Why not? It's Friday. Kids won't mind a late breakfast.

You let the paper slip away as you take a hold of you growing dick. You start rubbing the underbelly of the husky rod, your other hand passing under your robe to grip a creamy breast.

A moan slips your lips. Another follows with a squeeze of your head. You take the tit in your palm and roll it about, pushing it up, then down; left, then right. While delighting your cock with pinches and rubs, you take to tweaking the nipple of the breast in hand between your fingers.

Pre-cum seeps from your thick little monster. You wipe it off with the tips of your index and middle, then smear it all over your stirring nether lips, giving a lascivious coat to your perking clit. You spread out, moaning deeper and letting the balls of your feet support you thrilling legs. Your dick was very hard, stiffening out it's full length. You take to sliding your entire hand along the span of your solid member, fisting it with increasing rhythm.

Giving your nipple good pluck, you then send your hand to fill your watering pussy. You stroked and spread and glossed and pulled, until you were on the verge of fantastic release. You stuffed four fingers greedily into yourself and wanked your pulsing cock with firm beats.

"Uh, yea! Oh, yes! Mmmmm-hmmmm; God, hmmmm-hmmmm!! Ohhh!!"

Thumping like crazy, you push your brinking load up towards the slight opening, wanting nothing but a fat, satisfying orgasm. You toss your head back, eyes shut and mouth wide and salivating when, as if on cue, your strong cock splurged and shot lines of semen into the toilet. Simultaneously, your craving cunt clinched and spasmed with it's own gushing scrumptiousness. The experience was almost too much for your lovely body to handle, as was always the case. An intense, twin orgasm was, of course, one of the other advantageous fruits of having the disease.

The two drives throbbed with sated pleasure. You slump against the resting lid of the porcelain seat. The high-strung sensory impression nestling itself deep in your loins slowly, very slowly dwindled to a flaccid after-taste.

You rub the last of your lust off your balls and roll off a handful of paper to dry yourself. This small interlude wasn't the most powerful of sexual exploits, but it offered content and that was the most you can hope to get from simple masturbation.

Though, with renewed vigor, you flush away your minute-made shame and exit the bathroom. With a glance at the clock, you quickly realize that you've wasted too much time, and that you needed to get your curvy, salacious tush moving! Running down the stairs, fumbling with your robe's ribbon, you dash into the kitchen to hurriedly start breakfast.

"Hurry up, Sasha!" you could here your son, Sam, shout. It was usual for your daughter to take an exceedingly long time in the water closet.

"I'm already done, you dick!" Sasha yelled back. She rushed downstairs and into the kitchen, taking a seat at the counter.

"Hon, don't be cursing so early. You just get ready for school," you told her, beating the eggs your scrambling as an old lady beats a mugger.

Sasha rolled her eyes and briskly tapped her painted fingertips against the tiled countertop. She was beautiful. Perhaps not as shapely and sexy as yourself, but, at 18, she was definitely a sweet little dish. Her face was narrow, with lean features; a waist of tiny proportions; legs to certainly envy; and pert, defined breasts not too terribly massive, but curved enough to want to kiss all day long...

"Mom! Stop looking at my boobs and cook!!"

You snap out of your thoughts, reddening a bit, and return to your task. Your daughter has always had a healthy relationship with her mother. Going off to cute boutiques, trying on clothes together in the same dressing room, comparing cup sizes. She was a 40B; you, a 44F. But Sasha had, not in all the time you've spent together, ever come close to discovering "little John". Neither of your children had. That was your little secret. Well... not SO little...

"Here you go, sweetie," you say, serving her food, a residue of blush still apparent on your pretty cheeks.

"Whatever," she replied, digging in.

Sam came in, comic in hand. Your son was a fine young man. At 22, he was grown to his full maturity. He was tall, even more so than you, yourself with an earnest amount of testosterone in your feminine balls. Sam wasn't the most "iron-crazy" as other guys, so his form was nice and slender. But that didn't mean a defined tone of muscle wasn't obvious on him, especially his arms, which were also well-haired.

"Still reading bubblegum anime, dork?" Sasha sneered.

Sam just ignored her.

"Sasha, don't tease your brother," you tell her, placing the other plate of eggs, bacon, and hash browns in front of your son.

"Thanks, Mom. I love your food."

"Aww, your welcome, baby," you reply.

...Well? You were complimented...