Chapter 803 - 802- Banging the Thick Mommy

Chapter 803: Chapter 802- Banging the Thick Mommy

She turned her head. The vanity mirror — still fogged, still covered with the residue from our earlier session — was beside the bed. She sat up. Her thick body moved — slow, pained, the muscles protesting after hours of fucking. She leaned toward the mirror. Wiped the fog with her palm.

Her eyes widened.

Her hand went to her face. Both hands. Touching her cheeks, her jaw, her forehead. The fine lines — the crow’s feet, the laugh lines, the slight sag beneath her chin — were diminished. Not gone. But reduced. Faded. As if someone had taken an eraser to the signs of aging and rubbed gently.

"How?" she breathed. Her fingers traced her cheekbone. "How is this possible?!"

I stood behind her. My cock — still hanging, still interested — leaned over her shoulder. The head rested against her cheek. A drop of residual cum — the last bit, the part that hadn’t absorbed — sat on her skin like a pearl.

She looked at me. In the mirror. Her eyes — wide, shocked, desperate for explanation — searched my face.

"How?" she said again. "How is this possible?"

I reached around her. My hand found her pussy. Cupped it. The heat — still radiating, still wet — pulsed against my palm. I kneaded. My fingers pressed into the soft flesh, the lips parting, the clit stiffening.

She moaned. Her head fell back against my chest. Her hips pushed forward — grinding against my hand.

"It is work of my seed," I said.

Her eyes — half-closed, the pleasure building — blinked. "How? Is it some kind of magic?"

"It is." My fingers slid inside her. Two. The walls clenched. "I can make a woman beautiful if they take my face cream."

She stared at me. In the mirror. Her face — younger, smoother, the effects visible — stared back.

"Face cream," she repeated. The academic brain — the one she’d passed to her daughter — fired. Analyzing. Processing. "You mean — your semen. Applied to the skin. It has regenerative properties?"

"Something like that." I curled my fingers inside her. Found the spot — the rough patch on the anterior wall. Pressed.

She gasped. Her hips jerked. "AH—!!"

I sucked her breast. From behind, leaning over her shoulder, my mouth found the nipple. The milk flowed — sweet, warm, thick. I drank. My fingers worked inside her. The dual stimulation — my mouth on her nipple, my fingers in her pussy — drove her toward another orgasm.

"How — HNNGH~!! — how is it — OUNGH~!! — possible—"

I released her nipple. Looked at her. In the mirror. Her face — flushed, younger, beautiful — stared back.

"Why don’t you try to lift that table?" I said. I nodded toward the nightstand — a heavy oak piece, solid, the kind that took two servants to move.

She blinked. "No. I cannot."

"Naturally," I said. "See — being a woman, how can you lift a heavy table?"

I slapped her ass. The sound was sharp. Her thick cheek rippled. She yelped.

"Come on. Do it. You’re my woman."

She trembled. Her hand went to her reddened cheek. "You are hitting me. I am your mother-in-law."

I laughed. "We have just had a fuck session. Do you really think it matters now?"

She stared at me. Her mouth opened. Closed. The argument — the last bastion of her maternal authority — crumbled. She stood. Walked — unsteadily, her thick legs trembling — to the nightstand. She grabbed it. Braced herself.

And lifted.

The table came off the floor. Six inches. A foot. She held it — her arms shaking, her face contorted with effort, but holding it. The strength — impossible, unexplainable, the strength of a woman who had never lifted anything heavier than a tea tray — surged through her body.

"How is it possible?" she whispered. She set the table down. Stared at her hands. "How?"

I hugged her from behind. My chest against her back. My cock — hard again, always hard, perpetually, insatiably hard — pressed against her ass. One hand found her pussy. Cupped it. The other found her breast. Kneaded.

She moaned. Her head fell back against my shoulder. "Wait — wait — son, no—"

I kissed her neck. My lips found the soft skin beneath her ear. The spot — the one that made her shiver, the one I’d discovered during our first session — was sensitive. She gasped.

"Do you like it, mother?" I murmured against her skin.

She trembled. "No — wait — it hurts—"

My fingers — inside her pussy — curled. Pressed. The walls clenched around me. Her hips jerked forward, grinding against my hand.

"Don’t you think," I said, my voice low, each word punctuated by a curl of my fingers, "if I fucked you more — you would become even more gorgeous?"

She trembled. Her hands — which had been gripping my forearms — tightened. "No — no more — I cannot—"

I kissed her. My lips found hers. The kiss was deep — my tongue pushing into her mouth, claiming her, tasting the residual salt of my cum. She kissed back — reluctantly at first, then with increasing desperation. Her tongue found mine. Her hands went to my hair. Gripping. Pulling.

I pulled away. Her eyes — half-closed, dazed — tried to focus on mine.

"Don’t you want to share this secret," I said, "with your noble friends? Ladies?"

She trembled. The shake was violent — her entire body, every soft inch, shuddering against me. "No — does it mean they would have to also have sex with you?"

"Of course."

She shook her head. "No — my daughter — I would never betray—"

I chuckled. The sound was dark. Knowing. "You already got fucked by me. Do you think what will happen if your daughter knows this?"

The color drained from her face. Then flooded back — crimson, violent, the blush of a woman confronting the consequences of her choices. "No — no, no, no — don’t tell her. I beg you." Her eyes filled. Tears — real tears, not orgasmic ones — spilled down her cheeks. "Please. I beg you."

She looked at me. Crying. Her face — younger, smoother, beautiful — was twisted with fear. The fear of a mother who had betrayed her daughter and was now at the mercy of the man she’d betrayed her with.

I chuckled. Hugged her. Her body — soft, warm, trembling — pressed against mine. Her breasts — heavy, milk-leaking — flattened against my chest. Her tears wet my shoulder.

I held her. Felt her. The sensation of her body — mature, full, surrendered — against mine was delicious. The warmth. The softness. The desperate clinging of a woman who had nowhere else to go.

"I will not," I said. "But you have to make sure to tell the secret."

She pulled back. Her tear-streaked face searched mine. "Tell them? Tell them what?"

"That there is a man who can make them young. If they have sex with him."

She trembled. Shook her head. "It’s embarrassing. I cannot — tell my friends — that I — that my son-in-law—"

I leaned forward. Kissed her. The kiss was gentle — not the aggressive, claiming kiss from before. This one was soft. Tender. The kiss of a lover, not a conqueror. Her eyes rolled. Her arms went around my neck. She hugged me — tight, desperate, the embrace of a woman surrendering everything.

Her hand found my cock. Held it. Rubbed. The motion was unconscious — her body acting on instinct, her fingers tracing the length, the girth, the veins. She looked down. At my cock, pressing against her belly button. The head — dark, swollen — leaked pre-cum onto her skin.

"How," she whispered. "How are you still hard?"

I smiled. "Should we go for another round?"

Her eyes widened. "No — no, wait — son-in-law—"