Mommy's Messy Throne: Recovery to a Filthy Family Forevever
by Nesti Traguenman
Copyright© 2026 by Nesti Traguenman
Incest Story: A devoted son cares for his paralyzed mom post-surgery: holding her during accidents, cleaning her tenderly, sleeping naked inside her for comfort. Their bond turns deeply erotic—daily insertions, shared mess, nursing rituals. Later Sara & Giulia join, forming a loving throuple + mom dynamic. Intense intimacy, messy bonding, marriage, date, beach nudity, unbreakable family love.
Caution: This Incest Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma Consensual Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Incest Mother BDSM MaleDom Anal Sex Analingus Exhibitionism Masturbation Oral Sex Scatology Spitting Voyeurism Water Sports Big Breasts Body Modification .
The hospital discharge papers were still in my purse when we got back to the house. The drive from the city had been quiet—mostly just the hum of the highway and the occasional soft question from him: “You okay, Mom? Need me to pull over?” I kept saying yes, I’m fine, even though every bump in the road sent a dull fire through the metal pins holding my spine together.
He was twenty now. Taller than I remembered, broader in the shoulders, voice deeper. He’d flown in from halfway across the country the day after the accident, left his job, his apartment, everything, without hesitation. “You’re family,” he’d said on the phone. That word still felt new between us, even after all these years.
Inside the house the air smelled like the lavender candle I’d left burning the morning I left for work six weeks earlier. Everything was exactly where it had been, except now I couldn’t reach most of it.
“I have to pee,” I said, hating how small my voice sounded.
He didn’t laugh or look embarrassed. He just nodded. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
The master bathroom was too narrow for the walker and both of us, so we stopped in the hallway. He slid one arm around my back—careful, so careful—below the surgical brace, above the worst of the tenderness. His other hand found mine, fingers lacing tight.
“Lean on me,” he said. “All your weight. I’ve got you.”
I did. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. The brace kept my torso rigid, so every step was a negotiation with gravity. By the time we reached the toilet I was breathing hard, sweat already prickling under the thin hospital-issue cotton shirt.
He helped me turn. Lowered me slowly. When my hips touched the seat I let out a shaky laugh that was half relief, half mortification.
“I can’t believe I need help to sit on a toilet.”
“Stop,” he said gently. “You just had major surgery. This is temporary.”
He didn’t move away. Just crouched in front of me so our eyes were level, forearms resting on his thighs.
“You want privacy? I can step out. Or I can stay right here and hold your hand. Whatever you need.”
I looked down at our joined fingers. His were warm, calloused from whatever manual work he’d been doing out west. Mine were cold, trembling.
“I ... I don’t think I can wipe,” I admitted. The words burned my cheeks. “And I can’t reach. The brace—”
“I know.” No judgment. Just fact. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
I swallowed. “Stay. Please.”
He nodded once. Stood up enough to reach the toilet paper, tore off a generous wad, then knelt again. His free hand stayed in mine while the other one moved carefully between my thighs.
The first touch was so clinical it almost didn’t register as intimate. Just soft pressure, thorough, gentle. But then I felt the heat of his palm so close to everything else, felt the slow drag of paper against skin that hadn’t been touched by anyone in months—maybe years—and something low in my belly clenched.
He paused when my breath hitched.
“Too much?” he asked quietly.
“No.” My voice cracked. “Just ... keep going.”
He did. Slower now. More deliberate. When he finished he dropped the tissue in the bowl, reached past me to flush, then stayed there—knees bracketing my open thighs, face inches from mine.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
“I’m scared I’m going to fall.”
“You won’t.” His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist. “I’ve got you.”
I looked at him—really looked. The boy I’d raised in fragments was gone. This was a man. Tired from travel, stubble on his jaw, eyes dark and steady. And he was looking back at me like I was still the most important person in his world.
“I need to stand,” I whispered.
He rose first, braced both hands under my arms, lifted with the kind of strength that made my knees feel even weaker. When I was upright he didn’t let go. Just held me against his chest while my heart hammered against the brace.
“You’re doing so good,” he said against my hair. Soft. Almost reverent. “My brave girl.”
The words landed like a spark on dry grass.
He helped me shuffle to the sink. I braced my palms on the counter while he ran warm water, soaped a washcloth, then—without asking—gently wiped between my legs again, cleaning what the tissue had missed. Slow circles. Careful pressure. My thighs trembled.
“Does that feel okay?” he asked.
“Too okay,” I breathed.
His eyes flicked up to mine in the mirror. Held.
“Tell me to stop,” he said. Low. Serious.
I didn’t.
Instead I whispered, “Don’t.”
He set the cloth aside. Dried me with a fresh towel—soft terry dragging over sensitive skin. Then his bare hand returned. No pretense now. Just skin on skin. One finger tracing the seam of me, slow, exploratory, like he was memorizing every fold.
“Mom...” The word was rough. Hungry.
I gripped the counter harder. “Say it again.”
“Mom.” He pressed closer, chest to my back, erection unmistakable against my hip through his jeans. “You’re so wet already.”
A broken sound escaped me.
He slid one finger inside—slow, shallow—then added another. Curled them. Found the spot that made my spine light up in a way the surgery never could.
“Like that?” he murmured.
“Yes—God—yes.”
His other arm wrapped around my waist, careful of the brace, holding me upright while his fingers worked. Steady rhythm. Deep. Wet sounds filling the bathroom.
“You’ve been taking care of everyone else for so long,” he said against my ear. “Let me take care of you now.”
I came fast—too fast—shuddering against his hand, thighs clamping around his wrist, a sob caught in my throat.
He didn’t pull away. Just kept his fingers buried, thumb circling my clit in lazy strokes until the aftershocks faded.
When I could breathe again he kissed the side of my neck. Soft. Once.
“Bed,” he said. “You need to rest.”
I laughed weakly. “I don’t think rest is what I need right now.”
He smiled against my skin—small, wicked. “We’ve got six more weeks of recovery, Mom. Plenty of time.”
He scooped me up—careful, bridal-style, brace and all—and carried me to the bedroom like I weighed nothing.
The door clicked shut behind us.
And for the first time since the accident, I didn’t feel broken at all.
The next morning light filtered through the half-closed blinds, soft and golden, turning the bedroom into something almost gentle. I woke up sore in places the doctors hadn’t warned me about—places that had nothing to do with the pins in my spine. My body remembered his fingers better than it remembered how to roll over without wincing.
He was already up. I heard the kettle click off in the kitchen, the quiet clink of a mug. Then footsteps. Bare feet on hardwood.
He knocked once—soft—before pushing the door open with his shoulder. In his hands: a tray with tea, toast, two pain pills, and a glass of water. He looked like he hadn’t slept much either. Hair still damp from his own shower, t-shirt clinging a little to his chest.
“Morning, Mom,” he said. Voice low. Careful. Like he was testing the air between us.
I pushed myself up against the pillows, brace creaking. “Morning.”
He set the tray on the nightstand, sat on the edge of the bed. Close enough that I could smell his soap—clean, cedar-y. His eyes flicked over me: hospital gown still on from yesterday, wrinkled, thin straps slipping off one shoulder.
“You need the bathroom?” he asked.
I nodded. The pressure was already there, insistent.
He didn’t hesitate. Slid one arm behind my back, the other under my knees. Lifted me like I was glass. I looped my good arm around his neck and let him carry me the short distance down the hall.
This time he didn’t ask about privacy.
He set me on the toilet the same way—slow, steady—then crouched in front of me again. Our faces level. His hands stayed on my hips, thumbs brushing the brace straps through the gown.
“I can’t—” I started.
“I know.” He reached under the hem of the gown, gathered it up just enough. Cool air hit the tops of my thighs. “Just relax. Let it happen.”
I closed my eyes.
The sound came first—soft hiss against porcelain. Warmth spreading. I felt my face burn, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His thumbs kept moving in tiny, soothing circles on my skin.
When the stream tapered he didn’t move right away. Just waited until the last drop fell.
Then the rustle of tissue. He tore off a long strip, folded it once, twice. Brought it between my legs.
The first wipe was slow. Front to back. Gentle pressure. I sucked in a breath when the paper grazed my clit—already swollen from last night’s memory.
He paused. “Hurt?”
“No,” I whispered. “Opposite.”
He made a quiet sound in his throat. Did it again. Slower. Let the tissue drag. Once. Twice. Then a third time, pressing just enough that I felt it everywhere.
“Clean now?” he asked. Voice rougher.
I nodded. Eyes still shut.
He dropped the tissue. Flushed. But he didn’t stand. Instead his fingers returned—bare this time. Two of them sliding along my folds, spreading the slickness he’d just uncovered.
“You’re dripping,” he murmured. Almost reverent. “All from me helping you pee?”
A whimper slipped out.
He circled my clit once—lazy—then pushed inside. Just one finger. Deep enough to make my hips twitch despite the brace.
“Open your eyes, Mom.”
I did.
He was watching my face. Not my body. My face. Like he needed to see every flicker.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said.
“It’s not.”
He added the second finger. Pumped slow. Wet sounds echoed off the tiles. My breathing turned ragged.
“You’re clenching so hard,” he whispered. “Like you’re scared I’ll stop.”
“I am.”
He leaned in. Forehead against mine. “I won’t.”
His thumb found my clit again. Small, firm circles while his fingers curled inside. I came quietly this time—shuddering, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper. He held me through it, fingers still buried, letting me ride the pulses until I went limp against his shoulder.
When he finally pulled out he brought his hand to his mouth. Sucked his fingers clean while I watched, dazed.
Then he kissed my temple. Soft.
“Let’s get you showered.”
He carried me to the walk-in shower. The kind with the built-in bench my dad had installed years ago “just in case.” I’d laughed at the time. Now I was grateful.
He stripped the gown off me without ceremony. Let it drop to the tile. I stood there—naked, brace still on, scars still angry red along my spine—while he adjusted the water temperature.
I closed my eyes again.
He stepped in behind me. Fully clothed at first—jeans, t-shirt—then I heard the wet slap of denim hitting the floor, the rustle of cotton. When he pressed against my back he was bare. Hard. Hot.
He didn’t push inside. Just held me. Let the water cascade over both of us.
Soap next. He lathered his hands. Started at my shoulders. Slow circles. Down my arms. Over the tops of my breasts—careful around the brace. Palms sliding under them, lifting, thumbs brushing nipples until they peaked.
“Beautiful,” he murmured against my ear. “Every inch.”
Lower. Stomach. Hips. Then between my legs again—gentle, thorough. Washing away the evidence of what he’d just done in the bathroom. Fingers parting me, rinsing, lingering.
I leaned back against his chest. Let him take my weight.
When he turned me to face him I kept my eyes closed. Couldn’t look yet. Too much.
He washed my hair. Fingertips massaging my scalp. Rinsed. Conditioner. Combed through with his fingers.
Only when the water started to cool did he speak.
“Open your eyes, Mom.”
I did.
Water droplets clung to his lashes. His mouth was soft, parted. Cock thick and flushed between us, brushing my thigh every time either of us shifted.
He didn’t ask. Just guided my hand down. Wrapped my fingers around him.
“Touch me,” he said. Quiet command wrapped in please.
I stroked once. Slow. Felt him jump in my grip.
His forehead dropped to mine again.
“Like that,” he breathed. “Just like that.”
I kept going. Water sluicing over us. His hips rocking into my fist. Breath hitching.
When he came it was with my name on his lips—half moan, half prayer—spilling hot over my knuckles, washed away almost instantly by the shower.
He held me after. Both of us trembling.
“Six more weeks,” he whispered.
I laughed against his throat. Weak. Happy.
“Six more weeks,” I echoed.
He turned off the water.
Carried me back to bed—still dripping, still naked.
Tucked me in.
And when he climbed in beside me, skin warm against mine, I didn’t close my eyes again.
Not for a long time.
The day passed in slow, heavy heat. The robe never really settled back into place. By afternoon it had twisted completely—front gaping wide so both breasts spilled free whenever I shifted, the thin cotton clinging damply to my skin from sweat and the constant low throb between my legs. The back stayed open the whole time, cool air kissing the full length of my spine, the curve of my ass, the backs of my thighs. Every time he helped me stand or sit, the fabric rode higher until it bunched uselessly under my arms like a forgotten belt. I was naked from the waist down for hours—pussy bare, lips swollen and glistening, no attempt to cover myself. He never fixed it. Never looked away.
His eyes kept drifting. Dark. Hungry. Every glance made his cock twitch visibly in his loose sweatpants. By evening it was obscene—thick, rigid, the head outlined clearly through the gray fabric, a dark wet spot spreading at the tip where he’d been leaking all day. He didn’t hide it. Didn’t adjust. Just let me see how hard he stayed for me, how the outline throbbed every time I parted my legs a little wider on the couch or let the robe fall open completely while he fed me bites of dinner.
“Mommy’s so bare for her boy,” he said softly once, voice thick. “Look at you ... tits out, pussy dripping, not even trying to cover up. You like me seeing everything, don’t you?”
I nodded, cheeks burning. “Yes, baby. Mommy likes you looking. Likes how hard it makes you.”
He swallowed hard. His hand rested on his erection through the pants—just holding, not stroking. “It hurts,” he whispered. “Been hard since morning. Every time I see your wet little slit ... fuck, Mommy, I can smell how turned on you are.”
We didn’t do more than touch lightly. His fingers tracing my folds while we watched TV. My hand cupping the heavy length of him through fabric, feeling it pulse. Slow. No rush. Just building.
That night I woke to warmth spreading under me.
I’d peed. Not a lot—just enough to soak the sheet beneath my hips and the robe bunched at my waist. The wet heat cooled fast against my bare ass and pussy. Shame flooded me, sharp and hot.
“Baby...” My voice cracked in the dark.
He stirred immediately. Arm tightening around me.
“I wet the bed,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t flinch. Just kissed my shoulder.
“Shhh. It’s okay, Mommy. Happens. You’re still healing. Let me take care of it.”
He eased out from behind me. Clicked on the bedside lamp—low, warm light. I squeezed my eyes shut at first, mortified, but he murmured, “Open them. Look at me.”
I did.
He was rock-hard again—cock straining straight up in his briefs, the wet spot from earlier now joined by fresh pre-cum. He didn’t try to hide it.
He peeled the soaked sheet away first. Then the robe—completely. Untied the last loose strings and slid it off me like shedding skin. I lay there naked on the damp mattress: breasts heavy, nipples tight from the cool air, pussy slick with more than just pee, thighs trembling.
“So beautiful,” he said quietly. “Even like this. Especially like this.”
He scooped me up—naked, brace and all—and carried me to the bathroom. The shower was already running warm when he stepped us both under the spray. He stripped his briefs last, cock springing free—thick, veined, flushed dark red, the head shiny. It bobbed against my thigh as he held me upright.
He soaped me slowly. Hands everywhere. Lathering my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until I whimpered. Down my stomach. Between my legs—fingers parting my folds, washing away the mess with gentle strokes. He knelt to rinse my pussy, water cascading over us, his mouth inches from me but never closing the distance.
“You’re so soft here,” he murmured against my thigh. “So wet even after peeing. Mommy’s little cunt never stops wanting her boy, does it?”
“No,” I breathed. “Never.”
He stood. Pressed his erection against my hip—hot, slick with water and pre-cum. Let me feel every inch while he rinsed my back, careful around the brace.
When we were clean he turned off the water. Dried me with the big towel—patting, not rubbing. Every inch. Even between my legs, slow drags that made me gasp.
Back in the bedroom he stripped the wet sheets, put fresh ones down. Then he laid me in the center—completely naked. No robe. No cover. Just me on my back, legs slightly parted, pussy glistening under the lamp, breasts rising and falling with every breath.
He climbed in beside me. Naked too. Cock still hard, curving up toward his stomach, a bead of pre-cum at the tip.
He pulled the clean sheet only up to our waists. Left my breasts and everything below bare to the air—and to his eyes.
“Sleep like this,” he whispered, spooning me again. His erection nestled hot against the cleft of my ass. “No hiding. Mommy stays naked for her boy all night. Let me feel you. Let me stay hard against you.”
I pressed back. Just enough.
“Yes, baby,” I whispered. “Mommy stays naked. For you.”
His hand cupped my breast—gentle, possessive. Thumb brushing the nipple.
“Sleep now,” he said against my ear. “Your boy’s got you. Hard and ready whenever you need.”
I closed my eyes.
The ache between us simmered.
No rush.
Just skin.
Just heat.
Just us.
The next night came quiet, the house dark except for the faint hallway glow slipping under the bedroom door. We were tangled the same way—naked skin on naked skin, his cock still half-hard against the small of my back even in sleep, my breasts pressed to his chest when I’d rolled toward him earlier. No robe anymore. No sheet pulled high. Just us, bare and warm under the thin blanket he’d draped loosely over our hips.
I woke to the sudden, helpless rush.
It came fast—too fast. Warm flood spreading under me, over my thighs, across his hip and stomach where he was spooned tight behind me. A lot. More than before. The wet heat soaked the mattress instantly, pooling around us, running in little rivulets down his side, dripping onto the floor before it hit the plastic sheet he’d put down after the first accident.
I froze. Then the shame hit like a slap.
Tears came immediately—hot, silent at first, then small choked sobs.
“Baby—I’m sorry—I couldn’t—I tried to hold it—”
He stirred. Arm tightening around me. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch even as the warm stream kept going, soaking his skin, his cock, the crease where his thigh met mine.
“Shhh, Mommy,” he whispered against my ear. Voice thick with sleep and something softer. “It’s okay. It’s just pee. I’ve got you.”
I cried harder—shoulders shaking, face buried in the pillow. “It’s so much ... I got it all over you ... I’m disgusting—”
“No.” His hand slid up to cup my cheek, thumb wiping tears even as his body stayed pressed to my soaked back. “You’re not. You’re healing. Your body’s still waking up from everything they did to you. This isn’t your fault.”
He didn’t move to get up right away. Just held me through the last trickles, letting the warmth spread between us until it started to cool. His cock—still hard, impossibly—twitched once against my ass, slick now with more than just pre-cum.
When the flow finally stopped he kissed my shoulder. Slow. Once.
“C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s clean up.”
He lifted me—naked, dripping, brace and all—and carried me straight to the shower without bothering with towels or lights. The plastic sheet had caught most of the mess on the bed; the mattress stayed mostly dry underneath. He didn’t even glance back at it.
Under the warm spray he stood behind me again—completely nude, skin glistening, cock thick and flushed, pointing up like it hadn’t noticed the accident at all. He soaped me first. Hands slow and thorough. Lathered my breasts, my stomach, then knelt so the water ran over us both while he parted my thighs and washed between them—gentle strokes over my pussy, rinsing away every trace of what I’d done.
“You’re still so pretty here,” he said quietly, fingers tracing my folds. “Even after. Always.”
I sniffled, tears mixing with shower water. “You’re soaked because of me.”
He stood. Pressed his body to mine—chest to my back, erection sliding hot and slick along the cleft of my ass.
“I like being soaked by you,” he whispered. “Any part of you. All of you.”
He washed himself next—quick, efficient—then rinsed us both. Dried me with the big towel, patting every inch like before. Carried me back to the bedroom.
The bed was already stripped and remade—he’d done it silently while I stood dripping in the bathroom doorway. Fresh sheets. Plastic protector still in place. He laid me down in the center—naked, legs slightly parted, breasts rising with shaky breaths, pussy still flushed and damp from the wash.
He didn’t reach for clothes. Didn’t put anything on himself either. Just climbed in beside me—still nude, cock heavy against his thigh, skin warm from the shower.
He pulled the sheet only to our waists again. Left everything above and below bare.
“Sleep, Mommy,” he said, spooning me close. His hand settled on my bare breast, thumb brushing the nipple once. “If it happens again tonight ... or tomorrow ... or the next day ... I’ll still be right here. Still naked. Still hard for you. Still cleaning you. Still holding you.”
I turned my face into his neck. Whispered, “Promise?”
“Promise.”
And it did become routine.
For the next three or four days—maybe five—the nights blurred the same way.
I’d wake to the warm rush—sometimes small, sometimes a helpless flood—spreading over the plastic, over his hip, his stomach, his cock. I’d cry every time at first, soft apologies tumbling out. He never once got upset. Never pulled away. Just murmured “Shhh, baby, it’s okay” and held me tighter while it happened.
Then the carry to the shower. Him nude the whole time—cock staying hard, sometimes leaking as he washed me. Slow soaping of my breasts, my ass, between my legs. His fingers lingering just enough to make me whimper. Rinsing me while his erection pressed against my thigh or hip like a constant reminder.
Back to bed. Always naked. Always the sheet low. His body curled around mine, skin still damp, cock nestled hot against me.
By the fourth night I stopped crying when it happened.
I just whispered, “Baby ... Mommy peed again.”
And he’d kiss my neck. “I know. I feel it. Let it all out for me.”
Then the same slow shower. The same bare return to bed.
His hardness never faded through any of it. If anything, it got thicker, more insistent—throbbing against me every time we lay back down, pre-cum smearing on my skin like quiet proof of how much he wanted this version of me: broken open, leaking, helpless, and still his.
“Three more weeks of the brace,” he said one morning, voice rough, fingers tracing lazy circles around my nipple while his cock pulsed against my ass. “Three more weeks of nights like this. You gonna be okay with that, Mommy?”
I pressed back against him. Felt him twitch.
“Yes, baby,” I whispered. “Mommy’s okay with it. As long as you keep staying naked with me. As long as you keep getting so hard every time I ... lose control.”
He groaned low in his throat. Kissed the back of my neck.
“Deal.”
And we kept going like that—night after night—until the routine felt less like an accident and more like the only way we knew how to touch each other anymore.
He rigged the bed with a thick, soft plastic under-sheet the very next afternoon—quiet, efficient, no fuss. Just unclipped the old one, laid this new one down smooth under the fitted sheet, tucked it tight. “No more mess on the mattress,” he said simply, patting the plastic like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Now whatever happens stays right here. Between us.”
That night it happened again.
I woke to the familiar helpless rush—warm, steady, a lot more than before. It poured out of me in a long, unstoppable stream, soaking the sheet instantly, spreading wide across my hips, his stomach, his thighs, his cock where it lay heavy against me. The plastic caught it all; no dripping to the floor this time. Just a growing, shallow lake forming right there in the dip of the mattress between our bodies. Warm. Slick. Spreading like slow water over skin.
I started to tense, ready to apologize again, but he only tightened his arm around my waist.
“Don’t,” he whispered against my ear. “Don’t move. Don’t cry. Just let it happen.”
So I did.
The pee kept coming—soft hiss against the plastic, warm waves lapping higher over his hip, pooling in the crease where his thigh met mine, sliding down the cleft of my ass, coating his balls. It felt endless. Intimate. Wrong and right at once.
When it finally slowed to a trickle he didn’t jump up. Didn’t reach for towels. Just stayed spooned tight behind me, cock now fully hard again—thicker, hotter—sliding through the warm wetness that covered us both.
“Look at it,” he murmured. Voice low, reverent. “Look at what Mommy made for her boy.”
I glanced down in the dim light. The sheet was dark and clinging, plastered to our skin. A glistening sea stretched between us—shallow, shimmering, warm—rippling every time one of us breathed. His erection rose up through it like an island, the head flushed dark, pre-cum mixing with my pee in thin silvery threads.
He shifted—just enough—and his hand slid down between us. Fingers dipped into the warm pool. Scooped a little. Let it run back down over my folds, slow and deliberate.
“Feel that?” he asked softly. “So warm. So much of you. All over me.”
His fingers played—lazy, exploratory. Tracing circles through the wetness on my inner thighs. Sliding up to coat my clit with it. Dipping inside me—mixing my pee with my own slickness—then pulling out to smear it over my swollen lips.
I whimpered. Hips twitching despite the brace.
“Baby ... what are you—”
“Shhh.” He kissed the back of my neck. “Just playing. Mommy’s pee feels so good on my fingers. So slippery. Makes everything wetter.”
He brought his hand up—dripping—and rubbed it over my breast. Slow circles around my nipple until it peaked hard under the warm, slick coating. Then back down. Scooping more from the growing puddle between us. Painting my pussy with it. Parting my folds. Circling my clit again—slow, slippery strokes that made my breath hitch.
“You’re getting harder,” I whispered, feeling his cock throb against my ass, sliding through the warm sea every time he rocked the tiniest bit.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Can’t help it. Seeing you let go like this ... feeling it all over me ... fuck, Mommy. It’s like you’re marking me. Claiming me.”
He dipped lower—fingers sliding through the wetness coating his own cock now. Stroking himself once—slow—spreading my pee over his length like lube. Then back to me. Two fingers inside again, pumping gently through the mix of everything.
We stayed like that for long minutes. No rush to clean up. No getting out of bed. Just lying in the warm, shallow river we’d made together—his hand playing between my legs, mine reaching back to wrap around his slick cock, stroking him through the wetness in the same slow rhythm.
“More?” he asked eventually. Voice rough.
I nodded. “More.”
He scooped another handful—let it pour over my clit in a warm trickle. Watched it run down. Groaned low when I clenched.
“Such a good Mommy,” he murmured. “Giving me everything. Even this.”
We played until the warmth started to cool—his fingers never stopping, my hand never leaving his cock. When the lake finally began to feel sticky instead of liquid he kissed my shoulder.
“Shower soon,” he said. “But not yet. Stay here a little longer. Let me feel you like this.”
So we did.
And the next night—when it happened again—the routine deepened.
Pee spreading wide. Plastic catching it. Us staying right there in the warm sea. His fingers dipping, playing, painting. My hand on him. Slow strokes. Quiet whispers.
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.