Over the weeks, our secret deepened, weaving into the fabric of our daily lives. What started as a calculated seduction had blossomed into an all-consuming obsession—for both of us. Alex's eyes followed me everywhere, dark with need, and I reveled in it, drawing out every moment, making him wait, making him ache. Emily was long gone, a faded memory, but I wasn't done teaching him. No, I wanted him to crave me in every setting, every way possible. Slow, deliberate, until his body trembled at the mere thought of my touch.
It was a humid evening, the kind where the air clung to your skin like a lover's breath. His father was out, and Alex had just returned from the gym, his body glistening with sweat, muscles taut and defined under his damp shirt. I heard the shower running upstairs—his routine, predictable. But tonight, I'd make it ours.
I slipped into the bathroom quietly, the steam already fogging the mirror, carrying the sharp, clean scent of his body wash—citrus and musk, mingling with the rising heat. The water cascaded in rhythmic patters against the tiles, a soothing white noise that masked my approach. I shed my robe, letting it pool at my feet, my skin prickling as the warm mist enveloped me. Naked, I stepped behind the frosted glass door, my nipples hardening from the sudden warmth.
He startled when I pressed against him from behind, my breasts flattening against his slick back, my hands sliding around his waist. "Mom?" he whispered, voice thick with surprise, but he didn't pull away. The water poured over us, hot rivulets tracing paths down our bodies, making everything slippery, alive.
"Shh, let me wash you," I murmured, my lips brushing his ear, breath hot against the cool droplets. I grabbed the soap, lathering it between my palms until bubbles formed—creamy, frothy, scented with lavender from my own stash I'd brought in. My hands glided over his chest, fingers tracing the ridges of his abs, nails lightly scraping, leaving faint red trails that the water quickly soothed. He groaned, low and rumbling, as I worked lower, my soapy grip encircling his cock. It hardened instantly under my touch, the shaft thickening, veins pulsing against my palm. I stroked slowly, deliberately, the suds making each glide effortless, slick—up and down, twisting at the head where pre-cum mixed with the foam, creating a lewd, slippery sheen.
His hands braced against the wall, knuckles white, as I turned him around. Water streamed down his face, beading on his lashes, but his eyes were locked on mine—hungry, pleading. I sank to my knees, the tile cool and unyielding beneath me, and took him into my mouth. The taste was intoxicating—salty skin, soap, his essence. I sucked gently at first, tongue swirling around the ridge, feeling him twitch, the heat of him contrasting the warm cascade. But I pulled back, teasing, letting the water rinse him clean before diving in again, deeper this time, my throat relaxing to take more.
"God, Sophia," he gasped—using my name now, the forbidden intimacy of it sending a thrill through me. I hummed around him, the vibration drawing another moan, but I stopped short of letting him finish. Standing, I guided him to face the wall, my body pressing into his. "Bend for me," I commanded softly, and he did, parting his legs slightly.
From behind, the angle was perfect—deeper, more invasive. I reached around, stroking him while positioning myself, but no, this was about him taking me. I turned, bracing my hands on the wall, arching my back to present myself. The water made my skin gleam, droplets racing down my spine, pooling at the curve of my ass. He hesitated, breath ragged, then gripped my hips—fingers digging in, sure to leave bruises, purple blooms I'd admire later in the mirror.
He entered me slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch burning sweetly as my walls clenched around his girth. The rear entry allowed him to go so deep—hitting spots that made stars burst behind my eyes, the angle letting his cock drag against my inner walls with every thrust. Water amplified the slipperiness, our bodies sliding together seamlessly, the soapy residue making each movement frictionless yet intense. He pulled back almost fully, then sank in again, deeper, the head nudging my cervix with a jolt of pleasure-pain. His hands roamed— one squeezing my breast, pinching the nipple until it ached, the other sliding between my legs to circle my clit, slick fingers matching the rhythm.
The pace was torturous—slow, building, each thrust deliberate, drawing out the tension until I was whimpering, the water muffling my cries. Bruises formed where his hips slammed into mine, tender marks of possession. Sweat mixed with the cascade, our scents blending—his musk, my arousal, the soap—a heady fog. When he finally sped up, just enough, the slap of wet skin echoed, pushing me over the edge. My orgasm rippled through me, pussy spasming, milking him until he followed, hot spurts filling me, the warmth contrasting the cooling water.
We stayed like that, panting, the shower washing away the evidence—but not the memory.