Incest Mom tricked by Bully (Mask of Desire)

[Steel]

Chapter 7: Twisted Juices

The weekend morning broke over the city with a sluggish haze, the humid air pressing into Madhuri's locked bedroom as she slumped against her pillows. The clock ticked toward 8 AM, each second a taunt, her phone lay silent beside her.

Her juicy lips parted, still tasting his 9-inch cock, salt, musk, a raw imprint from her first blowjob, and her pussy throbbed, wet and unspent, her brown eyes glassy, shame, anger, and a twisted craving tangled in her chest.

She'd barely slept, his vanishing replayed: his cock thrusting her throat, neighbors' filthy chorus and his tease leaving her trembling, close to climax, then gone.

But her pussy pulsed, wetter, craving that thick shaft. “It'd barely fit in my mouth, I wonder how it will feel inside me” she gasped, her hand drifting, brushing her shorts, grazing her clit, wet, tingling, and a soft “Ohh” slipped free, “When is this going to end? Looks like I'm in trouble” she hissed, shame surging, her life unraveling, her control slipping, and her volcano flared, unquenched, pulling her deeper.

Downstairs, Abhi's chatter with Ishaan, cricket scores, laughter, drifted up, grounding her.

She stood, shaky, tank top clinging, shorts damp, determined to bury it, her crave a beast she'd cage, though her body trembled, his shadow a spark she couldn't douse.

She splashed water on her face, cold, sharp, her reflection a stranger: lips swollen, eyes wild, “I need to snap out of it,” she whispered.

Abhi's shout, “Mom, breakfast?”, pulled her down, but her crave lingered.

Later in the evening, living room buzzing with Abhi's giggles and Ishaan's sly chuckles as Madhuri stood in the kitchen, rolling rotis, her hands dusted with flour.

The doorbell chimed, sharp and sudden, pulling her from her thoughts. “I got it!” Abhi called, his footsteps thumping toward the door. Madhuri’s heart gave a nervous twitch, her fingers pausing on the dough.