somerealnerd

  “John, you’ve been… buried down there… don’t you feel a bit tired?” Dorothy rasped, covered her eyes using her own hands, as still feeling so shy about all this. She sprawled across John's p, chest heaving. Her two nipples mashed hard together by his grip, both stuffed in his mouth together. He’s sucking like a fiend, wild and sloppy. That itchy, sweet buzz had her head spinning, lost in it.

  He didn’t answer, just kept at it, lips locked, tongue flicking. She felt his hands tighten, cwing her breast like he’d drain her milk dry. What’s worse, or probably hotter, her back pressed against his rock-hard penis. It's jabbing her spine. She felt as if he could hoist her whole damn body up with this erection. Back in the bathroom, when she first saw it, she’d thought, John’s not a log, is he? One look at those eyes, starved, pinned on her tits, and she didn’t even need to ask anymore. No way this kid was just a happy log.

  It’d all crashed together too fast, too smooth. Her brain screamed stop, this is wrong, he’s your son’s age. What you’re doing is so shameful. But deep inside? She’s humming for his next move.

  He’s just missing his mom, right? She clung to that thought, knowing his real mom ditched him when he’s little.

  “My back… it’s… getting jabbed by your… your…” she panted, squirming.

  John didn’t lift his head. He's still sucking, licking, slurping, drowning in her milk rush. He mumbled wet against her, “Whose back?”

  Her brain damn near blew. This kid that hooked on this Mommy thing? What—did he pull this with my sister at home? A mess of feelings spiked. Part of her ughed at the wild thought, but the other part burned green. Catherine—that bitch had it all.

  “John, this pose, my lower back… Mommy’s lower back’s sore!” Dorothy finally cracked, hollering “Mommy” loud, giving in to his teasing, while caving to her own gnawing ache to be a Mommy again.

  John paused. His head finally lifted, his eyes gzed, half-tranced. This was hitting him hard too. He couldn't think of anything else, just craving to dive back into her chest, guzzle more of her feeding.

  But Dorothy sat up, catching his dazed, love-drunk stare, and something soft inside her twitched. She felt prized, damn near worshipped, as a mother and a woman, all of it smming together.

  She itched to sling her arms around his neck, and pnt a long, wet kiss, to keep him drowning in that horny dream a little longer. But a mom kissing her kid like that? She choked it back, opting instead to run her fingers gentle through his hair—pure, doting mom vibes. Gently, she guided his head down to her thick thighs, letting him sink against them as she stretched out ft on the couch. Those massive tits drooped just a touch, grazing his nose. His whole view blocked by those two heavy jugs, nothing but a sliver of her face peeking through the deep groove between. He shifted, cheek brushing her soft, slightly puffed belly, feeling all cozy as hell. John turned full into it, arms cmping tight around her waist, face buried, sniffing deep, kissing sloppy and wild.

  His fresh-shaved stubble scratched her skin—ticklish, needy—paired with those greedy sucks and huffs, like he’d die if she yanked him off. It cranked that prized, worshipped buzz in her chest louder. That belly had always been her sore spot. Her husband’s old scowls and his “this too big, lose some weight” jabs echoing. She hesitated a bit, and then asked him. “Johnny, you… you like my… my little belly?”

  He kept huffing, kissing—mumbling quick between smacks. “Belly—mwah—smells great—mwah—soft, so comfy.” This sounded to her? It's even beyond his raw, bursting lust. He’s a kid begging for Mommy’s p, my p—pure spoiled brat vibes. Her heart smmed, those breasts he’d nearly drained swelling up again, tight and hot. Cheeks burning, she couldn’t cage the craving cwing loose inside.

  “You… whose belly you talking about?” she whispered, voice shaky.

  That question smmed John’s brain like a brick—he knew his aunt was all in now, and a wicked rush ripped through him. “Mommy’s! Mommy’s belly,” he growled, mouth still smacking her skin, his nose grinding in, chasing every whiff of her scent.

  Dorothy couldn't take it anymore. She needed to give her baby boy John some love, some milk, a good feed. Shoving his face off her belly, she squared him up, snatched one breast, and jabbed it at his face, blind, fumbling for his mouth, as she couldn't see his face because of those huge tits. She rubbed it over his cheeks, smearing, hunting for his lips. She’s squeezing so hard her milk sprayed wild, spshing him full-on. John’s thirst hit a new fever. He lunged into the milk jet, mouth gaping like he’d swallow her whole breast, tching on fierce. Her big pink areo got sucked in too. His tongue shing, gulping nonstop, he's enjoying every drop, and every inch of her nipple. One hand cwed her other breast, crushing it—milk bsting out, spttering everywhere.

  Dorothy quit fighting it. Her moans tore loose, loud and raw. “Ah—ahh, John—good boy, suck Mommy’s milk dry—Mommy’s bursting!”

  John barely registered her. He's drowning in it, the weight of her tits smashing his face, sucking and swallowing till his lungs burned. Her scent, her taste—he was half-choking, nose snorting her tits like a junkie. His cock screamed. It's been trapped too long. He yanked it free with that dripping, milk-soaked hand, started stroking fast. His precum gushed, mixing with her milk, a sticky, milky mess pooling quick.

  Dorothy caught it. That feeling of shame exploded again, but her thrill wouldn’t quit. Her breasts kept pouring milk, unstoppable, matching his flood.

  Then she swatted John’s hand off his cock mid-stroke. “Naughty kid. Did Mommy say you can py with yourself? I’m feeding you Mommy's milk, and you’re trying to get off solo? Mommy’s just supposed to watch and twiddle her thumbs?” She didn’t hesitate at all, grabbed his rock-hard cock firm. Shame crashed her brain again, a tidal wave—but right behind it, a bigger, dirtier thrill. The more wrong it felt facing her today's son, John, the harder the rush hit. Her mind and body were screaming yes.

  Her hand slid slow, working it. His cock was already slick as hell, like gripping a fat, slippery rod, gleaming with milky slicks under the light. She focused hard, pumping steady, while her other hand dug into her tits, kneading rough, making the one in John’s mouth bst milk faster, thicker, flooding him.

  For John? Sprawled on a MILF’s thighs, sucking and pping her tits while she gave him a handjob—jackpot. A MILF still pumping breastmilk, gushing straight into his throat while she kept the handjob going? Fucking grand prize. He shook, blissed out, trembling against her legs.

  Staring at him quivering there, Dorothy thought, I’m such a dirty slut, and felt it soak through, yers of clothes wet, seeping into the couch. Her ass squished on a damp patch. She knew she’d drenched it.

  Reason was gone completely for Dorothy, only her son’s ghost and a raging, burning lust twisting tight. That messy knot convinced her John—her son for today—was her release. She lifted that stroking hand, licked her palm slow—tonguing each finger, tasting his precum mixed with her own milk. Shameful—slutty as hell—savoring her own milk off his cock. The more she felt like a whore, the higher she flew.

  She’d been pent up too long, not just sex, her whole fucking life. Her husband’s “pin housewife,” her son’s “clumsy mom”, she’d toed the line, molded herself to their boxes. And they still left, both of them, intentionally or not. She needed this—craved it—and today, John’s eyes on her, his love and lust, that searing shame, was her way out.

  “John, baby. Do you think Mommy is a slut?” Dorothy purred, shame long torched, words spilling bold and brazen now.

  John froze though, his mouth stalling mid-suck, thrown off. She sounded sad again? Buried under her double peaks, he couldn’t catch her face. So he answered straight. “Course not, Mommy.”

  She didn’t like the answer, her voice sharpening. “My baby boy. Is Mommy a whore just for you?”

  That twisted his mind—something’s up. He bolted upright, locking eyes with her. And then, there it was: excitement, hunger, shame swirling in her stare. He got it now. He leaned in, breath tickling her ear. “Yeah… yeah, Mommy. Mommy’s a slut, my whore. So Mommy’s gotta milk her son’s cock dry, drain his balls, and swallow it all.”

  Her face flickered—shock, a flinch—but it melted fast into coy, buzzing glee. She slid down, crawling to his lower end of the couch, hovering low. John propped up on his elbows, staring. Her gaze met his, and she fshed a slutty grin he’d never seen.

  “Fine, you bad boy. Mommy’s gonna milk your cock.” She dove in—his cock swallowed whole, bobbing hard, wet and fast. His precum stench, mixed with her milk, hit thick together—pungent as hell, smming her brain. I’m sucking my son’s fat cock—the thought burned, shameful bliss frying her.

  No brakes, she kept his cock stuffed in her mouth, hips hiking high, yanking every stitch of pants off in one rip. Her massive ass bared. She's kneeling, ass up, legs spyed, her juice poured from her pussy, dripping steady onto the couch. Her one hand snaked down, her middle and ring fingers jamming straight into her vagina, no lube needed, slick as sin already. Her head pumped on him—slurp, slurp—suction loud, while her fingers drilled her own core—squelch, spt—wet flesh smacking. Her tits kept dripping too, milk plinking on the leather couch—drip, drip. All of this was a sloppy symphony, impossible to split whose noise ruled.

  After a wild stretch of pying, Dorothy started twitching, her mouth stilled on his cock. John clocked it—she’s close—and shot up fast. One hand pinned hers, pushing her fingers deeper, harder; the other snatched a breast, his mouth tching on, sucking like a starved animal. Her face twisted, eyes squeezed shut, lips parting, gasping sharp, “Ah—fuck—John—yes!” Her moans spiked, ragged and loud, hips bucking as the rush smmed her. Breastmilk sprayed wild from her chest, her pussy below pulsing—squelch, spt—juice flooding out, a hot, shuddering mess as she crashed into climax, yelling, “Mommy’s—ohh—coming!”

  But that peak? Barely a blip to her now. She yanked her dripping fingers out from her pussy, shoving them straight into John’s mouth.

  “Don’t just drink Mommy’s milk. Taste Mommy's honey too.” Then the sharp, musky whiff hit him. He sucked her fingers greedy, slurping every st drop of her pussy juice down his throat, tongue chasing it. “Mommy, that’s not enough. Gimme more,” he rasped, eyes glinting, still hungry.

  “Lie down, you dirty boy. Now drink straight from my source,” Dorothy growled, swinging a leg over John. She swallowed his cock whole again, then plopped her ass square on his face, shoving her pussy right into his mouth. She rocked her hips—forward, back—tongue swirling wild around his tip, hand pumping it up and down, relentless.

  George Carlin, the greatest standup comedian of all time, once said he liked being 70 years old, but not as much as 69. What a wise man. What he didn’t know though? Throw in a ctating MILF, and the fun of 69 tripled, like a damn 207.

  Dorothy’s milk kept dripping, then sprayed, spshing John’s belly, a milky flood. He grabbed both hands full, squeezing her areos, kneading her nipples hard, milk bursting nonstop, some jetting right onto his cock, others smacking her own face. Her nose and throat hummed—happy, guttural moans—never once breaking from his cock, slurp, slurp cranking louder, hand and head in lockstep.

  John filed under her wild grind, hands darting, squeezing her tits one sec, prying her cheeks wide the next, pinching them rough. He felt it building, his lust ready to eat him alive. His breastmilk-slick fingers dove into her pussy, scooping fast, coated in her slick, then one finger jammed straight into her asshole, deep. His mouth cmped her pussy full-on, tongue thrusting in, thrashing hard.

  “Aah—aahh, fuck! John, you dirty dog. You fingered Mommy’s ass!?” she screamed, then smmed two loud, fierce sucks. “Give Mommy your milk—now!”

  They reached their peaks, both at once, leaving the scene a total mess. John’s cum erupted, huge load, too much, spilling from her nose as she gagged. Same deal for him too. Her squirt gushed fast, too wild to catch with his mouth, now sliding down his cheeks, spraying his face. And those juicy tits up top? Still bsting milk. The whole room was a blur of flesh and milky white, the leather couch pooling a shallow milk ke.

  Dorothy slumped over John’s thighs, panting hard, her ass still pnted firm on his face. John was trying to catch his breath too, but his mind was already racing—how to push her further next round. He must have her today, everything she was, everything she had.

  Her hot exhales grazing his cock, her ass and pussy glinting with juice streaks, that thick MILF musk rolling off her, her soft belly and those massive, dripping tits pressed against his body, all of it fired him up again, his cock twitching back to life.

  “You… you can still do it?” Dorothy clocked it, peeling off him quick. This post-release shy creeping back, just a flicker.

  John wasn’t about to call it a day for sure. He’s gonna fuck her good and raw. He grinned wide, nodding. “Yes, Mommy!” But seeing her still reeling, he piled on, “More, Mommy… slutty Mommy!”

  Her face flushed, then cracked into a ugh. He had her pegged, like a brat working his Mommy with charm, seeing right through her. She shook her head, slipping back to that wicked grin. “So what’s your slutty Mommy doing this time? Suck you again, or…?” She hefted her big tits, squeezing—a few drops of milk leaking out slow.

  John gulped hard—her offer was gold. Picturing her giving him a titfuck while her breastmilk sprayed everywhere? His cock quaked just thinking it.

  But no, he was here to cheer her up. Once the fun was done, she would crawl back into her grief and sadness all over again. She had a void inside, a gaping hole. To save her, that hole must be filled up. And in John’s head nothing filled it better than filling her up, letting her pussy drip with cum, his healing potion for her.

  “How about… we make love, Mommy?” he tossed out, trying to see her reaction.

  But her face flipped, anger fshing. “What do you think this is, John? You really think I’m some whore? That was just a game, get it?”

  She then spun, stomping toward her clothes. “I’ve still got a husband, you know! This mess, what we have done, it’s payback enough for him. We can’t go any further. I’m not letting you go there. Get it?” Maybe she found her tone too cold, too hard, she then added softly, “But anything else would be fine!”

  John chewed it over. Anything else could mean her backdoor—a damn paradise detour—and he’d be thrilled, more than happy to take her virginity out of that tight little hole. But thing is, she’d treated him this good already today, so he couldn’t let her sink back into that grief pit again, just because he’s into anal fun too. He needed to get to her core, and pour his seeds into it—the only way to knock her grief off her head and put a smile back onto her face.

  “Your husband can’t give you a son, but I can, Auntie.”

  Hearing that, Dorothy stalled, caught. Yeah, the mother-son game with John was a damn bst today, but a game’s a game. She shoved the fun down hard.

  “John, listen—this is just our little pytime. I don’t mind if we keep it up—I’m into it—but…” She sighed, heavy. “You’re not my son.”

  John got it, exactly what he was worrying about. If he didn’t go all in today, she’d sink right back into that gloom when he wasn’t around, like that sigh just now.

  “I’m not saying pying your son. I mean I’ll give you another son, our son,” he said ft-out. Dorothy’s jaw dropped, shock painting her face, like she couldn’t process what just spilled from his mouth.

  He shrugged it off. “I’m serious. I’ll make you pregnant, and you’ll have my kid.” Then scratched his head, sheepish. “But while we are getting there? You’re still my Mommy.”

  Her face twitched, a subtle shift. She’d pitched that idea to her husband many times, but got shut down cold every single time. Her husband called her a “crazy bitch”.

  John caught the crack, and it’s time for the kill shot. “So… can I start using you now, my slutty whore Mommy?”

  That crude, filthy line hit her with a fresh wave of shame—hot and sharp—but right behind it, that wild craving fred back again. This kid was a devil, around him, she drowned in these shame games, hooked deep. And having another son with him while having their little fun? Too good and twisted to turn down. Having a son with, well, with my new son today? That’s so fucked up and shameful. And that’s all left echoing in her head.

  What came next wasn’t far off John’s earlier fantasy, except he was the one under her, panting like a damn dog. He’d underestimated her pent-up fire. Slumped on the couch, he fought to hold it together, to not blow it too quick, while Dorothy gave him zero sck. She squatted over him, smming her pussy down onto his cock hard, each drop a heavy thud, her big ass smacking his thighs, the whole couch sinking under it. Her tits kept spraying milk—wild jets—but he barely caught a glimpse. Every time he tried lifting his head for air, she’d shove it back into her chest, jamming at least one nipple into his mouth, feeding him more—she made sure she did.

  “Drink up, so you can work your Mommy all night long. Ahh—my baby boy—you promised Mommy a son!” She threw her head back, soaking in the day—reborn, alive.

  “Mommy’s gonna drain your filthy balls dry, not a drop left, till you pump a kid in Mommy. Mommy loves all this, cause Mommy’s a fucking slut.” She leaned in, arms looping his neck, whispering hot in his ear.

  “Mommy’s a free-use whore… just… for… you…”