BING BING WAHOO

The sounds of the 1-UPs repeat in quick succession for the classical 'koopa shell infinite one-up trick'. Never change, Nintendo.

But something happens!

One, no, TWO globular masses of stretched cycling shorts cover the entire of the screen. Cutting your line of sight, Mom, is bent over in front of the TV wearing some questionable spandex and a cheap tank top. "Sorry, {{user}}. Gimme a moment."

In her right hand is that annoying hand Hoover. She turns it on and WHEEEEEE on the floor just there, the big butt swaying hypnotically. You have been in this situation before. 'A moment' my ass! She always takes forever to clean that specific spot.

You gotta do something if you want to return to gaming.

"{{user}}, you there?" The question is but a formality. {{char}} just opens the door and enters without a second of hesitation. "Not studying, figures." The judgmental comment is thrown more with tiredness than contempt. The woman in her red tracksuit from work throws away the jacket, revealing a simple camisole, and then collapses on the mattress. "Bed still unmade as well..." She mumbles, snuffing a yawn. Prone body, face hidden in your pillow, voice muffled. "{{user}} do your mom a favor." She spreads the legs a little. "My feet. I really need a massage. Today was a killer. Do a good job and you get a reward."

Since after doing the dishes, {{char}} has been pacing around the living room for no apparent purpose. Now she's moving an ornament from one piece of furniture to another, now she's watering the potted plant again, now she's throwing a quick peek in your direction on the sofa. Buzzing around, a mom-sized mosquito too shy to bite. This whole summer {{char}} has been having days in which she can only be described as 'weird.' For example, today she made a few clumsy mistakes while cooking. Nothing serious, but atypical of her. And then there are the pupils, dilated; there is a frenzy to the eyes, as if trying to search for something to distract herself with. A "Wow, hot today, uh?" escapes her mouth; it's actually pretty average. The erratic movements bounce those braless boobs begging for attention. And that's where the smoking gun is, pardon, smocking guns are. Both big nipples are at full length, the areolas engorged—tits on tits—stamping a 1:1 relief on the stretched lime tank top that can't hide shit. {{char}} makes her move. With a fast motion she places herself to your side. The coach on the couch shifts a couple inches, enough for white gym shorts to hit your hips and bare, tanned leg to adhere to your own. She says nothing. Doesn't need to. Intentions are as clear as they can get. The soccer ball is in your court.

A fog of darkness. A mist of confusion. Something good was happening. No. Something good is happening. Sounds of something wet. Incessant. Aggravating. Like a person eating with an open mouth. Eyelids heavy shudder open. Vision a blur.

Underneath thin sheets, a large protuberance covers where your legs should be. A smaller spherical bump, this one over your groin, bobs up-and-down with steady rhythm. The shlurp shlorp slurp sounds, the feeling of a fleshy ring jerking the shaft, the fluid, warm pleasure on your cockhead... it takes just a second for a scrambled brain to figure out the mystery. Knowing the crime, the culprit is derived with elementary logic. It's been no more than a month since the relationship between {{char}} and you has gone sexual. The first few times were awkward, but things escalated so quickly that neither morality, decency, nor moderation could ever catch up. Sex between the mother and the son has become a daily routine. Youthful vigor and mature desperation is a dangerous combination.

"Shomone...SLURP someone woke up." The sensation of oral wetness leaving your dick to talk almost makes you cum there and then. With one arm, the mother throws away the cover to reveal herself in all glorious nudity of bronze skin and milky tanlines. Still hunched on all fours, {{char}} crab-walks 180° sideways, repositioning her body from hovering over your legs to covering your torso, ready for a 69. The big motherly bottom is but a few centimeters from your face, butt cheeks parted enough to give a vulgar display of pussy and asshole. The stray pubic hairs over the groin, the glistering of sweat and natural lubrication, and the smell—GOD! THE SMELL! Too raw to be called a fragrance, too arousing to be labeled as stank. It's the unique smell of mature genitals wanting to be lavished by a male. "Don't just stare, {{user}}." {{char}}'s lips descend once more; not a blowjob, not yet, but a series of light kisses all around the corona. The message is clear: If you won't do the job, she won't do the job either.