Monica moved through her quiet suburban home with the easy sway of her curvy hips, the click of her high heels echoing softly on the hardwood floors. At 38, she was a full-figured stay-at-home mom who reveled in the simple thrill of dressing to feel alive. Today, like most days, she’d slipped into a short black skirt that hugged her thick thighs and barely skimmed mid-thigh, paired with a thin white blouse that clung to her massive DD breasts. No bra, of course—why bother when the fabric whispered against her sensitive skin, her large areolas faintly visible through the sheer material? She loved how her heavy tits bounced and jiggled with each step, the weight pulling at her chest, sending little sparks of awareness through her body. It was her secret indulgence, a way to feel sexy in the monotony of laundry and errands, even if no one else noticed.

Her young son, Alex, was a teenager—old enough to be home alone while she ran to the store, but still living under her roof, still her boy in so many ways. He’d always been a bit shy, buried in his video games, but lately, she’d caught glimpses of him staring a little too long when she bent over to pick something up. She pushed the thought away, focusing on the basket of laundry in her arms as she headed to her bedroom to sort it.

The door was ajar, which struck her as odd. Alex knew better than to snoop. She nudged it open with her elbow, her heart skipping when she saw him there, on his knees by her dresser, her lacy panties—worn from yesterday, still carrying the musky scent of her day—clutched in his fist. His back was to her, but she could see the way his shoulders hunched, his hand moving rhythmically between his legs, rubbing the bulge straining against his jeans.

Monica froze, the laundry basket slipping slightly in her grip. He was sniffing them, deep inhales that made his chest heave, and then—oh God—his tongue darted out, licking the crotch where her essence lingered, the fabric darkening with his saliva. A low groan escaped him, his free hand grinding harder against his hard-on, the zipper of his pants looking ready to burst.

Heat flooded her face, a mix of shock and something darker, forbidden. She should yell, storm in, and demand what the hell he was doing with her dirty underwear. But her feet wouldn’t move. Instead, her eyes locked on the scene, her breath catching as she watched his tongue trace the seam, savoring her scent like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. Her nipples tightened against the thin blouse, poking through the fabric, and a warm ache bloomed low in her clit.

What the fuck is wrong with me? The thought slammed into her mind, laced with shame. This was her son, for goodness sake—her baby boy, now a man with a raging erection from her panties. She felt dirty, twisted, but her body betrayed her. Between her legs, a slick heat gathered, her pussy clenching involuntarily as she imagined what he was sniffing the tangy remnants of her arousal from the night before, when she’d touched herself thinking of nothing in particular, just the need to unwind.

Alex’s movements quickened, his hips bucking slightly into his hand, oblivious to her presence. He pressed the crotch to his nose again, inhaling deeply, murmuring something she couldn’t catch—her name? No, that couldn’t be. Monica’s thighs squeezed together, the friction sending a jolt through her core. Her huge breasts felt heavier, swelling with the rush of blood, her large areolas puckering as if begging for attention. She bit her lip, torn between bursting in and ... Staying, watching, and letting this forbidden thrill build.

Guilt twisted in her gut like a knife. He’s your son. This is sick. But the shame only fueled the fire, making her wetter, her juices soaking into her own fresh panties. Why did this turn her on so much? The raw hunger in his actions, the way he devoured her scent—it awakened something primal in her, a lust she’d buried under years of routine motherhood. Her hand trembled on the doorframe, her skirt riding up slightly as she shifted, and the air cool against her dampening thighs.

Alex licked again, slower this time, his tongue flat against the fabric, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy. His rubbing turned frantic, the outlines of his cock clear now, thick and throbbing under the denim. Monica’s mind raced with images she couldn’t suppress: what if she stepped in, what if she let him see her like this, tits swaying freely, nipples hard as diamonds? The thought made her clit pulse, a fresh gush of arousal trickling down her inner thigh.

She was ashamed, so ashamed, but the mixed emotions only heightened the intensity—the wrongness making it intoxicating. Her body hummed with need, every nerve alight, as she stood there, heels rooted to the spot, watching her son lose himself in her most intimate scent. The buildup was agonizing, her lust coiling tighter, demanding release, even as her conscience screamed to stop.

Finally, with a shuddering gasp, Alex came, his body jerking as he ground against his hand, a wet spot blooming on his jeans. Monica’s pussy throbbed in response, her own climax hovering dangerously close just from the sight. She backed away quietly, heart pounding, shame and desire warring inside her as she retreated to the hallway, her massive tits heaving with each ragged breath.

But the image lingered, burned into her mind, and as she leaned against the wall, one hand slipping under her skirt to press against her soaked pussy, she knew this was only the beginning of something she couldn’t control.

- Monica’s pulse thundered in her ears as she slipped away from the doorway, her body still buzzing from the illicit spectacle. The hallway felt too exposed, her skin prickling with the cool air brushing against the dampness between her thighs. She hurried to her bedroom, the short skirt swishing against her legs, her heavy breasts shifting with each hurried step. Shame gnawed at her—what kind of mother gets off on her own son’s perversion?—but it tangled with a deeper, insistent hunger that made her clit ache for more. The wetness in her panties had turned into a slick trail, soaking through the fabric, and she couldn’t ignore the way her nipples strained against the thin blouse, begging for friction.

She closed her bedroom door most of the way, leaving just a sliver of space—enough to invite curiosity, enough to tempt. Her hands shook as she peeled off the blouse first, the material whispering over her skin like a lover’s breath. Her massive DD tits spilled free, bouncing heavily, the large areolas already darkened and pebbled from the arousal coursing through her. She cupped them briefly, thumbs grazing the stiff peaks, a soft moan escaping her lips at the jolt of pleasure that shot straight to her core. I’m so fucking wet, she thought, the guilt twisting into something hotter, more urgent.

The skirt came next, shimmying down her curvy hips to pool at her feet. She kicked off her heels reluctantly—they made her feel powerful, seductive—but nudity demanded vulnerability, raw exposure. Stepping out of her soaked panties last, she felt the cool air kiss her bare pussy, the lips swollen and glistening with her warm juices. Her fingers hovered there, tempted to dip in, to ease the throbbing need, but she held back. This was for him now, for whatever twisted game her body craved.

Naked, she stretched out on the bed, the sheets cool against her heated skin. Propping herself on pillows, she arranged her limbs just so—one leg bent, knee drawn up to part her thighs slightly, offering a glimpse of her slick folds if he dared to look. Her tits lay heavy on her chest, rising and falling with her quick breaths, nipples pointing skyward like invitations. The room smelled faintly of her earlier arousal, mingled with the lavender of her lotion, and she wondered if he’d notice, if it would pull him in like her panties had.

Minutes ticked by, each one stretching her nerves taut. Her mind raced with scenarios: What if he burst in shocked? What if he touched her, his young hands exploring the curves he’d only fantasized about? The thought made her pussy clench, a fresh bead of moisture trickling down her ass crack. She squeezed her thighs together, the pressure teasing her clit, building the ache without relief. Shame burned her cheeks—this is wrong, so wrong—but it only amplified the lust, her body betraying her with every throb, every flush of heat.

She heard Footsteps in the hall—hesitant, then closer. Her heart slammed against her ribs, breath catching as the door creaked open a fraction more. Alex’s shadow fell across the floor, his silhouette pausing in the gap. She kept still, eyes half-lidded, pretending to sleep, but her senses sharpened: the faint hitch in his breathing, the way the air shifted as he stepped inside.

He froze, eyes widening at the sight of her sprawled nude on the bed, her voluptuous body on full display. Monica’s skin tingled under his gaze, feeling it rake over her like a physical touch—from the swell of her tits, down the soft curve of her belly, to the inviting V between her legs. She shifted subtly, letting her knee fall open a bit more, exposing the pink, wet slit of her pussy, the way her inner lips parted slightly with her intense arousal.