Novel Full Chapter 997: Taste of a Mother (r-18)
Chapter 997: Taste of a Mother (r-18)
I flicked the tip—quick, cruel little lashes—and her thighs clamped together so violently her hips lifted clean off the mattress.
I felt the hot gush of her slick soak through her against my knee—she was dripping so much I could smell it now, thick and sweet and obscene.
I switched to the right nipple, giving it the same ruthless attention—suction so deep her back arched into a perfect bow, teeth grazing just enough to make her cry out, then soothing with flat, broad strokes of my tongue.
Her hands fisted in my hair, yanking me closer, hips grinding air in helpless little circles.
"Peter—please—lower—touch me—fuck, I need—"
I let the Taboo Aura roll off me in slow, invisible waves.
Her pupils blew wide.
Her breathing turned ragged.
The forbidden weight of this—of a younger man worshipping the body she’d hated for years—hit her like a drug.
Her inhibitions dissolved.
Hidden fantasies surfaced in a rush: being taken, claimed, used by someone who saw every imperfection and still wanted to ruin her.
I released her nipple with a wet pop, the dark peak glistening with my spit, swollen bigger than before.
I trailed open-mouthed kisses down her sternum, over the soft swell of her belly, tracing every silver stretch mark with my tongue until she was shaking, whimpering.
"Peter—God—yes—more—"
Her fingers knotted in my hair, yanking me in, greedy. I grazed my teeth over the sensitive point—just enough sting—and she keened, high and shattered. I switched to the right nipple—same ruthless attention: suction, lashing tongue, gentle bites that made her sob my name like a prayer.
Her heartbeat slammed against my lips. Starving. Forgotten. A body finally remembering what it was made for.
I kissed downward—methodical, reverent.
Every rib.
Every silver stretch mark sucked gently into my mouth. Her navel—a soft little well I circled with my tongue until she whimpered.
The gentle, motherly curve of her lower belly—still sweet, still soft, still perfect.
She was panting now—shallow, frantic. Hands everywhere: gripping my hair, clawing sheets, reaching for me like she didn’t know whether to pull me in or brace herself.
I reached her jeans. Held her gaze.
"These need to come off."
Vanessa lifted her hips instantly—no hesitation, no trace of the shame that had chained her for years.
We tugged the jeans down together, laughing breathlessly when the denim caught on the flare of her hips, the fabric reluctant to let go until it finally peeled away with a soft, sticky rasp.
Her legs kicked free, jeans discarded somewhere off the bed.
Now she lay in nothing but those light-blue cotton panties.
The crotch was obliterated.
A dark, soaked oval of her pussy dominated the front—plastered transparently to her mound like wet tissue paper, the thin cotton turned sheer from the sheer volume of her arousal.
Every swollen contour was brutally visible: the plump swell of her outer lips pressed outward, thick and heavy, outlined in perfect relief against the fabric.
The faint shadow of her slit ran vertical down the center, a deep, shadowed crease that had soaked the material so thoroughly it clung like a second skin, molded to every fold. Her clit—already engorged—pushed aggressively against the cotton, a distinct, rounded bulge that throbbed visibly with each frantic heartbeat.
Thin rivulets of slick had leaked beyond the gusset, darkening the inner thighs in glossy trails that caught the low bedroom light like liquid silver.
That ridiculous little embroidered cat near the waistband—pink nose, tiny whiskers—somehow made the whole thing dirtier. Innocent cartoon against obscene reality.
A cruel sweet joke of motherly embarrasment.
She flushed scarlet when she caught me staring—cheeks, throat, even the tops of her breasts blooming crimson.
Her hands twitched toward the waistband like she wanted to cover up.
"I didn’t—they’re not sexy—I wasn’t expecting—"
"Vanessa." I cut her off with an open-mouthed kiss high on her inner thigh—right where slick had already dripped down in warm, sticky lines. I tasted her there—salty-sweet, thick with that rich mature-woman musk—and she shuddered so violently the bed creaked beneath us.
"I don’t give a fuck about the underwear you wear, you’re still so beautiful and sexy, the underwear doesn’t diminish any of that."
"They have a tiny cat..." Her voice cracked, half laugh, half sob.
"The cat is cute," I said, grinning against her trembling skin. "For irony."
I hooked my fingers under the waistband—slow, deliberate—and peeled.
The drenched cotton clung stubbornly at first—sticking to her swollen mound, reluctant to release the slick-soaked flesh beneath.
I tugged harder; the fabric finally gave with wet, obscene sounds—sticky schlick-schlick—as it peeled away from her outer lips.
Thin, glistening strands of arousal stretched between the cotton and her skin like lewd spiderwebs—long, viscous threads that snapped and fell back against her thighs. She lifted her hips again—thighs shaking uncontrollably—and then they were gone.
Vanessa lay bare and utterly ruined with need.
Only her bare pussy remained.
Fuck...
Her outer lips were plump, thick, flushed a deep, angry rose of neglect and sudden, violent arousal—swollen so full they parted naturally on their own, revealing the slick, darker inner folds beneath.
When her knees fell wider—trembling, thighs quivering uncontrollably—the inner labia bloomed open like wet petals after rain: deep flushed pink, glossy, twitching with every frantic heartbeat.
Thin, viscous strands of her arousal stretched and snapped between the folds, clinging to the skin in shiny threads.
Her clit stood proud at the top—fat, engorged, hood peeled back just enough to expose the glistening pearl, pulsing visibly, red and desperate, begging for contact.
Clear fluid leaked steadily from her tight entrance—thick, warm, pooling on the sheets beneath her ass in a dark, spreading wet spot that soaked through to the mattress.
The room filled with her scent—thick, tangy, mature-woman musk—sweet-feral, heady, two years of denial finally breaking open in raw, dripping honesty.
Her slim hips rolled helplessly upward, seeking air, seeking friction, seeking anything. Thighs shook violently on either side of my head. Stomach clenched in little rhythmic spasms. Every inch of her screamed starved—and I was the one who got to feed her.
I leaned in until my breath ghosted directly over her dripping core. She jerked—whole pelvis lifting off the bed with a sharp gasp.
"Look at your pretty cunt, Vanessa" I murmured, voice low, reverent, filthy. "Swollen. So, fucking wet.All that need just leaking out of you like you’ve been saving it for me."
Her moan was gut-deep—"Nnghhh... please..." —raw, unguarded, vibrating through her entire body.
I dragged my tongue—slow, flat, merciless—from the very bottom of her leaking entrance all the way up.
The first taste hit like a drug: salty-sweet, thick, warm—her arousal coating my tongue in a heavy layer, flooding my mouth with that addictive mature tang.
I groaned into her pussy, vibrations rolling straight through her clit. Her hips bucked hard—"Ahhh—fuck—!" — her thighs clamped my ears as I pressed deeper.
I licked again—wider this time—flattening my tongue to part her outer lips completely.
They yielded instantly—plump flesh spreading open around my mouth like warm silk parting for invasion.
I dragged upward, spreading the glossy inner folds wide with the broad stroke, tasting every inch of her: the slick outer edges, the softer, more sensitive inner petals that fluttered against my tongue, the steady leak from her entrance that I lapped up greedily.
Thin strands of her arousal clung to my lips, stretching and snapping as I pulled back for air, only to dive in again.
Her clit throbbed against the underside of my tongue—hot, engorged, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
I curled the tip under it—flicking the sensitive frenulum in quick, sharp lashes—then sucked the entire bud into my mouth, hollowing my cheeks, drawing hard while my tongue swirled frantic circles around the pearl.
She screamed—"Hahhh—yes—there—fuck—!" —back bowing off the bed, fingers diving into my hair and yanking me deeper.
I pressed two fingers against her entrance—sliding in slow, stretching her open while my tongue never left her clit.
Her walls clamped down instantly—hot, slick, fluttering greedily around the intrusion.
I pumped them steadily—curling upward to stroke that spongy ridge inside her—while my tongue lashed her clit in relentless flicks, sucking harder, swallowing every fresh gush that flooded my mouth.
Her pussy opened wider with every thrust of my fingers—inner folds parting obscenely, slick coating my knuckles, dripping down to her ass in warm rivulets.
I pulled my fingers free for a moment—just to watch her entrance clench on nothing—then plunged back in, deeper, faster, while my tongue flattened over her clit and lapped in broad, hungry strokes.
She was unraveling—moans turning into continuous, broken sobs—"Nnghhh... ahhhh... don’t stop—fuck—Eros—please—" —hips rolling frantically, grinding her dripping cunt against my face, chasing the edge with everything she had left.
I sucked her clit harder—tongue flicking the tip in rapid flutters—fingers curling faster inside her—while my free hand gripped her thigh, spreading her wider, holding her open so I could devour every inch: licking the slick from her folds, sucking the swollen outer lips into my mouth one at a time, plunging my tongue back inside her to fuck her with it—curling, thrusting, tasting every pulse, every gush, every tremor of her long-starved body finally coming alive under my mouth.