You can't help it, you want your mother.

Your mother gets up to leave. Smoothing her dress out she turns to go.

As she walks out, you can hear her heels on the hardwood floor. Each step is jarring, she is walking remarkably slowly. Her summer dress sways back and forth, useless at hiding the top of her stockings.

She turns back to look at you, a teasing look in her eye.

Why does she do this to you? Your cock is stiff in your pants. How many times must this happen?

You have a vague recollection. Your father had been gone for a week, and your mother had evidently grown very horny in his absence. She had taken your sister heels shopping three times that week, a sure sign of sexual desperation. She had teased you relentlessly that week, caressing your hand, fixing your hair, and doing this god-damn slow walking thing.

Embarrassingly, in response you had face fucked a woman on the street outside your mother's window every morning that week. It was all you could do to keep from giving in to the urges.

You so wished to know how it felt. She had prestigious talents apparently. You had seen the way that she had deep-throated other men. But it was forbidden fruit.

You had worked so hard not to do it, that easy little thing that made women so pliable. That half-aggressive, reassuring touch that said, "Your mouth is mine until I am satisfied."

You had done it once to her, returning from a night of drinking, horny and confident. Finding your mother awake in the kitchen with her back turned, you had reached out and grabbed her hair. It was a gesture of dominance that demanded submission.

She had looked at you half alarmed, half ready to give in. Her mouth already parted. But all you had done was put your finger in her mouth.

You regretted it now, as she walked away from you. You should have satisfied yourself down her throat. Left her on the floor of the kitchen.