Holy Fucking Shit: Like Mother, Like Daughter
Copyright© 2025 by The_Fountainhead
Chapter 2: Midnight Echoes
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2: Midnight Echoes - 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 Light Bond Rough Spanking Group Sex Orgy Anal Sex Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism Facial Fisting Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting Voyeurism
Sunday, June 23, 11:08 p.m.
The dream always starts the same. I’m on my knees, face pressed into the pillow, the scent of clean cotton and something darker (sweat, maybe, or the faint trace of cologne) filling my lungs. His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above the bone, pulling me back onto him with every thrust. He’s young, college-aged. I know that much, though I’ve never seen his face. His body is hard and relentless, muscles flexing under smooth skin as he drives into me with a rhythm that makes my toes curl. The bed creaks beneath us, a steady counterpoint to the wet slap of skin on skin. I feel every inch of him stretching me, filling me, the heat coiling low in my belly until I’m gasping, begging without words.
“I’m gonna cum,” he growls, voice rough and urgent.
My eyes snap open.
The room is dark, the only light the faint red glow of the alarm clock: 11:09 p.m. My heart hammers so hard I feel it in my throat. Sweat clings to my skin. The cotton nightgown is twisted around my thighs. I’m soaked between my legs, a throbbing ache that pulses in time with my heartbeat. I reach down, fingers slipping beneath the hem, and find myself slick, swollen, desperate.
This is the third time in as many weeks. Always the same dream, always ending right as he says it, right before I can turn and see who he is. Just a college kid, faceless, but so real I can still feel the ghost of his hands on me.
I sit up. The fan whirs overhead, doing nothing to cool the flush on my skin. George left this morning for Berlin, two weeks of meetings, hotel bars, and whatever else he does when he’s “working.” Twelve years married, and I can’t remember the last time he touched me like that. The last time he touched me at all. Maybe two years ago: a quick, lights-off fumble after too much wine at his company Christmas party. He rolled off and started snoring before I’d even caught my breath.
We’ve been roommates longer than I care to admit, sharing a house, a bank account, and a daughter who isn’t even his. Holly was six when I married George, wide-eyed and missing her real dad, who vanished with some waitress to Florida. George was stable. Safe. He paid the bills, came to recitals, never raised his voice. But safe isn’t sexy, and lately even the stability feels like a trap.
The salon (“Debbie’s Cuts & Curls,” downtown, same corner for fifteen years) keeps me busy. I’m on my feet from open to close, trimming bangs, foiling roots, listening to housewives complain about husbands who don’t listen. I smile, nod, make them feel beautiful. But at night, when the house is quiet and George is gone, the dreams come.
And now this.
A sound drifts up from downstairs. Soft at first, muffled. A moan, low, breathy, unmistakably female. Then another, sharper. Beneath it, a rhythm. Slap. Slap. Slap. Skin on skin, steady and wet.
I freeze.
Holly’s room is across the hall. I slip out of bed, bare feet cold on the hardwood, and pad to her door. It’s ajar. The bed is made, posters of some indie band and a Western University brochure tacked to the wall. Empty.
The moaning again, louder now. A deeper sound beneath it, male, guttural, punctuated by the creak of springs. My stomach flips. I know what this is. I know. But I’m moving before I can stop myself, down the hall, down the stairs, one hand trailing the banister like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
The sounds grow with every step. Holly’s voice, “Yes, harder, fuck,” and a low growl in response. The air smells faintly of rain and sex, carried up from the family room. My nightgown brushes my thighs, still damp between my legs, and I hate how my body responds, how the ache sharpens with every slap.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.