Mmmm.
Watching her laugh with her children shouldn’t have made me this hard, but it did. Every shake of her breasts as she leaned forward, every sway of her hips under that too-tight skirt, rewired my body until lust felt like oxygen.
God. . .this is torture. I should be fucking her right now.
My thoughts veered darker, filthier.
I wondered if she had breastfed Oliver and J.
Of course she had—Teyonah was disciplined, all about health, always choosing what was best for her body. Breast milk was the best milk. And God help me, the image of her breasts swollen and aching with milk made me grip my cock through my slacks and squeeze until my hand shook.
My body hummed with deranged lust. “Mmm.”
It wasn’t the past act itself—it was what it revealed. Those perfect breasts had once been sustenance, sacred, holy. And all I could think about was desecrating that holiness, dragging it into sin.
I pictured those big breasts swollen and aching, skin stretched taut, nipples dark and wet—not for children this time, but for me alone. In my head I diagnosed every detail: engorgement, ducts heavy, areolas darker with imagined strain.
The clinical terms only made it filthier.
My mouth watered like I was starving, my cock jerking as I pictured myself latching on, draining her until she moaned with relief that had nothing to do with medicine.
Sucking hard.
Greedy.
Desperate.
Sweet milk on my tongue.
Her fingers in my hair as moans tore from her throat.
My hand on my cock jacking off while she fed me.
Pure possession.
Pure filth.
And I wanted that moment more than air.
So thirsty, I gripped my cock hard through my slacks, squeezing until my hand shook. I should have stopped. I should have recoiled from the sickness of wanting her motherhood transformed into my sin.
But the shame was fuel and only made me harder.
No girl my age could undo me like this.
They chased quick highs and were too inexperienced.
At twenty-five I was all cock-hunger and full-stamina; at thirty-nine she was all control and experience. My youth wanted lessons only her body could give. She wasn’t just a woman to me—she was the kind of forbidden syllabus my cock ached to fail again and again.
Every line of her full-figured body promised a masterclass no girl my age could dream of giving. My cock didn’t want practice—it wanted her final exam.
A bead of condensation slid down the glass, and I smeared it with my other palm like I was wiping sweat off her skin.
My cock jerked in my hand, straining so hard I ground against my palm—just once, just enough to feel the pressure spike. The rub left me panting against the window, breath fogging the glass more.
God, had her kids not been there. . .
I trembled in lust.
