Holy Fucking Shit: Like Mother, Like Daughter
Copyright© 2025 by The_Fountainhead
Chapter 3: Sweet Dreams, Ma’am
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3: Sweet Dreams, Ma’am - 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, 11:29 p.m.
Holly’s pussy still flutters around me, little aftershocks milking the last drops as I hold myself deep. My forehead rests between her shoulder blades, sweat dripping off my chin onto her back. The room smells like sex and rain. The TV flickers some bullshit about knives that cut through soda cans. I’m buzzing, every nerve lit up, the way it always is after I unload. She collapses forward with a satisfied groan, face half-buried in the pillow, ass still in the air for a second before she rolls onto her stomach.
“Jesus, Shane,” she mumbles, voice muffled. “You trying to put me in a wheelchair?”
I laugh under my breath, easing out slow. I watch my cum slip from her, thick and white, sliding down her thigh onto the sheet. Primal as hell. I give her ass a lazy slap. “You’d thank me.”
She flips me off without lifting her head, but she’s grinning. I sit back on my heels, chest heaving, scanning the room. The pullout’s a war zone: sheets twisted, pillows on the floor, one of Holly’s socks somehow hanging off the lamp. And then I remember.
Debbie.
I glance toward the stairs. Shadows swallow the landing, but I felt her. The whole time I was balls-deep in her daughter, I felt those eyes on me. Burning. Hungry. I’d looked right at her, nightgown clinging to her tits, hand pressed between her thighs like she was holding herself together. She didn’t run. Didn’t scream. Just watched. And when I said it, “I’m gonna cum,” her face ... fuck. Like she’d been waiting her whole life to hear it.
What the hell was that? Her expression was not just shock. It was recognition, like I’d stepped out of her head and into the room. Does she dream about shit like this? Older woman, married, probably has not been railed properly in years. And here I am, giving her a front-row seat to her daughter getting destroyed.
Part of me feels like a dick. Holly’s mom, for Christ’s sake. But the other part? The part that’s still half-hard? That part’s thrilled. Twisted, yeah, but honest. Girls like Holly are fun, but women like Debbie ... they’ve got layers. Secrets. And I just peeled one back.
Holly yawns, stretches like a cat. “You’re staring at the wall, QB. Earth to Shane.”
I blink, drag my gaze back. “Thinking about round two.”
“Liar.” She props herself on her elbows, tits swaying. “You’re thinking about how loud I was. Hoping Mom didn’t hear?”
I smirk. “Your mom’s got Ambien and a box fan. She’s in a coma.”
“Better be.” She flops back, eyes already half-closed. “Five minutes. Then you’re eating me out till I forget my name.”
“Deal.” I lean down, kiss the back of her neck, taste salt and coconut. She hums, already drifting. Two minutes later she’s out cold, one leg hanging off the mattress, mouth open. Post-orgasm coma. Classic Holly.
I wait another minute, listening. Rain on the windows. TV droning. Holly’s soft snores. The house is quiet, but it does not feel quiet. It feels like someone’s still watching.
Is Debbie upstairs right now, replaying it? Touching herself to the memory? The thought hits me low, stirring something dark. I’ve had older women before, a TA last semester who snuck me into her office after hours. But that was calculated, mutual. This? This is messy. Forbidden. And fuck if that does not make it hotter.
I slide off the bed, grab my jeans from the floor. Step into them commando. Boxers are somewhere under the couch. The pullout creaks as I slowly reach across Holly to grab my shirt. I wipe the wet spot with the throw blanket, toss it toward the laundry room. Good enough.
I pad to the kitchen for water. Throat’s raw from growling her name. The light under the microwave hood is on, casting a dim gold glow. And there she is.
Debbie.
Back to me, standing at the sink. She’s swapped the nightgown for a robe, thin, silky, the kind that ties loose. Her hair’s down, tousled like she’s been running her hands through it. She’s pouring water with one hand. The other grips the counter so hard her knuckles are white.
I stop in the doorway. She knows I’m here. Does not turn. My mind races: What is she thinking? Regret? Anger? Or is she as turned on as I am?
The slap of my hips against Holly’s ass echoes in my head, but now it’s Debbie’s face superimposed over it all. I should leave. Sneak out like usual. But no. I want to see her crack.
“You should go,” she says, voice low, steady. But it trembles at the edges.
I step closer, bare feet silent on the tile. Lean against the counter, arms crossed. “You okay, Mrs. C?”
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