Mommy Learns to Goon
by Oldnfashioned
Copyright© 2026 by Oldnfashioned
Incest Sex Story: Discovering her fourteen year old daughter entranced by hypnotic porn, Rebecca sheds her maternal inhibitions to join the mindless, sticky loop of pleasure. The depravity is sealed when her husband walks in on the act, finding not a scandal, but two eager, brain-dead sluts waiting to be used.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Fa/ft Coercion Drunk/Drugged Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Sharing Slut Wife Wife Watching Incest Mother Father Daughter Humiliation Group Sex Analingus Cream Pie Exhibitionism Masturbation Oral Sex Voyeurism .
The house was silent, save for the hum of the dryer in the mudroom and the rhythmic, snoring rattle coming from the master bedroom. It was Friday night. At forty-six years old, my Friday nights consisted of folding towels while my husband, Dave, fell asleep in front of the History Channel by nine o’clock.
I dropped a stack of warm, white cotton onto the folding table and sighed. The sound seemed too loud in the empty kitchen. My reflection caught in the dark window above the sink, and I paused. It was the habitual, masochistic ritual I performed every evening.
I leaned in closer to the glass.
I was forty-six. I stood five-foot-five and weighed exactly one hundred and forty-two pounds as of this morning. I carried ten of those pounds in my hips and another five in my lower belly, the stubborn souvenirs of two pregnancies. I was wearing gray sweatpants and a loose t-shirt that said “Nantucket” on the front. I looked sensible. I looked maternal. I looked completely invisible.
My hair was pulled back in a messy bun, revealing the softening line of my jaw. I used to be beautiful. I used to be the kind of woman heads turned for. Now, I was just Rebecca. I was the woman who made sure the taxes were paid and the refrigerator was stocked. My body was a functional machine, kept in reasonable shape by Pilates twice a week, but it felt dormant. It had been months since Dave had touched me with anything resembling hunger. His hands were always gentle, always familiar, and completely devoid of heat.
I looked down at my chest. My breasts were still full, pushing against the fabric of my bra, but who saw them? No one. They were just anatomy.
I picked up the laundry basket, the plastic handle digging into my hip. I needed to drop off Morgan’s clean clothes. My daughter was fourteen and on summer break, supposedly looking for a part-time job, but I rarely saw her before noon. She spent her days in a hoodie and boyshorts, tapping away at her phone, and her nights shut inside her bedroom.
I walked down the hallway. The floorboards creaked under my bare feet. The house felt heavy with sleep, beige and suffocating.
When I reached Morgan’s door, I frowned.
A strange, erratic light flickered from the crack beneath the wood. It pulsed blue, then pink, then strobing white. And there was a sound. It was low and repetitive, like a heartbeat or a synthesized thrum of heavy bass.
I hesitated. My grip tightened on the laundry basket.
“Morgan?” I called out softly.
There was no answer. Just that persistent, rhythmic thumping beat.
I pushed the door open.
The smell hit me first. It was thick and humid, a cloying mixture of strawberry vape smoke, stale air, and the unmistakable, sharp scent of female musk. It smelled like a locker room masked by cheap perfume. It smelled like sex.
I stepped inside, and the laundry basket slipped from my fingers to the carpet. I didn’t even hear it land.
The room was dark, the blackout curtains drawn tight against the world outside. The only illumination came from the desk in the corner, where three curved monitors formed a glowing altar. The light was blindingly bright, shifting rapidly between neon colors that left tracers in my vision.
Morgan was sitting in her expensive ergonomic gaming chair. She was leaned back, her legs spread wide, her heels dug into the edge of the seat. She was wearing a pair of tiny, white cotton panties and an oversized t-shirt that had been pulled up and bunched around her neck.
She was completely exposed.
“Morgan,” I whispered, but the word died in my throat.
She didn’t hear me. She was wearing large, noise-canceling headphones, the earcups glowing with RGB lights. But it wasn’t the technology that froze me in place. It was her face.
My intelligent, sharp-witted daughter looked lobotomized.
Her head was lolled back against the headrest. Her mouth was hanging open, slack and loose. A thin, glistening string of saliva dripped from her bottom lip, trailing down her chin to pool in the hollow of her collarbone. Her eyes were glazed over, glassy and unblinking, fixed on the center screen with a terrifying intensity. She looked drugged. She looked brain-dead.
And her hand was moving.
Her right hand was shoved deep into her panties, the fabric strained to the breaking point. Her wrist moved in a frantic, blurring rhythm. The sound of wet friction was audible even over the thrumming negligence of the bass leaking from her headphones. Squelch. Smack. Squelch.
I stood there, paralyzed. My motherly instinct screamed at me to leave, to close the door, to pretend I had never seen this. This was private. This was a violation.
But I didn’t leave. I took a step closer.
The light from the monitors washed over me, cold and artificial. I looked past my masturbating daughter to see what had her so enslaved.
It wasn’t normal pornography. It was an assault on the senses.
The three screens were playing different loops, but they were all synchronized to the same punishing beat. On the left, a loop of a woman’s ass shaking violently in extreme close-up. On the right, disjointed clips of anime characters with oversized eyes and exaggerated bodies.
But the center screen was the anchor.
It was a kaleidoscope of flashing text and hardcore penetration. Words rapidly flashed over the images, too fast to read at first, acting like subliminal commands.
STROKE.
EMPTY.
BRAINLESS.
GOON.
The video cut to a shot of a cock ramming into a throat, then flashed back to spirals. DROOL FOR IT. Then a woman riding a dildo. DUMB BITCH. Then a pair of eyes looking directly at the camera. SURRENDER.
I felt a strange, heavy warmth settle low in my stomach. It was a physical reaction that bypassed my brain entirely. My heart hammered, not from fear, but from a sudden, spike of adrenaline.
I looked back at Morgan. She let out a low, guttural moan, a sound void of any humanity. It was just an animal noise of need. Her hips bucked up off the chair, grinding her clit harder against the heel of her hand.
“Morgan,” I said, louder this time.
She didn’t flinch. She was gone. She was trapped in the loop.
I walked until I was standing right beside her chair. The air here was hotter, radiating from the electronics and her own overheating body. I could see the sheen of sweat on her forehead. I could see the goosebumps on her thighs.
I looked down at her crotch. The white cotton of her panties was soaked through, translucent with fluid. The dark shadow of her shaved slit was visible beneath the wet fabric. My daughter. My baby. Touching herself with a violence that frightened me.
I should have reached out and pulled the headphones off. I should have shaken her shoulder and demanded she stop.
Instead, I looked at the screen again.
JUST A HOLE.
NO THOUGHTS.
ONLY PLEASURE.
The text was hypnotic. The way it pulsed in time with the music leaking from the headphones made my own pulse sync up with it. Thump. Thump. Thump.
My nipples brushed against the fabric of my bra. They were hard. Painfully hard. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hide the reaction from no one, but the friction only made it worse.
The image on the screen changed to a woman who looked a little like me. Older. Milfy. She was on her knees, drooling, her eyes crossed. The text underneath her flashed: MOMMY WANTS TO BE DUMB TOO.
I stared at it. The font was jagged, neon pink.
My breath hitched. My hands, which had been clenched into fists, slowly relaxed. I felt wetness bloom between my legs, sudden and undeniable. It was a betrayal of everything I thought I was. I was a part-time librarian. I was a wife. I was a mother.
But the heat spreading through my groin didn’t care about any of that.
I looked at Morgan’s face again. The drool was still dripping. There was no intelligence behind her eyes, only a vast, empty craving. She looked so peaceful. She looked so free. She didn’t have to worry about the mortgage. She wasn’t thinking about her career. She was just a body receiving pleasure.
A wave of jealousy hit me so hard it almost knocked the wind out of me.
I wanted that. God help me, looking at her slack-jawed expression, I wanted to be that empty.
Morgan’s hand sped up. The squelching sound became frantic. She was close. Her head thrashed from side to side, her ponytail whipping against the leather headrest.
“Fff ... guhh...” she babbled, the words slurring into nonsense.
I found myself leaning in. The blue light illuminated my own shirt, making the white lettering of “Nantucket” glow eerily. I felt like an intruder from a boring planet who had crash-landed in this neon hellscape.
On the screen, a countdown appeared. 3... 2... 1...
The beat dropped into a chaotic, distorted grind.
Morgan arched her back so hard her spine popped off the chair. Her hand froze, pressing flat and hard against her mons, and she screamed into the silence of her room. It was a muffled, choked sound, stifled by the pleasure seizing her body. Her legs shook uncontrollably, her knees knocking together.
I watched her climax. I watched the way her toes curled. I watched the way her abdominal muscles rippled.
I bit my lip so hard I tasted iron. I was throbbing. I was so aroused that my knees felt weak.
The video on the screen faded to black, leaving only a spinning spiral and the word RELAX in soft blue letters.
Morgan slumped back into the chair. Her chest heaved. Her hand slid off her crotch and fell limply to her side. She didn’t pull her pants up. She didn’t wipe her face. She just sat there, gasping, staring at the spiral.
I waited for the shame to hit her. I waited for her to notice me standing two feet away, to pull her headphones off and scream, to cover herself.
But she didn’t move. She didn’t blink.
Slowly, terrifyingly, she turned her head.
Her eyes were still glassy, unfocused, blown wide by dopamine. She looked at me. She looked right at my face, then down to my chest, then lower, to the crotch of my sweatpants.
For a second, I thought the spell was broken.
Then, Morgan smiled.
It wasn’t a daughter’s smile. It was a lopsided, drunk, conspiracy grin. It was the smile of someone who knows a dirty secret.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t apologize. She simply reached out with her free hand, the one that wasn’t covered in her own fluids, and tapped the empty space on the desk beside her.
Interpretation: Look.
I froze.
My internal monologue was screaming. Run. Go to your bedroom. Wake up Dave.
But my feet didn’t move. My eyes drifted back to the screens. The next video was queuing up. The title text was already visible. HYPNO TRAINER: BAD MOMS EDITION.
Morgan tapped the desk again. Harder this time. A command.
The air in the room felt electric, charged with a potential energy that terrified me. The smell of her orgasm was thick in the air, earthy and pungent.
I took a breath. It tasted like vanilla vape and filth.
“Morgan,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “What is this?”
She didn’t answer with words. She just moved her hand from the desk to the split cable coming from the PC tower. There was a second pair of headphones resting on the desktop. They were black, bulky, and waiting.
She pushed them toward me.
The cursor on the screen hovered over the ‘Play’ button.
I looked at the headphones. I looked at the wet patch on her panties. I looked at my own reflection in the dark bezel of the monitor—a tired, gray woman standing on the precipice.
I knew I should turn around. I knew that if I put those headphones on, I wasn’t just checking on my daughter. I was crossing a line that could never be uncrossed.
But the silence of the rest of the house felt like a coffin. And in here, in the blue light, everything was so loud. Everything was so alive.
My hand moved. It wasn’t my decision. It was my body, starving and treacherous, reaching out.
My fingers brushed the cool plastic of the headphones.
Morgan made a small, soft sound of approval. A coo. Like I was the child and she was the one teaching me.
“Just watch, Mommy,” she murmured, her voice husky and wrecked. “It makes the thinking stop.”
I lifted the headphones. The foam earcups were warm.
I put them on.
The silence of the room vanished, replaced instantly by a deep, resonant thrum that seemed to vibrate inside my skull. A voice, synthesized and deep, whispered directly into my ears.
Welcome back, subject.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, my eyes locked on the screen. The video began to play. And for the first time in twenty years, I wasn’t bored.
The sound was not just a noise. It was an invasion.
As soon as the cushioned headphones sealed around my ears, the domestic silence of the house vanished. It was replaced by a deep, undulating bass tone that seemed to vibrate directly against my skull. It wasn’t music in the traditional sense. It was a rhythmic, synthesized pulse. Thum-thum. Thum-thum. It sounded like a massive, artificial heart beating inside a cavern.
Over the beat, a layer of white noise hissed like static rain. And buried within that static was a voice.
It was male. It was processed and deepened until it sounded mechanical.
Relax, Mommy. Thinking is hard. Being smart is tiring.
My hands gripped the edge of Morgan’s bedspread. The duvet cover was cheap polyester, scratchy against my palms. I tried to anchor myself to that sensation. I tried to remember that I was Rebecca. I was a mother. I was a wife.
But the voice was persistent.
Let the screen do the thinking. You are just a body. You are just warm meat.
I sat on the edge of the twin bed, my knees pressed together in my gray sweatpants. I stared at the central monitor. The video had started.
It was a montage. A barrage of images that flashed with seizure-inducing speed. It showed women like me. Women with softer stomachs. Women with wedding rings. Women clearly in their forties. But they weren’t folding laundry. They weren’t making dinner.
They were on their knees. They were wearing leather collars. They were looking up at the camera with vacant, glazed expressions while faceless men used their mouths.
I gasped. The sound was swallowed by the room’s thick atmosphere.
The text flashed over their faces in neon pink block letters.
USED.
WIFE.
MATTRESS.
I should have ripped the headphones off. Every moral fiber in my body screamed that this was poison. I was sitting in my daughter’s bedroom, engaging in ... this. It was perverse. It was incestuous by proximity alone.
But I didn’t move.
My eyes felt dry. I realized I hadn’t blinked in thirty seconds.
The bass in the headphones swelled. The rhythm synced perfectly with the strobing light on the screen. Flash. Flash. Flash.
Morgan was still in her chair, swiveled slightly so she could see both her screens and me. She wasn’t looking at the video anymore. She was looking at me.
Her face was still slack, her mouth slightly open. The trail of saliva on her chin had dried, but her lips were wet and swollen. She looked like she was in a trance state, hovering somewhere between consciousness and a coma.
She nodded at me. It was a slow, heavy movement. A drug addict recognizing another user.
She tapped her own chest.
I frowned, confused.
Morgan tapped her own breast again, harder. Her hand was cupped, her fingers digging into the oversized t-shirt she wore.
I looked back at the screen. The text had changed.
DO AS YOU ARE TOLD.
GOOD MOTHERS OBEY.
TOUCH.
My heart slammed against my ribs. The command was simple. It was juvenile. It was something a teenager would write to be edgy.
But the voice in my ear whispered, Your tits are heavy, aren’t they? Useless fat. Just for playing.
My breath hitched. My hands were shaking where they gripped the bed sheet. I was wearing my sensible cotton bra under my Nantucket t-shirt. I felt encased in layers of propriety.
But underneath those layers, my body was betraying me. My nipples were aching. It was a sharp, distinct pain that radiated through the soft tissue of my breasts. It was a desperate need for friction.
I looked at Morgan. She was watching me with those dead, glassy eyes. She looked expectant.
The shame was a hot flush that crawled up my neck. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t masturbate in front of my daughter.
Then the beat dropped.
It was a shattering, distorted bass sound that made my teeth vibrate. On the screen, the image shifted to a hypnotic spiral of black and white, spinning relentlessly inward.
Don’t think, the voice commanded. Just do.
My right hand lifted from the bed. It moved through the air like it was moving through water. I watched it as if it belonged to someone else. I watched my own manicured fingers, the nails kept short and practical for library work, tremble as they approached my chest.
I pressed my palm against my left breast.
The sensation was electric. Even through the thick cotton of the t-shirt and the structure of the bra, the heat of my own skin shocked me. I squeezed.
A low moan escaped my throat. I heard it faintly through the noise-canceling foam, distant and pathetic.
The spiral on the screen spun faster.
YES.
SLUTTY MOMMY.
SQUEEZE.
I squeezed harder. My thumb brushed over the hard nub of my nipple through the fabric. A jolt of pleasure shot straight down to my groin, pooling in the gusset of my cotton panties. I was soaking wet. I was wetter than I had been in ten years.
I looked at the screen, desperate for validation, desperate for someone to tell me this was okay.
The video cut to a shot of a woman’s hands kneading her own breasts. She looked like me. She had the same sun-spots on her cleavage. She had the same slight sag. But she looked ecstatic. Her eyes were rolled back in her head.
See? the voice whispered. This is what you are for.
I brought my other hand up. I abandoned the bedspread. I abandoned my dignity.
I grabbed both of my breasts, digging my fingers into the soft flesh. I kneaded them. I massaged them. I treated them like stress balls. I wanted to feel something other than numbness. I wanted to feel used.
Morgan made a sound. It was a wet, sticky noise.
I flicked my eyes toward her, terrified she was judging me.
She wasn’t.
She had pushed her own t-shirt up. God she was perfect. At fourteen, she was just starting to fill out. Her small, perky breasts were exposed to the cool air of the room. Her nipples were pale pink and piercingly hard. She was copying me. She was squeezing her own tits, her fingers moving in the same desperate rhythm as mine.
We were mirrored. The mother and the daughter. The fading woman and the blooming girl. Two female animals in a dark room, worshipping a glowing screen.
The image on the monitor changed again. It showed a closeup of a mouth. Deep red lipstick. The lips parted.
OPEN YOUR MOUTH.
LET THE DROOL COME.
BE EMPTY.
My jaw felt tight. I had spent forty-six years keeping my mouth shut, keeping my opinions quiet, keeping my dissatisfaction hidden behind a polite smile.
Let it go, the voice urged. Let your jaw hang. Be a doll.
I relaxed the muscles in my face. My jaw unhinged. My mouth fell open.
The air in the room tasted metallic and sweet. I breathed through my mouth, panting slightly. I felt stupid. I felt absolutely idiotic.
The text flashed: GOOD GIRL.
A wave of dopamine hit my brain so hard I almost tipped over. The praise. The simple, undeserved praise. It washed over the guilt and drowned it. I wasn’t Rebecca the Librarian anymore. I wasn’t the wife who folded towels. I was a Good Girl.
I watched Morgan. She was way ahead of me. She was fully gooned out. Her head was rolling on her neck, her tongue pressing against her cheek. She looked vacant.
The jealousy flared again. I wanted to be that deep. I wanted to be where she was.
I pulled at the hem of my shirt. I needed more friction. The fabric was in the way.
I shimmied the t-shirt up. It bunched around my armpits. I looked down at my own torso. My stomach was pale in the blue light, the stretch marks from carrying Morgan shining like silver scars. My bra was white and boring.
But my skin was flushed pink. My chest was heaving.
I slipped my straps down. I unhooked the clasp at the back. It was awkward. I fumbled. But the video waited for me. The beat kept thumping, holding me in the rhythm.
I pulled the bra away and let it drop to the floor.
My breasts swung free. They were heavier than Morgan’s, swayed by gravity. I felt exposed. I felt vulnerable.
I looked at the screen.
UDDERS.
MILKERS.
PLAY WITH THEM.
The crude words should have insulted me. Instead, they made my clit throb. They reduced me to anatomy. Udders. Just things to be pulled and sucked and milked.
I grabbed my bare breasts. Skin on skin. It was overwhelming. The sensitivity was almost painful. I pinched my own nipples, hard, twisting them.
“Oh god,” I whimpered.
The video switched gears. The tempo increased. The images became more aggressive. Hard fucking. Rough hands grabbing ass cheeks.
LOOK AT YOUR PUSSY.
IS IT WET?
CHECK IT.
I couldn’t help it. I spread my legs wider. The sweatpants were stifling. I could feel the dampness clinging to my inner thighs.
Morgan shifted in her chair. The leather creaked loudly.
She spun the chair around fully so she was facing me. Her knees were apart. She wasn’t hiding anything. She reached down to the floor, her hand groping blindly in the dark near the PC tower.
She came up with a bottle. Industrial size lotion.
She tossed it to me.
I caught it instinctively, though my coordination felt sluggish. The bottle was heavy. It was warm from being near the computer exhaust.
Morgan didn’t speak. She just pointed at my pants.
Her expression was blank, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. It was the mentorship of the corrupted. She was guiding me down the ladder, rung by rung.
I squeezed a dollop of lotion onto my palm. It was cold and slimy.
I slid my hand down into the waistband of my sweatpants.
The elastic snapped against my hip. I pushed past the cotton of my panties.
I touched myself.
The sound that left my throat was a broken sob. I was so swollen. I was dripping. My fingers slid effortlessly through the slick folds of my labia. It felt decadent. It felt filthy.
I found my clit. It was hard, protruding, begging for attention.
I started to rub.
The rhythm in the headphones dictated my speed. Circle. Circle. Circle.
I looked up. I had to see.
Morgan was watching me. She was watching her mother masturbate.
And she was smiling again. That same loopy, drugged smile.
She reached for her mouse. She clicked something.
The central screen changed. The “Bad Moms” video minimized, moving to the side. A new window opened.
It was a camera feed.
I blinked, trying to clear the haze from my vision. It was a webcam view. It was grainy and high-contrast night vision.
It showed a bedroom. A messy room. A girl in a chair. A woman on a bed.
It was us.
I was watching myself on the screen. I saw the curve of my back. I saw my hair falling out of its bun. I saw my hand working furiously inside my gray sweatpants.
I looked small on the screen. I looked like an object.
Realization washed over me, cold and sharp. I am content.
I was watching myself become pornography.
Instead of stopping, my hips bucked. I ground down onto my hand, harder. The visual of myself, degraded, exposed, reduced to a masturbating loop, was the hottest thing I had ever seen.
“Look at the mommy,” Morgan mumbled. Her voice was right there in the room, but it also seemed to come from the headphones, blending with the synthetic narrator.
“Look at her goon,” she whispered.
My head fell back. My eyes fixed on the ceiling, but all I could see was the blue afterimage of the screen. My brain felt like it was dissolving into static. The grocery list was gone. The library was gone. Dave was gone.
There was only the beat. There was only the wet squelching sound of my own hand. There was only the voice telling me I was a good, empty slut.
I was falling. And I didn’t want to catch myself. I wanted to hit the bottom.
Morgan stood up.
I sensed the movement rather than saw it. The shadow of her crossed the blue light.
She didn’t walk away. She walked toward me.
She stood between my spread legs. I could smell her musk, potent and pheromonal, overpowering the vanilla vape scent.
I stopped moving my hand for a second, my eyes snapping open.
Morgan was standing over me. She looked down at my exposed chest, at my hand buried in my pants.
She didn’t say a word. She just slowly, deliberately, knelt down on the carpet between my knees.
The screen flickered behind her, framing her silhouette in a halo of neon pink text.
WORSHIP.
Morgan looked up at me. Her pupils were blown so wide her eyes looked black. She leaned forward, and her hands landed on my thighs. Her fingers were hot.
“Mommy,” she slurred. “You look so dumb.”
It was a compliment. It was the highest praise she could give.
She leaned in closer, until her face was inches from my chest. I could feel her hot breath ghosting over my sensitized skin.
The boundary was gone. The mother was dead. There was only the flesh.
I didn’t pull away. I opened my legs wider.
The bass in my ears was a physical weight. Thum-thum. Thum-thum. It was the only thing holding the world together. If the beat stopped I knew my brain would shatter under the weight of what was happening.
Morgan was on her knees between my spread legs. My daughter. The girl I had driven to soccer practice. The girl whose skinned knees I had bandaged.
Now she looked like a predator.
Her eyes were black holes. The blue light from the monitors washed over her reflecting in the wet sheen of her open mouth. She placed her hands on my thighs. Her fingers dug into the soft yielding flesh of my upper legs. I flinched not from pain but from the electric shock of her heat.
“Dumb Mommy,” she whispered again.
The words should have cut me. They should have made me slap her face and storm out of the room. But the hypno-track in the headphones had rewired my circuitry. The insult didn’t hit my pride. It hit my clit. It told me I didn’t have to be responsible anymore. I didn’t have to be the smart capable Rebecca. I could just be this. I could be dumb.
I let my head fall back further my neck unable to support the weight of my own skull. The ceiling fan spun in a blurry circle above me.
Morgan leaned forward.
I felt her wet hot breath on my stomach first right above the waistband of my ruined sweatpants. Then she moved higher.
She didn’t ask for permission. She simply took what she wanted.
Her mouth latched onto my right breast.
A gasp tore out of my throat harsh and ragged. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was suction. It was a hungry desperate claim. Her lips sealed around my areola dragging the nipple deep into the wet cavern of her mouth. Her tongue swirled hard and abrasive against the sensitive nub.
I looked down. The visual broke me.
I saw the top of her head, her messy hair splayed over my pale chest. I saw her cheek hollow out as she sucked. She was nursing. But it wasn’t the innocent feeding of an infant. This was sexual consumption. She was treating my breast like a toy, like a piece of meat to be used for her own gratification.
USE HER.
DRAIN THE COW.
EMPTY UDDER.
The text flashed on the screen behind her head. I read it and my hips bucked involuntarily off the mattress.
“Yes,” I hissed. The word felt foreign on my tongue. “Use it.”
Morgan groaned against my skin. The vibration of her voice traveled straight through my breast tissue zapping my nerves. She bit down lightly.
The pain was sharp and exquisite. It cut through the numbness of the trance.
She pulled back with a wet audible pop. Her chin was glistening with my sweat and her own saliva. She looked up at me with those vacant drug-addict eyes.
“Tastes like old milk,” she slurred. “Tastes like Mommy.”
My stomach flipped. It was a vile thing to say. It was degrading.
I wanted her to say it again.
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