Holy Fucking Shit: Like Mother, Like Daughter
Copyright© 2025 by The_Fountainhead
Chapter 8: Signs and Signals
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 8: Signs and Signals - 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
Wednesday, June 26, 7:11 a.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, driving 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, urgent.
My eyes snap open.
6:30 a.m. Wednesday. The ceiling fan spins lazy circles above me, but my heart is sprinting. Sheets twisted around my legs, thighs slick. Fourth time this week. That’s got to be some sort of sign, right?
I lie there, breath shallow, staring at the empty half of the bed. George’s side. Cold for weeks. The dream isn’t about him. Hasn’t been for a long time. It’s about Shane. The way his eyes lock on mine in the mirror. The brush of his knuckles. The smirk that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I’m going to fuck him.
The decision lands solid, no hesitation. No guilt. Holly made it clear: they’re just hanging out. We called it friends with benefits in my day. She’s leaving for the beach Saturday morning with Kelly’s family. House empty all afternoon. Perfect.
I just need the how.
I roll out of bed, pull on a robe, pad downstairs. Holly’s already in the kitchen, barefoot in tiny shorts and a cropped tank, pouring coffee into two mugs. Her hair’s damp, skin glowing from the shower. She’s humming something upbeat, swaying to the rhythm.
“Morning, divorcee!” she sings, sliding a mug across the island. “How’s freedom taste?”
I take it, wrap both hands around the warmth. “Like caffeine and bad decisions.”
She laughs, bright and sharp. “Perfect combo. Guess what? I’m off today. First full day in forever. Shane’s coming over around four. We’re cooking you a celebration dinner tonight. Don’t go anywhere after the shop.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re cooking?”
“Duh. You’re free. I’ve got all day to prep. Shane’s bringing steaks, I’m doing garlic mashed potatoes, roasted asparagus, that chocolate lava cake you love. Wine’s already chilling. Be home by 7:30, okay?”
“Off all day and you’re spending it slaving over a hot stove for me?”