Gooners
Copyright© 2025 by devd
Chapter 2
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Siddu was an A1 pervert. However, never in his wildest dream did he expect him to be a product of his mother. When he caught his mother masturbating to hot pop songs, it was the opening he needed to slip into her panties. What follows is a slow patient effort by Siddu to turn his mother from an innocent naive housewife to a slave of porn and all things sex.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Cuckold Slut Wife Incest Mother Son Gang Bang Harem Polygamy/Polyamory Indian Male Indian Female Masturbation Oral Sex Big Breasts
The slam of her bedroom door echoed through the house, a sharp punctuation mark to the bizarre symphony we had just created. The pop music on the TV suddenly seemed too loud, too cheerful. I stood there for a moment, the wide grin on my face slowly melting away, replaced by a gnawing emptiness. My cock was still hard, a demanding physical presence that refused to acknowledge the sudden emotional vacuum.
“Ma!” I called out again, my voice softer this time. I walked towards her room, my bare feet silent on the cool floor. I tried the handle. It was locked. Of course, it was locked. I jiggled it, a useless, frustrated motion. “Ma, open the door. Please?”
Silence. The only answer was the thumping bass of another terrible song leaking from the television. I knocked, my knuckles rapping against the wood. “Maa? Are you okay?” My irritation was flaring up again, mixing with a strange, unfamiliar worry. Why wasn’t she answering? Was she crying? Was she disgusted with me? With herself?
A full minute passed. I was about to knock again, harder this time, when a small, muffled voice came from behind the door. “I’m fine.”
Just two words. Flat. Devoid of any emotion. It wasn’t convincing. It was the kind of “fine” people said when they were anything but. But it was an answer. It meant she wasn’t hurt, at least not physically. I leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the door, my own breathing ragged. The adrenaline was still coursing through me, but now it felt different. It was no longer just excitement; it was a restless, caged energy.
I sighed and pushed myself off the door. Fine. If she wanted to hide, let her. I turned and walked back to the living room, my eyes landing on the sofa where it had all happened. A faint scent of her perfume, mixed with something else ... something musky and primal, still hung in the air. My cock twitched in my pants, reminding me of its unfulfilled purpose.
I dropped onto the sofa, right in the spot where she had been. The cushions were still warm. The TV was still blasting inane pop music. With a grunt of annoyance, I grabbed the remote and started flipping through channels. I wasn’t looking for a show. I was looking for something else. Something more honest than what had just happened. And then I found it. A channel, grainy and poorly lit, showing exactly what I needed to see.
A woman was on her knees, her head thrown back in ecstasy as a man stood behind her, his hands gripping her hips. This was real. This was what the music videos only hinted at. Without a second thought, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my joggers and underwear, pulling them down in one fluid motion. My nine-inch cock sprang free, slapping against my stomach with a dull thud. It was angry, thick, and the head was already glistening with precum. I wrapped my hand around the base, the skin hot and tight. I was so hard it almost hurt.
I began to stroke, slowly at first, my eyes glued to the screen. But the woman on TV was a stranger. Her plastic moans and exaggerated movements did nothing for me. My mind, a traitor to my intentions, immediately drifted back to the living room, to the real show I had just witnessed.
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