Holy Fucking Shit: Like Mother, Like Daughter
Copyright© 2025 by The_Fountainhead
Chapter 13: Beth
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 13: Beth - A cocky college quarterback comes home for one last wild summer and starts a no-strings fling with his little brother’s ex, eighteen-year-old amusement-park hellcat Holly. What begins as daily reckless sex explodes when Holly’s newly-divorced MILF mother Debbie discovers them—and realizes the filthy dreams that have haunted her for weeks all feature the same twenty-year-old stud now railing her daughter on the family-room couch. Permission is enthusiastically granted, boundaries shatter, and by
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft mt/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Teenagers Consensual Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Incest Mother Daughter Light Bond Rough Spanking Group Sex Orgy Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism Facial Fisting Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting Voyeurism
Friday, June 28, 8:07 a.m.
I wake before the alarm, clit still tingling from yesterday’s wax and the marathon vibrator sessions that left my sheets twisted. Shane’s coming tomorrow. The thought detonates a pulse between my legs, hot and insistent, but I shove it down, focus, woman. Work waits.
Coffee, quick breakfast. Holly’s already in the kitchen, hair in a messy bun, uniform on. She works 10-to-5 at the park, same as my salon hours, so we’re out the door together. “Staying at Kelly’s tonight,” she says, grabbing her keys. “Beach trip super early Saturday.” I nod, heart skipping, house empty tomorrow.
Check my schedule: packed 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Dress sharp, fitted blouse, dark jeans, hair down. Professional, but sexy.
First up: Kim Jenkins, cut and color. She bounces in bubbly, foil highlights gleaming. Chat turns to divorce, Kim heard through the grapevine.
“Girl, you’re free! My brother Mark, 54, just divorced, hot as hell. Owns the gym downtown. Let me set you up!”
I know Mark, tall, silver fox, charming smile that crinkles his eyes. He is attractive. My mind flashes: Shane’s a kid. Silly fantasy. Mark’s real, age-appropriate, stable. Kim pushes: “Dinner next week?” I smile, noncommittal. Maybe. Grow up, Debbie.
Midday’s a blur, trims, blowouts, chatter. My mind wanders to Shane’s hands, then Mark’s smile. Shane’s Holly’s age. Wrong. Dangerous. Lunch break: I scroll his IG story, shirtless workout, sweat dripping down carved abs. My thighs clench, pussy throbbing. Stop. He’s a boy. Mark’s a man. I decide: Shane’s just a fantasy. I need someone my own age. Text Kim: I’d love to go to dinner with Mark if he’s interested.
Last appointment: Beth Romo, highlights and cut. My high school bestie, her son graduated with Holly. Divorced five years, she’s glowing.
“You look amazing, divorce agrees with you,” I say, settling her into the chair.
Beth laughs, flipping her hair. “Thanks, but you’re the one radiating. Spill, what’s your secret? New man? New vibrator? By the way, if you don’t have one already, you need to get a Magic Wand. It’s unbelievable.”
“A Magic what?”
“A Magic Wand. Hands down it’s the best vibrator money can buy. Get one, your pussy will thank me later.”
I snort, mixing her color. “Damn, Beth! My pussy is doing just fine. Anyway, just ... relieved. George was a weight.”
“Just fine, huh? When was the last time you even had sex? Let alone the last time you got fucked good?”
Same old Beth. Never one to pull any punches. “I dunno. It’s been a while,” I manage to say.
“Girl, I know. Mine was the same. Five years free and I’m living. You need to get out. Freddie’s tonight? Live band, cheap drinks. Hookup central, let’s dance like we’re twenty-five again. I’m telling you, one night of sweaty, no-strings cowboy action and you’ll forget George ever existed. Plus, the band’s killer, heard they’ve got a new drummer who’s easy on the eyes.”
“I’m beat,” I say, parting her hair. “Long week.”
“Exactly why you need it. One drink. Come on, Debbie, remember our early 20s? We danced till our feet bled. Then we would find a random guy and fuck till dawn. You were wild. Time to dust off that version of you. Hell, I’ll even buy the first round of tequila. You in or are you gonna sit home knitting?”
I pause, brush in hand. She’s right. I need fun. “One drink.”
Beth whoops. “That’s my girl! Pick you up at 7? Wear something slutty. And I mean slutty, think less Sunday brunch, more ‘bend me over the bar.’”
We laugh. I finish her highlights, cut the ends sharp. She tips big, hugs me. “I’ll see you at 7.”
I close up the salon, wipe counters, sweep hair, lock the door. Rush home, heart already racing. Slutty? What even counts nowadays? Dig through the closet: too conservative, too mom-ish. Settle on cowboy boots and a sundress, tight enough to hug my curves, loose enough not to scream desperate. Hair down, light makeup, a spritz of perfume.
Doorbell rings as I head downstairs. Beth bursts in, a vision in a micro denim skirt barely covering her ass, black crop top plunging low, tits spilling out, red cowboy hat tilted. “Damn, girl, that sundress is cute, for church. Knew you’d play it safe.” She pulls a bag from her shoulder. “Brought reinforcements: this little black number, low-cut, backless, thigh-high slit. Pair it with those boots and you’ll have every cowboy in there hard.”
I hesitate, then grab the dress. “Fine, but if I flash anyone, it’s on you.” In the bathroom, I slip it on, silky fabric clings to my tits, neckline dipping to my navel, back open to the base of my spine, slit riding high on my thigh. No bra possible; the girls sit high, nipples faintly visible through the thin material. I spin in the mirror, Jesus, I look like sin. Cowboy boots ground it, adding edge. Beth whistles when I emerge. “Now that’s the Debbie I remember. Let’s go break some hearts.”
“All right, but I’m going to drive separate. Not sure I’m up for the same level of trouble that we used to get into,” I say, grabbing my keys off the hook.
“Sounds good, but you’re gonna love it. Trust me. And hey, if you chicken out, I’ll just drag you onto the dance floor myself. No escape tonight, babe.”
Freddie’s. Neon lights buzz, country twang spills out, sawdust floor crunchy under my boots. The place is a furnace, bodies packed tight, sweat and whiskey thick in the air. Beth marches in, straight to the bar, orders two margaritas before my eyes can even adjust to the dim lighting. “To freedom!” she toasts, clinking my glass hard enough to slosh salt onto my fingers.
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