s formal dress. My long black hair is falling all around me, and I can’t believe how good this feels.

“Fuck your rubber mommy, Johnny. Fuck your mommy in the air...” She cries out. I can feel her pre-orgiastic shiver calling to me. She’s going to come soon. I don’t know why I know this, but I do…almost like a psychic sense—maybe it has to do with her secret kinks leaking into me again. I lean forward against her hovering body, burying my aching cock in her. She tightens against me as I bounce, and I let go of her shoulders, grabbing her hips and slamming myself against her. Between our spells augmenting our mutual lust and our sudden ability to defy the chains of both gravity and reality through Mom’s magical prototype wand, we’re two toned, beautiful forms intertwined in the air for a few building moments until I’m about to come.

“My rubber maid mommy,” I growl against her, gently pulling her ponytail. “I’m gonna come in my sexy, magic rubber maid.” Magic. My magic rubber pixie. The only thing better than a rubber maid mommy was a MAGIC rubber maid mommy, right? Surely this was a good idea.

If you believe that those sentences actually went through my head at some reasonable and metered pace—that I had some critical sense of constructive, rational thought while I was about to blow my load, you probably aren’t a guy, because they didn’t, and I hadn’t. It was more like I belted out—at our most beautiful moment—the only thing I could think of that would make this any hotter for me.

I wanted mommy to be a pixie. A sprite. A witch. A sorceress. A genie. I didn’t care. All the years of reading her public-facing work--the cutesy witch and warlock stuff--had given me sort of an appetite for the genre. Yeah…a sexual appetite.

I came when I shouted it, and the wand glowed just like it had before:

___

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