Chapter 3

Lacey bustled around the kitchen, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. The afternoon sun slanted through the window, warming the worn linoleum as she stirred a pot of creamy mushroom risotto, the rich aroma mingling with the tang of roasted chicken cooling on the counter. At thirty-two, her curves filled out the tight pink sweater and denim skirt she’d chosen, her dirty blonde hair swept into a loose ponytail that swayed with each movement. She’d taken off work early, feigning a headache, but the truth was heavier: she needed to talk to Dane, to set things right after the sinful, shuddering ecstasy of the previous night. Her cheeks burned at the memory—his massive cock stretching her, his cruel words igniting her shame-soaked orgasms. It was wrong, so wrong, and it couldn’t happen again.

She set the table with care, arranging the mismatched plates and lighting a single candle, its flicker casting soft shadows. The effort felt domestic, almost wifely, and a treacherous thrill sparked in her core at the thought of pleasing Dane, her sixteen-year-old son, a man whose chiseled jaw and towering frame made her knees weak. She shoved the feeling down, scolding herself. He’s your son, Lacey. Your son. But her nipples tightened against her bra, and her clit pulsed, betraying her.

When Dane strode through the door, fresh from football practice, his tight tee clung to his sweat-slicked muscles, his dark hair damp and tousled. At six-foot-three, he filled the room, his green eyes locking onto her with predatory glee. “Fuck, Mom, smells amazing,” he said, dropping his gym bag with a thud. Before she could respond, he crossed the kitchen in two strides, grabbed her waist, and kissed her—hard, dominant, his tongue invading her mouth with lustful hunger. Lacey’s body melted, her nipples hardening, her clit stiffening as his hands squeezed her hips. She gasped, pushing weakly at his chest, her resolve crumbling under the heat of his assault.

“Dane, dinner’s ready,” she stammered, stepping back, her face flushed as she smoothed her skirt. She turned to the counter, grabbing the risotto, desperate to regain control. “Go wash up, okay?”

He smirked, eyeing her like a wolf sizing up prey, but turned, sauntering to the bathroom. Lacey’s hands trembled as she served the food, her mind a whirl of guilt and unwanted desire. When Dane returned a moment later, they sat across from each other, the candlelight softening the tension, and Lacey forced a smile, determined to keep things light before diving into the impossible conversation.

“So, how was practice?” she asked, spooning risotto onto his plate, her voice too bright.

Dane shrugged, tearing into a chicken thigh, his biceps flexing. “Same old. Coach is riding my ass about footwork, but I’m still the best linebacker he’s got. You shoulda seen me flatten Tommy today—kid didn’t know what hit him.”

Lacey giggled despite herself, her ditzy charm bubbling up. “Oh, Dane, you’re always so rough! I bet Tommy’s still seeing stars.”

“Damn right,” he said, grinning, his eyes dipping to her cleavage, barely contained by her sweater. “Gotta keep ‘em in line, you know?”

She nodded, sipping her water, her stomach twisting. The small talk felt like a lifeline, but it was slipping. “Um, and how’s that history project going? The one about the Civil War?”

Dane rolled his eyes, swallowing a mouthful of risotto. “Boring as fuck, but I’ll ace it. Teacher’s a pushover. Keeps staring at my arms when I talk. Think she wants a piece of this.” He flexed, his tee straining, and Lacey’s breath caught, her pussy tingling at his raw power.

“That’s ... nice,” she mumbled, poking at her plate, her face hot. She had to do this. Now. Before her body betrayed her again. She set down her fork, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and took a shaky breath. “Dane, we need to talk. About ... about last night.”

His fork paused mid-air, and he leaned back, that infuriating smirk spreading across his face. His eyes roamed her body, lingering on her breasts, her flushed cheeks, as if she were a dessert he planned to devour.

Lacey’s words tumbled out, her voice quavering. “What we did, it was wrong. So wrong. We’re mother and son, Dane. We can’t ... we shouldn’t be having sex. It’s not right, and we’re both at fault, but it can’t happen again. Ever.”

She dared a glance at him, her heart sinking. He wasn’t listening—not really. His smirk widened, his gaze stripping her bare, eye-fucking her with blatant lust. “You done?” he asked, his voice low, mocking, as he popped a piece of chicken into his mouth.

Lacey’s face burned, her clit throbbing despite her horror. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught, her mind a haze of shame and need. Dane’s chair scraped as he leaned forward, his massive frame looming, and she knew, with a sinking certainty, that this dinner wasn’t going to end the way she’d planned.

Lacey’s heart pounded, her plea about their forbidden night hanging in the air like a fragile thread, snapped by Dane’s mocking smirk. Her body trembled under his gaze, the pink sweater clinging to her full breasts, her denim skirt riding up her thighs as she squirmed in her chair. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that danced across Dane’s chiseled jaw, his six-foot-three frame radiating power, and Lacey’s clit throbbed despite her shame, her nipples stiff against her bra.

Dane set his fork down with a deliberate clink, leaning back in his chair, his tight tee straining over his muscular chest. “Get on your knees, Mom,” he said, his voice low and commanding, dripping with arrogance. “Suck my cock.”

Lacey’s breath caught, her blue eyes widening in horror. “Dane, no,” she whispered, her hands clutching the table’s edge, her voice quavering. “We can’t. I just said—”

“On your knees,” he repeated, his tone harder, a growl that brooked no defiance. His smirk widened, his eyes raking her curves, stripping her bare. “Now, Mom.”

Her resolve crumbled, a shameful heat flooding her core. Unable to resist the raw power in his voice, Lacey slid off her chair, her movements meek, almost robotic. She sank to her knees on the worn linoleum, scooting forward until she knelt between his spread thighs.

Her heart raced, guilt clawing at her mind—He’s your son, your baby boy—but her pussy fluttered, betraying her with a slick ache. She looked up, and there it was: that commanding, arrogant, sexy sneer curling his lips, the same look that had unraveled her last night. Her gaze dropped to the massive bulge in his jeans, the outline of his eleven-inch cock straining against the denim, throbbing with need.

Her hands trembled as she reached for his zipper, the metallic rasp loud in the quiet kitchen. She fished out his cock, already rock-hard, its thick, veined eleven-inch length pulsing in her grip. The sight sent a jolt through her, her clit stiffening further, her mind screaming wrong, wrong, wrong even as her mouth watered. Meekly, she leaned forward, parting her full lips, and took him into her mouth, the salty heat of his flesh overwhelming her senses.

“Good girl,” Dane said, his voice a low purr of approval as he picked up his fork, resuming his meal. The words hit Lacey like a spark, her pussy clenching with shameful excitement at having pleased him. She bobbed her head, her lips stretching around his girth, her tongue swirling timidly along the underside. Tears pricked her eyes, her mind a storm of turmoil—I’m his mother, I raised him, this is a sin—but her body obeyed, driven by the need to satisfy the hulking, dominant man before her.

Dane chewed a forkful of risotto, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure as he watched her. “Fuck, Mom, you’re a natural cocksucker,” he said, his tone casual, degrading, yet laced with praise. “Look at you, slurping my dick like a good little slut.”

Lacey’s cheeks burned, her throat tightening around him as she gagged softly, her hands braced on his thighs. His words were vile, cutting through her like a knife, yet they ignited a twisted pride deep within her. She sucked harder, her head bobbing faster, strands of her blonde hair falling loose from her ponytail, sticking to her flushed face. Her pussy dripped, soaking her panties, and she hated herself for it—hated the way her body craved his approval, his dominance, even as her soul recoiled.

Dane speared a piece of chicken, popping it into his mouth, his free hand tangling in her hair, guiding her rhythm. “That’s it, Mom, take it deep,” he said, his voice thick with lust. “You love this, don’t you? My cock in your pretty little mouth, making you useful.”

A muffled whimper escaped her, her eyes squeezing shut as she fought the wave of arousal his words unleashed. She did love it—God help her, she did. The weight of his cock, the stretch of her lips, the way his praise made her feel small yet cherished—it was intoxicating, a drug she couldn’t quit.

But the guilt gnawed harder, memories flashing: Dane as a toddler, giggling in her arms; Dane at ten, fixing her coffee maker with a proud grin. Now here she was, on her knees, sucking her sixteen-year-old son off like a whore. Tears spilled down her cheeks, mixing with the drool that coated her chin, but she didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.

Dane leaned back, savoring another bite, his hand tightening in her hair. “Fuck, you’re better than any of those high school sluts,” he said, his sneer audible in his voice. “Keep going, Mom. Make me proud.”

Her pussy spasmed at his words, a shameful orgasm building despite her untouched state. She bobbed faster, her throat relaxing to take him deeper, gagging and choking but driven by his praise. The kitchen was silent save for the wet, obscene sounds of her mouth and the clink of Dane’s fork as he ate, his casual enjoyment a stark contrast to her inner chaos.

Lacey’s mind screamed for her to stop, to stand up, to be the mother she was supposed to be—but her body surrendered, her lips and tongue worshiping his cock, her heart pounding with the desperate need to be his good girl.

Lacey’s lips stretched around Dane’s massive cock, her throat aching as she bobbed faster, driven by his degrading praise and her own shameful need. Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks, mixing with drool as she gagged, her blue eyes flickering up to meet Dane’s arrogant sneer. His six-foot-three frame loomed, his tight tee clinging to sweat-slicked muscles, his hand tangled in her blonde hair, guiding her rhythm. The candlelit table beside them flickered, the risotto and chicken cooling, a mocking reminder of her failed plan to set boundaries.

“Fuck, Mom, you’re gonna make me cum,” Dane growled, his voice thick with lust as he chewed another bite of chicken, his casual dominance slicing through her. “Swallow it all, you filthy slut.”

Lacey’s pussy spasmed at his words, her panties soaked, her mind a whirlwind of guilt—He’s my son, this is wrong—and twisted pride at pleasing him. She sucked harder, her tongue swirling, her throat relaxing to take him deeper. Dane’s hips bucked, his grip tightening, and with a guttural groan, he erupted, hot cum flooding her mouth.

The force of it overwhelmed her, thick spurts coating her tongue, spilling past her lips as she choked and swallowed, desperate to obey. Her clit throbbed, a shameful orgasm teetering on the edge from his praise alone. She pulled back, gasping, cum dribbling down her chin, her eyes locked on his sneering satisfaction.

Dane didn’t pause. He shoved his chair back, the scrape loud in the quiet kitchen, and hauled her to her feet by her arm. “Over the table,” he ordered, his voice a low snarl, his green eyes blazing with hunger. Lacey’s legs wobbled, her mind screaming to resist—Stop this, you’re his mother—but her body complied, arousal drowning her protests.

He spun her around, bending her over the dining table, her breasts pressing into the wood, the candles wobbling precariously. He yanked her skirt up, tearing her panties down, exposing her dripping pussy. The cool air hit her, making her gasp, her nipples stiffening against her sweater.

“Look at this perfect cunt,” Dane said, his fingers probing her roughly, spreading her wetness. “Begging for my cock, huh, Mom?”

She whimpered, her face pressed to the table, shame burning her cheeks. “Dane, please,” she mumbled, but the words were weak, her pussy clenching at his touch. He didn’t wait, lining up his still-hard cock and thrusting into her, stretching her painfully, deliciously.

Lacey cried out, her hands gripping the table’s edge, the wood creaking under his powerful thrusts. His hands clamped her hips, bruising her soft skin, as he fucked her relentlessly, each slam driving her closer to oblivion. Her tits bounced, her sweater riding up, her mind a haze of guilt and ecstasy—This is sin, but oh God, it feels so good.

“Take it, you whore,” Dane grunted, his pace brutal, his cock hitting depths that made her sob with pleasure. “This is what you’re for.”

Lacey’s pussy clamped around him, her body betraying her with a shuddering orgasm, her cries echoing in the kitchen. Her climax spurred him on, his thrusts growing erratic, and with a roar, he came, pumping hot cum deep inside her, filling her until it leaked down her thighs. She collapsed against the table, panting, her body trembling, her mind reeling at how thoroughly he’d derailed her plea for propriety.

But Dane wasn’t done. He scooped her up, her limp form cradled in his muscular arms, and carried her to her bedroom, the familiar space now a den of taboo. He tossed her onto the bed, stripping her sweater and skirt with rough tugs, leaving her naked, her curvaceous body exposed under his predatory gaze.

For hours, they fucked in every conceivable position, the mattress groaning under their weight. He took her missionary, her legs spread wide, his cock plunging deep as she clawed his back, her orgasms ripping through her like storms. He flipped her for doggy, spanking her ass red, her tits swaying as he pounded her, her reflection in the vanity mirror showing a dazed, lust-drunk woman she barely recognized.

She rode him, her breasts bouncing, his hands pinching her nipples until she screamed, her pussy spasming around his relentless cock. Each position blurred into the next, a marathon of raw, animalistic sex, Dane’s stamina awing her, Lacey’s body surrendering to wave after wave of pleasure.

“You’re mine, Mom,” he growled between thrusts, his voice a possessive snarl. “This pussy, these tits—all mine.” Her heart twisted, guilt and desire warring, but her body arched into him, craving more. They came together countless times, his cum painting her insides, her thighs, her breasts, until exhaustion claimed them.

Dane finally collapsed, his massive frame sprawling across the bed, his breathing slowing as an exhausted sleep took him. But not before he turned to her, his voice lazy but firm. “Don’t forget to clean up the dinner dishes, Mom.”

Lacey lay there, her body sore, cum-soaked sheets clinging to her skin, her mind a tangle of defeat and dark satisfaction. His words stung, a reminder of her failure to stop this, to be the mother she should be. Yet, as she slipped out of bed, her legs shaky, a deep, feminine pleasure bloomed in her chest. She was keeping a home for this gorgeous, sexy stud, her son, whose dominance filled a void she couldn’t name.

She padded to the kitchen, naked, her hair a mess, and began washing the dishes, the clink of plates a quiet rhythm against her turmoil. The candle had burned out, the risotto crusted in the pot, and as she scrubbed, tears fell—guilt for her weakness, shame for her pleasure, and a twisted pride in serving the man who’d claimed her so thoroughly. She glanced toward the bedroom, where Dane slept, and her pussy twitched, already aching for him again, her argument for propriety shattered beyond repair.

Lacey’s week blurred into a haze of routine, each day a cycle of guilt, surrender, and shameful ecstasy. Her body felt like a traitor, responding to Dane with a heat she couldn’t quell. The modest Carver home, with its worn furniture and creaky floors, became her stage, where she played the dual roles of mother and sexual toy, her resolve to end their forbidden fucking crumbling under his dominant gaze.

Each morning, Lacey woke to an empty house, Dane already gone to school, his gym bag missing from the hall. The clock mocked her—7:45 a.m., leaving her scrambling. She stumbled from cum-soaked sheets, her body sore from the previous night’s marathon of sex, and rushed to the shower. Hot water sluiced over her tender skin, washing away the evidence of Dane’s cum, but not the memories—his massive cock stretching her, his sneering praise branding her soul.

She hurried through her routine, blow-drying her hair into loose waves, applying mascara and pink lipstick to her doe-like blue eyes and full lips, and slipping into tight blouses and pencil skirts that hugged her curves. Her apologies to her boss, the fifty-year-old Mr. Thompson, were breathless as she slid into her bank clerk’s chair, ten minutes late.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Thompson, it won’t happen again,” Lacey said Tuesday, her cheeks flushed as she fumbled with customer files. Wednesday, it was, “I got held up, I’ll stay late to finish the deposits.” But by Thursday, her promises felt hollow, her mind already drifting to Dane, his chiseled jaw and piercing green eyes waiting at home. Thompson’s sighs grew sharper, but Lacey’s charm—her ditzy smile, her apologetic giggles—kept her employed, if barely.

She vowed daily to work late, to catch up on paperwork, but as the clock neared five, a burning need consumed her—to get home, to cook for Dane, to be the woman who pleased him. She’d rush to the grocery store, her heels clicking, grabbing ingredients with a frantic focus.

Tuesday, she made creamy lasagna, layering mozzarella and spicy sausage, the kitchen filling with savory warmth as she baked garlic bread to golden perfection. Wednesday, it was pan-seared salmon with lemon herb sauce, served with roasted asparagus and buttery mashed potatoes, the plates arranged with care on the candlelit table. Thursday, she slow-cooked beef stew, rich with carrots and thyme, paired with crusty rolls, the aroma greeting Dane as he strode through the door. Friday, she grilled juicy pork chops, glazed with honey mustard, alongside cheesy scalloped potatoes, her hands trembling as she plated the meal, desperate for his approval.

Lacey kept the house immaculate for him, a task that felt like worship. She vacuumed the living room’s faded carpet, dusted the shelves, and polished the dining table until it gleamed, erasing the memory of being bent over it, fucked senseless. She washed his sweaty workout clothes, folding his tight tees and jeans with care, her fingers lingering on the fabric, imagining his muscular frame.

The kitchen sparkled, dishes scrubbed and counters wiped, her ditzy mind finding solace in these acts of service. Each chore was a silent offering to the gorgeous stud who dominated her nights, her heart swelling with feminine pride even as guilt gnawed—He’s your son, not your lover.

Dinner was their prelude, Dane’s eyes raking her body as he ate, his fork spearing her food with casual ownership. “Fuck, Mom, this lasagna’s killer,” he said Tuesday, his smirk making her pussy flutter. Thursday, it was, “Stew’s on point, you’re getting good at this.” Lacey beamed, her clit stiffening at his praise, her resolve to confront him—We have to stop, this is wrong—dissolving into nervous giggles. She’d clear the table, her hips swaying unconsciously, knowing what came next.

Each night, Dane’s advances were relentless, his dominance a force she couldn’t resist. Tuesday, he cornered her in the kitchen as she washed dishes, yanking her blouse open, buttons popping, and sucking her nipples until she moaned. He bent her over the counter, ripping her panties off, and fucked her pussy raw, his eleven-inch cock stretching her painfully, deliciously. “You’re my slut, Mom,” he growled, spanking her ass red, her orgasms crashing as his cum filled her, dripping down her thighs.

Wednesday, he took her on the living room couch, stripping her naked and forcing her to ride him, her tits bouncing as he pinched her nipples, his taunts—”Look at you, loving this cock”—driving her to a shuddering climax. Thursday, he dragged her to the bedroom, fucking her missionary, her legs pinned back, then flipping her for doggy, his hands bruising her hips as he pounded her, her pussy spasming around him. Friday, he made her suck him off in the hallway, her knees on the hardwood, gagging on his cock until he came, then fucked her against the wall, her legs wrapped around him, both climaxing in a frenzy of sweat and moans.

Lacey loved it—God help her, she loved it. She loved servicing him, her mouth stretched around his cock, her throat aching as she swallowed his cum, his “Good girl” making her pussy clench with joy. She loved being the pussy he fucked, her body yielding to his brutal thrusts, each orgasm a testament to his prodigious appetite. She loved cooking for him, the act of nourishing his massive frame filling her with purpose, and cleaning up after him, wiping counters and washing plates, grounded her in a twisted domestic bliss. Every night, as they collapsed in her bed, cum-soaked and exhausted, she’d snuggle against his chest, his arm possessive around her, and feel a deep, feminine gratification—her home was his, her body was his, and she was his.

Yet, the guilt never left. Each morning, as she rushed to work, late again, she promised herself she’d stop it—Tonight, I’ll tell him no, I’ll be his mother again. But the courage never came. Dane’s sneer, his touch, his voice calling her “Mom” in that mocking, lustful tone, unraveled her every time.

By Friday, as she prepared the pork chops, her hands shaking with anticipation, she knew she was lost. The bank’s fluorescent lights, Thompson’s disapproval, the paperwork piling up—they faded against the burning need to please Dane, to be the woman who sated his desires and kept his home. She stood in the kitchen, apron tied over her tight dress, and glanced at the clock, her pussy already wet, her heart heavy with defeat and pride, ready to surrender to him again.

Lacey lay tangled in the cum-soaked sheets, her body aching from Friday night’s relentless fucking. Her curves pressed against Dane’s massive frame, his muscular arm draped possessively over her waist, his steady breathing filling the quiet bedroom. The air was thick with the musky scent of their sex, her pussy still tingling from the orgasms he’d wrung from her—on the dining table, against the hallway wall, and finally here, in her bed, where he’d taken her in every position until she’d screamed herself hoarse. Her blonde hair clung to her sweaty neck, her full breasts tender from his rough pinches, and yet, a deep feminine pleasure warmed her chest. She was his, utterly, and the thought both thrilled and shamed her.

Dane stirred, his green eyes glinting in the dim light as he propped himself on an elbow, his chiseled jaw shadowed with stubble. “Tomorrow, Mom,” he said, his voice low and commanding, “I’m hanging with Jake all day, but I’ll be home by four. I’m taking you out on a date, so have the house clean by then and pick out something sexy to wear for me.”

Lacey’s breath caught, her blue eyes widening as she nodded meekly, her mind racing. A date? The word felt foreign, absurd, for a mother and son, yet it sent a thrill through her, like a schoolgirl asked out by the football team’s captain. Her heart fluttered, memories of teenage crushes—boys in letterman jackets, stolen kisses under bleachers—mingling with the taboo reality of Dane, her sixteen-year-old son, whose eleven-inch cock and sneering dominance owned her body. “Okay, Dane,” she whispered, her voice soft, submissive, her pussy clenching at the thought of pleasing him in public.

He smirked, satisfied, and rolled over, his breathing deepening as sleep claimed him. Lacey lay still, her mind a whirlwind of excitement and unease. A date with Dane—what did that even mean? Would he hold her hand, kiss her openly, parade her as his woman? The idea was thrilling, terrifying, and her clit stiffened despite the guilt clawing at her—He’s your son, not your boyfriend.

Unable to rest, she slipped from bed, her naked body shivering in the cool air, and padded to the kitchen. The dining table bore the remnants of her stuffed bell peppers, the plates crusted with rice and beef, and she set to work, scrubbing dishes with a quiet intensity. The clink of porcelain soothed her, a ritual of service, and she moved to the living room, vacuuming the faded carpet, dusting shelves, wiping down the coffee table until the house gleamed. Each task was an offering to Dane, her gorgeous stud, and by the time she crawled back to bed, exhausted, her heart swelled with pride, even as her failure to resist him gnawed at her soul.

Saturday morning, Lacey woke before dawn, the bedroom still dark, Dane’s massive form sprawled beside her. She tiptoed out, her bare feet cold on the hardwood, and headed to the kitchen, driven by the need to provide for him. She whipped up a hearty breakfast: fluffy blueberry pancakes stacked high, crispy bacon sizzling in the pan, and scrambled eggs flecked with cheddar, the aromas filling the house with warmth. She brewed coffee, the rich scent grounding her, and arranged the plates on the dining table, now spotless, with a single daisy from the backyard in a glass as a touch of care. When Dane emerged, his tight tee and jeans clinging to his muscular frame, his dark hair tousled, Lacey’s heart skipped, her pussy fluttering at his raw masculinity.

“Morning, Mom,” he said, dropping into a chair, his eyes raking her body, still in a thin nightgown that hugged her curves. “Smells fucking great.”

“Have fun with Jake,” she said, her voice bright, ditzy, as she served him a towering stack of pancakes, her hands trembling with anticipation for their “date.” “Be safe, okay?”

He grunted, digging in, his fork spearing bacon as he nodded. Lacey watched, her clit stiffening at the sight of him devouring her food, her body aching to please him. When he left, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, she stood at the door, waving, her mind already racing to the tasks ahead.

The day passed in a frenzy of cleaning and indecision. Lacey attacked the house with manic energy, mopping the kitchen floor until it shone, polishing the bathroom mirror, and washing Dane’s workout clothes, her fingers lingering on his sweat-soaked tees, imagining his sculpted chest. She vacuumed again, fluffed the couch cushions, and even scrubbed the baseboards, her knees sore but her heart light with purpose. The house had to be perfect for him, a reflection of her devotion.

Between chores, she raided her closet, her bed soon buried under a pile of dresses, skirts, and tops, each rejected as not sexy enough. She tried a red wrap dress, too modest; a black mini skirt, too casual; a green sundress, too summery. Her ditzy mind spun, anxiety mingling with excitement—What does he want? What will make him want me more?

Finally, she settled on a dress she’d bought years ago for a date that never happened, a daring choice she’d never had the courage to wear. The dress was a deep sapphire blue, form-fitting satin that clung to her hourglass figure like a second skin. The plunging neckline dipped low, showcasing her ample breasts, the fabric straining to contain them, her nipples faintly visible without a bra. The dress hugged her narrow waist and flared over her rounded hips, ending mid-thigh, short enough to reveal her toned legs but long enough to tease.

She paired it with black strappy heels, their four-inch stilettos clicking with every step, elongating her calves. She added a silver choker, its delicate chain glinting against her throat, and small diamond stud earrings, for a touch of elegance. Standing before the mirror, she styled her dirty blonde hair in loose, glossy waves, cascading past her shoulders, and applied makeup with care: smoky eyeshadow to accentuate her blue eyes, a sweep of blush on her cheeks, and glossy red lipstick that made her full lips pouty, kissable. She spritzed perfume—floral with a hint of musk—on her neck and wrists, her reflection a vision of sensuality she barely recognized.

Lacey stepped back, her heart pounding, her pussy wet at the thought of Dane’s reaction. She felt like a teenager again, primping for a prom date, the thrill of being desired by the hottest guy in school coursing through her. But he was her son, and the weight of that truth pressed against her excitement, her mind flickering with guilt—This is wrong, you can’t be his date.

Yet, the anticipation drowned it out, her body trembling with need to please him, to be the sexy woman on his arm. The clock read 3:45 p.m., and she paced the spotless living room, her heels clicking, her dress swishing, every nerve alive with the promise of their taboo night. Guilt flickered—He’s your son, this is madness—but the thrill of being his woman drowned it, her clit throbbing as she paced.

At 4:05 PM, the front door swung open, and Dane strode in, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, his tight tee and jeans clinging to his six-foot-three frame. “Gotta change, Mom,” he said, his green eyes raking her body, a smirk curling his lips. “You look fucking hot.” He disappeared into his room, leaving Lacey flushed, her nipples stiffening against the satin.