tags: Nigella Lawson, mother-son incest, m-solo, f-solo, ageplay, big breasts, titfuck, oral, anal, taboo

Summary: It’s hard to keep your hand off your dick when your Mom is Nigella Lawson.

A/N: Nigella Lawson is now past the age where she could plausibly have two eighteen-year-old sons. Don’t worry, that’s the only unrealistic part of the story.

* * *

When Nigella Lawson retired from TV, she found religion.

After five decades as an outspoken atheist—not attending shul, not observing Shabbat, and breaking kosher in front of a mere 1.9 million prime-time viewers each week—she returned to the faith of her childhood. Why? Had middle age inclined her mind to matters eternal? Had October 7th spoken something awake inside her, as it had in many Jews? Nobody knew.

Maybe it was guilt.

She’d just moved back into her Chelsea penthouse, where her two teenage sons lived. The boys had largely grown up without her. She’d girlbossed hard for decades, relinquishing her motherhood duties to babysitters, maids, tutors, and au pairs.

The result? Wade and Cade had grown to eighteen year old men ready to take their A-levels, and she barely knew them. The new, spiritually awakened Nigella was determined to set things right, and finally give them the upbringing they deserved.

After all, teenage boys need all the moral guidance they can get.

* * *

Knock-knock.

Mom’s fist. Shit.

Cade Lawson yanked his hand out of his boxers moments before his bedroom door flew open.

Mom’s abundant silhouette came jiggling into the room—the Angel of the Lord with tits. He watched her chest’s bounces as she wobbled in a straight line toward him.

“Wakey wakey, Cade! Rise and grind!”

Cade gulped as his thick-bodied, wide-hipped, big-bottomed, elephantinely-breasted Mom hovered over him in bed.

Whether on TV or off it, Nigella Lawson was a living pinup, drawn by an artist who doesn’t just belong in horny jail but on horny death row. Curvy, chunky, meaty, busty—there was a painful, mind-screwing thickness to Mom. She clung to the male eye like pudding.

She’d moved back in three weeks ago. Cade still hadn’t adjusted to her presence. Nor had his cock.

“Is anything wrong?” Nigella’s left eyebrow arched. “It’s not like you to be abed at this hour.”

“Mom, school’s out…”

Cade tried to ignore the body exploding out of today’s outfit—a pastel blue ribbed cap-sleeve top with a corseted bodice, a cream A-line dress, and a pinstriped equestrian riding jacket. In fairness to her Savile Row tailor, her shirt’s neckline wouldn’t have seemed immodest on a woman of normal proportions. To retract that fairness, his client was not such a woman. Her layered and tousled black hair spilled across her shoulders in flat-ironed waves, the ends curling like commas in her considerable neckline.

“Out, shmout! That doesn’t mean you can just spend all day in your room!” Nigella’s hand waved, and her face twisted in disgust. “Yuck! It’s so musty in here! How about some fresh air!”

She spun ninety degrees to open a window, and Cade ogled the huge Mommy-arse jiggling next to his head—big, heavy buttocks wobbled as she struggled with a sash caught on the rail. He tried to imagine her knickers, and how deep they must be buried inside her arsecrack.

Don’t imagine that. His cock swiftly inflated back to full hardness under the sheets. Great work, genius. Now you’re screwed if she demands to see your boxers.

The past few weeks had been hell for Cade Lawson.

Mom finally got the window open, then her almond eyes were back on him. Analytic. Disapproving. Amused.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Cade?”

She leaned over him, smile widening. Obscenely huge breasts rolled down and out toward his face—masses of flesh spilled from overstretched bra cups and oozed toward his face. Only the high-tensile elastic straps stopped her tits from falling out completely.

Don’t look…don’t look… Lust sank fangs into Cade. He goggled at the penduluming mountains of breastmeat, which were nearly on top of his head.

“It’s bad for teenage boys to sit in their rooms all day with the doors closed.” Mom swung her shoulders back and forth. Things happened beneath of those swings that punched him in the gut. “They develop…perverse impulses.”

Mom’s lips drifted closer. Her breath hit his face—hot and mint-razored.

“They become…sick. And then…they do things with their hand. Things that feel good but are very, very wrong.”

Cade wilted beneath her gaze’s flamethrower intensity. He was obsessed with Mom’s body. Was it obvious? He didn’t see how it couldn’t be. But she acted like it wasn’t obvious—like they were continuing the platonic mother-son relationship they’d never had. Her physical aspect was overwhelming, but her mind was a mystery.

Mom just kept leaning over further and further, drowning his eyes with her body, assailing his olfactory nerves with her perfume, waging total war on all his senses…including the worst one. The forbidden one. Touch.

“What were you doing, Cade?” Her lips formed a smile, as though he’d already confessed. To everything.

“Lying in bed?”

“Yes, Cade. I can see that.” She tilted her head sardonically. “What were you doing while lying in bed?”

“Um, just chilling, ya know? Thinking about life and stuff. Like, why do mirrors reflect us only one way? Like, how come words in a mirror aren’t upside-down as well as backward? Seems kind of weird…”

He babbled nonsense at a fast gallop, trying to ignore the breasts swinging like wrecking balls over his face. Don’t look. She hates it when you look. But where else was he to put his eyes? It was like trying not to stare at the sea when you’re drowning it in. There was nowhere else.

“…Were you touching yourself?” A dulcimer-soft voice asked above the avalanch of cleavage. “Were you masturbating?”

“What? No!”

She slid closer. Huge boobs touched his shoulder.

“Did you have your hand down your pants before I opened the door, or didn’t you?”

Eh? Cade nodded frantically, then shook his head frantically, and then just sank back into his pillow with his eyes screwed shut. Mom sighed and leaned onto the mattress, which resisted in a chorus of compressed springs. A slab of breastmeat pressed into him, making him squirm.

“Oh Cade…what am I to do with you…”

Her breasts lifted away as she straightened. He heard her pacing his bedroom, entering Lecture Mode(tm).

“Young man, your body—”

Is a temple, he thought.

“—is a temple. I’ve raised you better than to pollute the temple with your hand. That act is sh’chatat zerah, which means—”

Destruction of seed.

“—destruction of seed, and it is very much a sin. I was away for most of your childhood. A decision that I sometimes think was necessary and sometimes think was a mistake. Maybe I won’t know until the day I die. But you’ve obviously developed habits that it was my duty to stop. That part’s on me, not you.”

She stopped and sniffed. “That smell…” Her prim mouth twisted into a judgmental slant before she continued.

“…but now I’m back to raise you boys, and you’d better believe you’ll follow my rules. God’s rules. Move out, and you can commit sh’chatat zerah or whatever other sin you want. But until then, do not masturbate under my roof. That is an order.”

Speech delivered, she heel-turned toward the door. She walked with a heavy roll of her hips: a merchant ship freighted beam-and-ballast with lewd, obscene Mommy-meat.

He hungered for her. Madly. Deeply. Utterly.

“Why do you always pick on me and never Wade?” Cade snapped, his hidden erection jabbing the sheet.

She kept walking, and her arse kept swaying. “Your brother doesn’t masturbate.”

“Like hell he doesn’t!” Cade laughed incredulously.

She stopped and smiled in the doorway.

“Dear heart, I know he doesn’t. A mother always does.”

* * *

“Mooom!” Wade called out. “I’m about to sin again!”

Nigella rolled her eyes, put down the basket of laundry, and trotted to her other son’s bedroom.

Wade Lawson lay in bed. He had his penis out already. It lay on his thigh, inflating with pulses of blood.

With a resigned huff, she flopped down on the bed. Huge tits leaped and settled. “Twice in one hour, kiddo?”

“I swear I wasn’t touching it,” Wade said lamely, his erection throbbing in front of Mom’s face. “It came back up on its own. Can you…fix it?”

Nigella climbed on top of her son.

“Oh, Wade…you make me sooooo tired.” She slid backward, lolling into a supine sprawl across her son’s body. Decadent as a latter-day Cleopatra. As she dropped into the hollow of her son’s hip, her mighty breasts jolted out of her cups and then sloshed back into them.

The stalk of Wade’s cock jutted against her smirking face, pulsing musky male heat onto her foundation.

“I work myself to the bone for you boys,” Nigella said, flashing Wade a naughty smile past his cock. “My hands are cramping up. This won’t do at all. I think I need to…”

Her right hand slid onto his crotch, fingers splaying open.

“…stretch my fingers.”

Wade gasped as her hand moved like a striking snake.

Fingers coiled around his cock. Closed.

Then began to pump.

Wade’s mouth slid open as he was masturbated with hard, brain-cell decimating strokes. His penis squirmed in his mother’s grasp, huge and slippery and hot. A dozen strokes, and his cock glistened. Two dozen, and precum spewed in a messy lather between her fingers. Wade clenched teeth—toe-twisting surges of pleasure roared from his groin each time the hand sank to the base of his flexing prick, and tugged straight up.

Then her hand was gone.

He rumbled in disappointment. Nigella raised her fingers in front of her face—they were spiderwebbed in glistening strands of mucoid fluid. Avaricious teeth gleamed behind the spider-strands. Rouge lips, coiling like guardian snakes. Her mouth was a doorway to thoughts more secretive than most—thoughts unknowable, thoughts that might have been lamblike-innocent or cunningly-disguised sins. You couldn’t tell with Mom. Her lingua franca wasn’t English or even Yiddish but the double entendre.

Her hand fell back to his thigh. Her red-lipped mouth slid into the space it had occupied, almost close enough to kiss him…but only almost.

She stopped. Stared across the gulf between their faces. Her mint-scented breath rode the curves of slick skin, making him shiver. His insides churned and boiled with lust.

“Finish it…?” he said, his cock wagging stiffly.

Nigella looked aghast at his request. How rude! “There’s nothing to finish,” she snapped, licking his pre-cum from her fingers. “I was stretching my hand, and now I’m not, so toodles!”

“Mom, pleaaaase…”

Nigella wiped her saliva-wet hand on Wade’s inner wrist like stigmata before stretching shamelessly over him.

“Oh, you’re such a tiresome boy, Wade. You’ve worn me quite out. Lying on this soft bed with you, I almost think I could fall asleep. In fact—”

She sharply arched her back—bowling ball-sized tits lurched ponderously—and yawwwwwwnned.

The yawn went on and on. Impossibly long. Her mouth stayed open, her eyes stayed closed, and her head slid down on his lap.

Splokk! She dropped her head onto his erect cock.

Her yawning mouth swallowed her son’s erection. It went in at the wrong angle—a bulge jabbed from her left cheek—and she torqued and straightened her head, sucking him down to the balls. Her lipstick rolled down his cock until it pressed against the wrinkled skin of his swollen, perpetually-full scrotum, which she palpitated with a gripping hand. Wade sweated as she squeezed his overheated genitals with hand and mouth, pummeling and kneading. He grabbed handfuls of the lustrous black hair bobbing in his lap as she sucked…and sucked…and sucked…

Fsshhluucck, schloock, shiiikkkuhh, splooorrrchhh!

Nigella orally pleasured her son the same way she did everything. Aggressively. In it to win it. Doing it backward in high heels. Saliva rilled from her lips, sliding in cold-stitched lines down his testicles.

Squglapp shlorrrppp sklurshhh!

Rude, vulgar sounds spewed from her slavering lips as she bucked and ploughed her head. Lewd. Obscene. Disgusting. Wrong. Even Wade could hardly stand to look at what she was doing to his prick.

Mom claimed that this wasn’t a sin. That she’d found a loophole.

But once she started attacking him with her tongue or hand or tits, he wasn’t so sure. Wade felt in his soul that there had to be a hell for deeds like this.

Nigella drew her head back five inches, swiveled her sucking lips around his pole, then backed off two inches more. She stared up at him. A stare he couldn’t meet. Only his glans remained in her mouth. His feet twitched—from pain more than pleasure now—she applied crushing pressure to the head of his penis.

…then her mouth collapsed on him. Her head smashed back down, her lips contracted in a tight circumflex of heat, and she gripped the base of her son’s drooling cock as it vibrated against her pliant tongue. Blind ecstasy hit Wade like a baseball bat. She squeezed his balls like a stress reliever, timing the pumps in syncopation with her frenzied slurps. Her free hand skipped fae-like upon Wade’s bare, hairless chest, drawing maddening summoning circles with her nails.

Wade felt his sperm rising. He arched his back, moans surging from his throat like vomit.

“Ahhh, Mom! I’m about to—AHHHH! AHHHHH!”

Nigella slapped a hand over his bellowing mouth. Cade’s bedroom was just down the hall.

“Mmmfff! MMMMFFF! MMMMMMMMMFFFFFFF!”

His hips heaved. His balls throbbed rhythmically against her chin. Nigella’s lips, tongue, and tastebuds tracked the movement of the cum-worm sliding down his shaft, finally squirting out over her tongue. Many more chased it.

BLOORRRTT-SCHLOOOORRRPPP-GLUUURK-SPLAT! GWOKK-SCCHWORRRPP-SPLUURRTT

Heavy blasts of sperm hosed out of Wade’s cock, splattering copiously the dark Valhalla inside her lips. Nigella smiled, feeling her charge’s overproductive testicles wringing themselves empty under his bucking, cum-shooting shaft. She cradled his balls as spurts became dribbles, became nothing.

Wade’s hips sagged, then the rest of him followed. He collapsed bonelessly upon the bed, heaving broken gasps. It sounded like he’d sprung a puncture.

His prick collapsed to a wet noodle in her cum-flooded mouth, but her lips squeezed his prick as if sewn on.

Nigella made deep, yearning eye contact with her son, took a final suck on his soft penis, then raised her head from his crotch. Her lips remained connected to her son’s crotch by a stretching bridge of cock. The bridge lengthened until it finally whiplashed free of her mouth, going smack on his thigh. His penis was perfectly clean, without a trace of semen.

“That was a refreshing nap.” Nigella yawned, tucking Wade’s prick back into his pants. “Back to work I go.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Wade grinned through a blizzard of stars. “Your blowjobs are the best.”

She socked him on the arm. “That was not a blowjob, mister. I was tired. I yawned. My head slipped. Anything else that happened was an accident.”

“Sure. An accident.” Keep those accidents coming, Mom, his eyes said.

Nigella stood, swung her thick ass back around, and sashayed to the bedroom door.

“You have rugby practice in ten,” Nigella wiped a dangling strand of jizz from her mouth and swallowed it. “Get changed. Wear your good shoes this time.”

* * *

Judaism is a lawyer’s religion.

At the heart of the Torah is God’s law, or the Halakhah—a terrifying slab of six hundred and thirteen thou shalts and thou shalt nots, which scholars have analyzed for hundreds of years.

Being a Jew means signing up for a lot of religious DLC. The faith is about 40% “laws that are actually in the Holy Scripture,” and 60% “some shit the rabbi of Prague said in 1126, re-hermeneuticized by Maimonides at the Sevillian council of 1204, and so on to the power of infinity.”

Interpreting the Halakhah is serious business. There are actually stories in the Talmud where a rabbi debates law with God Himself, and God loses!

All laws have loopholes. Even God’s.

You just have to get a bit creative to find them.

For example, Jews are forbidden (Shabbat 7:2) from carrying things outside the home on the Sabbath. But what counts as “outside”? Supppose you tied a really long string inside your house, and looped it out of your front door and around the entire block? Now the outside is the inside.

Likewise, God hates sh’chatat zerah—masturbation. One of the reasons He drowned the world in the age of Noah was that men were masturbating too much. No kidding. Look it up. Sanhedrin 108b.

But suppose—just suppose—someone’s hand were to accidentally slip into your lap,wrap around your penis for no reason in particular, and then inadvertently rub it until you achieved ejaculatory orgasm?

That’s not masturbation. That’s just several accidents.

And even if “hand” means “mouth” (or perhaps “breasts”). Even if “someone” means “your Mom”. Even if “accidentally” means “frequently.”

It’s a perfectly valid loophole.

* * *

Nigella dropped Wade off at rugby practice and drove home with her mouth tasting like pennies. He’d asked to be sucked off again before she left. Obviously, she’d refused this disgusting request, which had made her very angry.

So angry that she’d needed a swift nap to calm her nerves—face down, in her son’s lap.

At home, she chugged Scope, answered business emails, binged EastEnders—Heather Peace had gotten more work done on her cheekbones, oo-la-la!—and got on the case of the other permanently turgid boner-monster lurking at the penthouse.

“Is this necessary, Mom?” Cade sulked in the corner of his room while Nigella sniffed over his bedsheets.

“I need to know exactly what you’re doing in here, Cade.” Nostrils flared. “And because you keep lying to me about masturbating…”

“I’m not lying!” He flushed, watching her strip off the quilt. “I haven’t touched myself in, like, ages!”

“Your record contains enough black marks that I suspect and even doubt that.” His mother waved her phone over her son’s bedding, as a detective with a blacklight would. “Except the marks aren’t exactly black, if you catch my meaning. Speak of the devil…”

She tapped the bedsheet, her eyes accusing.

“What’s this stain?”

He gulped. “Tea?”

“Hmm…” Nigella’s face became a Lady Gaga song as she resumed her search, examining his bedding top-to-bottom for cum. Murder scenes have been canvassed less diligently.

“What about this stain?” She pointed again. “Tea won’t work a second time, Cade. I’ve never seen you drink it in your life.”

“I don’t know…maybe it’s dirt or snot or something that stuck to my clothes. How am I supposed to explain every single stain on my bedsheets?”

“The thing I’m noticing is that they’re all around the level of your waist.” She held eye contact until he broke it, then returned to her wetwork. She bent over his bed until her face was inches from his sheets. It was cute how he was trying not to seem conspicuous while staring at his mother’s breasts.

Straightening herself, Nigella smoothed an errant breast back into her bra. “There’s still the matter of that smell…it hasn’t gone away.”

She sniffed, tilted her head, sniffed again, and then her head flicked to face the wardrobe. A bloodhound who’d picked up the scent.

“And you know what? I think I know where it’s coming from.”

“Mom…please…no…” Wade stood sullenly by as she yanked open the folding doors to the wardrobe. He looked like Vincent D’Onofrio, hiding a jelly donut.

Deft hands opened drawers, one by one.

And snapped them shut, one by one.

First drawer? Clean. Second drawer? Clean. Third drawer…

…oh dear.”

“Cade…” she stared into it, purring with unmistakable delight. She leaned in, taking a deep sniff. Her ass wagged back and forth like a cat’s. “Oh Cade, oh Cade, OH OH OH OH OH CAAAAAADE…”

“Fuck me,” he murmured.

“Shemirat halashon,” Nigella said with a darting smirk. Guard your tongue.

She reached into the drawer, fished out a 34HH lace bra, and waved it like a Visigoth with pillaged war booty.

“This bra is mine, isn’t it?” Triumph blazed from her face. “I’ve been looking for it. All along, it was in your room. Not that I want it back, after what you’ve been doing with it.”

He shrugged—when you’re caught, you’re caught. “Sorry, Mom.”

Tutting, Nigella held up the stolen bra to the slant of light funneling through the window. “You have a lot to be sorry about.”

The enormous cups of the bra were splattered with numerous semen-strands, long-dried.

“Don’t you realize how wrong this is?” Nigella scolded gleefully. “How degraded and disgusted and ashamed I feel? Where is your propriety? Where is your conscience? This is a complete rejection of the Halakhal covenant. And to do it with your mother’s undergarments…it’s unthinkable!”

The edges of her mouth kept curling upward.

Cade didn’t know where to put his hands. He folded them in front of his body, then behind, then in front again. “I know, Mom. I couldn’t help it.”

“‘I couldn’t help it’,” she said mockingly, lips in a sneer. She jutted her chest forward. Her rack wobbled, catching his eyes like fishhooks. “Battle hymn of the pornsick. That’s your problem, Cade—unfiltered internet access. This weekend, we will review your internet search history again. Don’t try to delete anything. I’ll know.”

Nigella then sensed that she was wielding too much carrot, too little stick. She rubbed her temples, sighed, and touched his hand. Suddenly sympathetic, she came closer.

“Cade, I know being a young man is difficult. I know it’s hard to break a bad habit, once you get started. And like I said, this is at least somewhat my fault for not being around. But you have to at least try to be pure. That’s all I’m asking. That you try, like your brother.”

Smiling warmly, she advanced on her son, who retreated from her looming breasts. Face red with shame, desperate not to touch her abundant body, Cade backed up until she’d pressed him against a wall. Her breasts brushed his arm; he quivered at the contact, like they were an electric fence.

“Mom…”

“Find an alternative form of relief, Cade,” she said, squeezing him into a corner with her tits. “One that isn’t your hand. That’s specifically a sin, but there are…other methods that technically don’t breach any mitzvot. I can’t explicitly recommend them, but…”

“Yeah, yeah…find a good Jewish girl and get married.” Cade wasn’t listening. His eyes were elsewhere. He was probably in his happy place, chanting calm blue ocean over and over to drown out the screams.

Nigella was wondering how to take things further with the young boy braced in her arms, when a blip sound came from her pocket.

She got out her phone; frowned. Wade had sent a text.

* HELP!

She rolled her eyes. “I have to go.”

“Why?”

“Because of Wade. As a reminder, you two boys have your high school formal tonight. Today, of all days, I want you to remain pure..”

“But Mom, I am pure…mostly…” His voice started at zero confidence and somehow ended with less confidence still.

Nigella shut the bedroom door, huffing all the way down the hall and out to the car. She was so frustrated with Cade. How obtuse could you be?

Sometimes she just wanted to tell him, but she couldn’t. That would destroy the validity of the loophole. The acts she occasionally indulged in with Wade were always unplanned and always accidental and always had a believable cover story. She couldn’t just directly propose incest. That was zimmah, an even worse breach of the Holiness Code than sh’chatat zerah.

She’d thrown down plenty of hints, though. Wade had picked them up quickly enough.

Cade still had not.

* * *

The rugby pitch was at Knightsbridge, five minutes from the penthouse. A fact Wade Lawson took full advantage of.

Nigella parked the Saab, got out, slammed the door, and locked it. Smooth and automatic gestures. A woman who had life so firmly in hand that her daily steps could be programmed by computer. She wanted life that way—the alternative was chaos.

Marching up a winding tributary lane, she came to the school’s gated-off rugby pitch. The field shimmered with a sickly, radioactive green under the drab London sky—greenery was so scarce in this suburb that just by existing it looked wrong. Concrete changing rooms loomed before the grass in upthrusts of brutalist architecture. A slant of rain had fallen on the sides, drying in fading streaks. Here, she found her son.

Wade lounged against the changerooms, clobbered up in ugly school sporting attire—a short-sleeved jersey, black shorts, and black socks which almost screamed against his white sneakers.

He was supposed to be wearing a cup and wasn’t. He watched his hot turbojugged Mom waddling up the hill and sprouted a huge erection.

Panting at the top of the hill, her big chest heaving with exertion, Nigella’s eyes settled on his bulge. “Uff… this had better be important. I’m quite busy today.”

“Our ref broke his wrist,” Wade said. “There’s a sub coming from a school at Streatham, but…”

“But what?”

“He’s half an hour away. The other lads went to a pub. Which is, obviously, a really bad sin. Niddah, or whatever. They’ll be saying rude works and lusting after women and stuff. So I’m just here alone for half an hour. I was wondering if…um…”

“Yes?” An eyebrow lifted.

He shrugged guilelessly. “…You’d teach me how to pray.”

Hands on hips, she looked suitably incredulous. “Praying? You need to be told how to do that?”

Wade waved his hands guilelessly. “It’s a fair question! I want to be sure I’m praying it correctly. Like, do you kneel when you pray?”

Nigella tutted and took charge of his religious education. “It’s not common, but yes, some traditions encourage kneeling. If I may demonstrate…”

She glanced down the hill to the parking lot. It was almost empty. They would have ample warning if anyone approached.

She smiled coyly and kneeled on the wet grass. Her legs folded beneath her like a ten-pound note. As she dropped, she unbuttoned her equestrian riding jacket and hung it on a jutting spur of broken fence. Wade’s eyes focused on her tits, which jostled massively as she rocked back onto her ankles. Standing over his mother, he had a princely view down into her cleavage.

“Do you always undress when you pray?”

“I am taking off some of my clothes.” Boobs bursting apart her shirt, Nigella raised a cautionary finger. “Because they are very tight across my figure and tend to pinch. I must be comfortable to pray.”

“Can I take off some clothes too?”

“If you want.” She loosened several buttons, then pulled the shirt up over her armpits, draping it over her shoulders. Wade licked his lips, gawking at Mom’s huge meaty breasts.

Then she lifted her bra cups up, allowing the fattest part of her breasts to pendulously roll down her sternum. Before they could slide far, she released her hands. The elastic bra straps snapped the underwire of the cups against the twin bulks of her breasts, trapping them tightly in place.

Sweat moistened Wade’s brow as the huge smooth bottoms of Mom’s breasts were pressed downward by the hard cups, sculpted like finely wrought kaolin. Pinned beneath metal underwire, the white mounds could not and did not move. They just sat, two heaped bulges that squeezed out an inviting cleft beneath the gore.

A Wade-shaped cleft.

He tugged down his rugby shorts. His large, thick erection sprang out, slashing air like a hose. It cast a long, wavering shadow over the grass.

“I’ve seen some frummers rock back and forth when they pray.” He waddled cock-first toward Nigella.

“Have you now?” Mom chewed her lip as he prodded her breasts with his dick. So eager. So unseemly. Just a nasty, horny boy, obsessed with big breasts…but oh, how she loved him…

Grasping her football-sized tits, Wade laid his engorged cock at the smooshed fissure of flesh. Pressure. Pleasure. Her cleavage resisted his sensitive glans, making him sharply inhale.

Ugh…

Gripping her wonderfully squishy breasts, he carefully positioned his fat cock at their curving white bottoms. He checked the angle into her cleavage. Recalibrated. His whole body was tensed like a spring, ready to punch his fat cock through the musky soil of Nigella’s hot, moist tit tunnel.

“Yeah, Mom, they sway. A little like this…”

He flexed his hips, plowing his cock up through her obscenely big rack.

Plooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrpp! SPLURRPP!

Wade’s hips smashed into her, making her breasts bounce as he socketed himself between them.

He gasped, watching Mom’s tits jiggle as they swallowed his cock. His erection squelched like a toilet plunger as it carved an eight-inch tunnel through her cleavage, spiking out the other side.

Splikk!

Nigella giggled, touching her lips with her hand demurely. A cockhead had just popped between the tops of her pumpkin-sized breasts.

“Why hello, little man!” The glans did not answer, unless it spoke precum, which it spilled in a wet ribbon that coursed back down her tits.

“Oh my God, that feels so fucking good…” Wade’s prick throbbed inside her clasping, sucking chest. “Sorry, Mom.”

Nigella closed her eyes, feeling the teenage scrotum plastered against the bottom of her tits. They twitched hotly. “It’s alright. There is no mitzvot in the Torah against profanity, per se. You are…allowed.”

Wade’s cock simply hung inside her cleavage in a bloated mass—a rod of metal heated to glowing point. He held there for a long time, then pulled it back. His cock made a moist sucking sound—the midpoint between a plosive gasp and a hollow slurp. The wide-flared cockhead plopped back out, dropping out to leave a black vacuum in her breast-wall that swiftly shut.

“Your rocking technique needs work.” Nigella observed, feeling a trickle of cunt-juice roll down a thigh. Her clit throbbed endlessly. Incessantly. Needily. She resisted the urge to masturbate like a slut in heat. “But perhaps you’re just warming up. Try again?”

Words didn’t matter; talking was pointless. Her sex-crazed son was already stuffing his cock back into her cleavage. Fucking his scent and heat and sweat into her enormous tits like a tattoo. Bucking, humping, wheezing like a broken car muffler, he flung himself into her breasts again and again.

Sklurrrrrppp shlapp gloopppp!

“Uhhhh…Mooommmmm!” he spat hoarsely, spasming inside her tits. Shrapnel blasts of pleasure ripped apart his face. His expression fluxed and twisted, as though living snakes squirmed beneath his skin. Sweat beaded on his thighs—huge blunt levers that pounded his cock forward in rapid lunges. His face held the expression of a boy seeing the heaven he doesn’t deserve.

The messy, churning of hot slippery titfucking rang out across the rugger pitch. Gripping her shoulders, Wade shlucked his cock back and forth inside her smoldering chestal chasm—fucking forward, fucking relentlessly, making her rack ripple and bounce. It became a game—how far could he make her enormous udders leap as he whammed his pelvis against the bottom of her jugs?

The prize, perchance, was to cum.

Sklurrrrrppp shlapp gloopppp!

Nigella’s flesh-boulders bounced and jolted, flying in awesome leaps of meat as his crotch punched into them. Wade huffed, finding a rhythm and riding it hard. Eyes shut, Nigella began chanting softly over the soft plapping of Wade’s cock fucking her breasts.

Adon olam asher malach, b’terem kol y’tzir niv-ra. L’eit na’asah b’cheftzo kol, azai melech sh’mo nikra.

The Adon Olam. A Hebrew acknowledgement of the vastness of divinity. She could not tell if her son was listening as he rutted her hanging shelf of titflesh. His cock spiked and sawed in and out, a hot slippery railway spike hammered relentlessly. Only at the end did his machine-precise tempo suddenly flywheel loose. His pace quickened, then slowed, then quickened, and then he was cumming.

Wails became howls. Wade Lawson clapped his mother’s torso against his hips, hugging her as his balls roiled with seed. His scrotum audibly smacked against the base of her tits. She counted to three and partway to four, then the dick clasped in her chest started to leap and jump.

Shlorrrrrpppppppp skluppppp gluckkkk spluuurrrrkk!

Gray-white cum ribboned from his cock, splattering in heaps of sludge on her collarbones. His cock disgorged sperm in thick gouts that drenched her rose-fucked flesh. Nigella shut her eyes as cum-bursts pelted out like metal filings between her tits, slapping and stinging as they landed.

After several tit-rippling pulses, Wade’s cock retracted and began to soften. His glans sunk back through her cleavage, vanishing into the cum-puddle he’d vented between her cleavage, finally dropping out of the bottom of her breasts entirely. His cock hung slack and steaming in the air, leaking a final stream of cum.

Nigella smiled and stood. She carried herself with frosty deportment, in spite of the deluge of cum sliding from her tits to her belly button. She swept out a hand, in wait of something. Wade just stood by witlessly, his skull shattered by orgasm. Nigella clicked her fingers, went ahem, and then he hurriedly proffered his rugby towel.

“And that, Wade, is how you pray.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Panting like a locomotive, he tucked his cock back into his pants. Or tried to. It took six tries because his hands wouldn’t work.

Nigella wiped slick rivers of semen from her tits, handed back the soiled towel,fixed her bra, retucked her shirt, rescued her jacket, and then smiled. It was small, and not altogether nice. Her eyes had a barely-there all your fault accusation in them—that was Mom. She wound you up, then made you feel guilty. She wasn’t angry, and it was left unsaid what he’d done wrong…just that there was something. He’d performed some secret sin that might lack a name but would not lack judgment. A shiver crossed Wade then.

“Your formal is tonight,” Nigella said, fastening her breasts inside her equestrian riding jacket. “Please don’t stay back late after rugby.”

* * *

2:47pm. 2:48pm. 2:49pm.

Alone at home, Cade Lawson sat and sweated, staring at the clock.

Trying to ignore the erection painfully blasting inside his pants.

He’d been erect for hours. He couldn’t stop thinking about sex. Or about Mom. They amounted to the same thing at this point. His horniness was the central fact of the universe—all of creation seemed to gyrate around the bulge in his jeans—yet he was supposed to not acknowledge it. Don’t touch yourself. She’ll catch you. Don’t ask how. She always does.

It was infuriating. He was the teenage boy at the most virile point of his life. In his room, he had a laptop. That laptop had a WiFi chip, that WiFi chip connected to a VDSL modem plugged into a fiber optic port with 10 Gbs/s throughput, and on the other side was the motherfucking internet. Five billion webpages, of which probably four billion nine hundred million consisted of high-definition tits and asses, and he was forbidden from looking at any of them.

He was completely alone. It should have been safe. But it didn’t feel safe. Mom knew things she had no business knowing. Jerking off was now a pleasurable squirt followed by an anxious haze of paranoia that lasted for hours.

For a while, he’d cloaked his porn use in arcane terminology—search phrases like Rule 34 Gardevoir are as impenetrable to the uninitiated as the kabbalistic liturgy of a black-hatted frummer—but she was onto that now. Stupid Mom. Annoying Mom. Hot, busty, wet-dream fantasy Mom…damn it, there I go again.

Wade swore, stood up from the couch, went to the bathroom, and had a violently cold shower.

It helped until it didn’t.

He’d barely seen his mother for much of his life. She left the penthouse early, came back late (or never), and traveled nine months out of every twelve. She was a hole in her sons’ lives—just absences piled on absences. A pair of slippers that nobody wore, a bed that never needed to be made, a vintage cabriole couch in the TV room wide enough for three people yet only ever seating two: Cade and Wade.

He’d often wished his mother would come back home. And boy-howdy, if a monkey’s paw hadn’t curled up when he’d made that wish.

The Nigella who’d moved back in three weeks ago was religion-obsessed and utterly fixated on her sons’ sexual purity. Suddenly, he was subjected to weekly internet search history audits, surprise bedroom inspections, and tense interrogations over the state of his underwear in the laundry hamper.

Their posh Chelsea penthouse had transformed into Stalag 17 overnight.

She didn’t seem to realize the impact her overdeveloped body had on her teenage sons. If she wanted them not to sin, moving back in was the worst thing she could have done. He often wondered if Mom’s extended absences were what had started his sexual obsession with her—after so long apart, his cock no longer deemed them related. Kinda like sheep. Separate the ewe from a newborn lamb for too long, and she won’t let it breastfeed.

Thoughts chased thoughts through deepening ruts in his subconsciousness. His eyes darted, checking beneath the doorways for the shadows of her feet, checking the street outside for her cherry red Saab pulling into the car park. Even though she was away, he sensed that she was still here, somehow. Looking. Always looking. Mom had an unerring sense of when her sons were being bad boys. For God’s sake, how did she always know? Did she have a Wank Detector 2000 installed in the walls, or what?

Wade writhed in misery, watching the clock, mentally hurrying it along. He didn’t know why he was doing this. Tomorrow would be the same or worse. Caught between the rock of his mother and the hard place of his boner, which throbbed endlessly. Monotonously. Maddeningly. He felt like a spring breeze would make cum at this point.

Don’t jack off. Don’t do the thing you’ve done four times a day since you turned twelve. Easy-peasy.

But Wade had apparently stopped taming the boa constrictor, and he’d be damned if Wade beat him at anything.

He gritted his teeth. Fuck Wade. He knew Mom was giving his younger brother an easier ride of it, somehow.

3:31pm. 3:32pm. 3:33pm.

Clock hands lapped each other with glacial slowness.

His hand unconsciously mirrored their movements, sliding across the cabriole toward his cock. He began to rub his bulge, masturbating through his pants…until a sudden vision—Mom bursting through the wall like the Kool-Aid man—made him stop.

Fuck. He yanked the hand away and sat on it for good measure. He couldn’t even trust his own body. Distract yourself. Think of something that’s not porn.

Fine. He thought of his mother. The way she moved, rolling her hips, eleven pounds of sex stuffed in a ten pound bag. He’d peered through the bathroom keyhole while she showered once. He’d gotten an eyeful of her enormous hanging breasts, spilling most of the way to her belly like huge white sheets. They streamed with water. She’d lifted them up, lathering them in suds. They were so big that it was difficult for her to get her arms around them. Her pussy had been a dark triangle of stubbled pubic hair, clinging faintly to her crotch. Then she’d picked up a razor, and with gentle swishes erased even the shadowy triangle from existence…

Fuck. He writhed, hissing like a cat in heat. Don’t think about Mom, either.

So he stopped thinking about Mom and started thinking about Jessica Cambridge from school. And Helen Spence from school. And Jamie Crouzette from school. And Michelle Thompson from school. And Iris Pittson from school. And Elaine Romier from school. And Jodie Whats-her-name from school. And Katy Perry from I-wish-she-was-at-school. And Kylie Shuman from spin-bowling. And Robin Heslop from violin class. And Jennifer Soreff from his Dungeons and Dragons group. And that bird at Plaistow Station. And that bird on the Southwark-to-Piccadilly tube. And…and…

A pitiful whine scoured his throat. His dick thrashed against denim like a suffocated snake.

Holy fuck, man. Cut it out. Cade shifted. Winced. His jeans rippled and folded, pinching his ravenous shaft. Mom thinks you can be strong. Don’t disappoint her.

But trying not to think of sex was a sure guarantee you’d be unable to think of anything else. Like trying not think of pink elephants.

Cade was going insane. Bats in the belfry. Toys in the attic. Maybe that was Mom’s plan all along—he definitely couldn’t masturbate in a straitjacket. Ha-ha.

Ha.

You can do this.

You can’t do this.

He stood up, feeling a wet patch of precum noisily unstick from his thigh.

Time for another cold shower.

* * *

It was time for Cade and Wade’s Sixth Form graduation party.

Nigella had chosen their outfits herself and insisted on dressing her boys. A procedure that was ten-percent dressing and ninety percent pinching, hugging, kissing, and groping.

“My little man is all grown up!” Nigella was simply dizzy with happiness as she buttoned up Cade’s sateen-lapel jacket. She kneeled on the bathroom floor, in front of his bare legs and tumescent erection. For reasons known only to her, she had left his lower body until last.

Cade grunted sullenly as he tented his boxer briefs. No point in trying to hide it. He squirmed as his mother’s fussing hands drifted close to his bulge, then flitted away…over and over. Her hands were like koi fish. Like cats.

It’s like she’s doing this on purpose. Like she’s teasing me. Is she…?

He noticed his mind wandering down a dark alleyway…and made it wander straight back out, whistling with its hands in its pockets.

“Mom…” he whined, hoping he wouldn’t cum in his boxers. “You’re embarrassing me…”

“Oh, you have to indulge a mother! I just love seeing handsome young men dressed up!” Nigella laid her hand on Cade’s shoulder and plugged a hot, wet kiss against his shocked lips. “I’m so proud of you both!”

Cade’s eyes flew wide-open above her smooching lips.

The kiss was wildly inappropriate. A kiss no mother should give a son.

But it was still a kiss, and thus not necessarily sexual. Like every loophole, it was a gray area. Ambiguous.

…unless you saw how she twisted her tongue like a corkscrew into his face, fucking his mouth with hers. Or how her breath shuddered out, making the forelick on his sweaty forehead sway and ride. Or the predatory desire sharking forward in her eyes as something forbidden began to ride her blood like a demon. Or how her breasts squeezed monstrously into his chest, rising like bread dough as she straddled a leg across him.

These things were not gray. These things were not ambiguous.

The loophole was getting wider by the day.

Just once, her hand slid down, brushed his bulging underwear, then slid away.

“Mom…” he whimpered, willing himself not to splooge in his boxers. “I don’t think you should kiss me like that.”

“Why not? It’s just a kiss.” She lifted her mouth away to speak, then plunged it straight back in. The smooch went on and on until his face was drenched from nose to chin in her saliva. Her breath staccato’d in short, hot-cold blasts on his skin.

“First Samuel twenty-forty-one. David kisses Jonathan. If it’s alright for two men to do it, it’s alright for us to do it.”

He bristled at that. And at her lips, which were pursed just an inch from harm’s way on his stubble. “But…”

“…but what?” Eyes slitted to pencil-sharpened blades.

“Well…it…it excites me…”

“Oh?”

“Um, it makes me hard for me to…not touch myself.” Cade admitted.

“So let me touch you, silly!” Nigella said, misunderstanding on purpose. Throwing down a gauntlet. Do you get it now, you klutz? How simple do I have to make this for you?

She thrust her massive tits forward. They looked monstrously large—waterbarrels made of meat—as they bulged against her neckline. Sweat moistened their soft catenary curves, which his eyes rode to oblique darkness.

Cade’s eyes slitted defiantly, and looked away. He snatched his cufflinks off the dresser with a bad-tempered swipe of his hand, and began fastening them..

“I can dress myself, Mom. Holy crap, you treat me like I’m still a little kid.”

Nigella shrugged. Gave up. Sometimes a lost cause was a lost cause.

Suit yourself, Cade. Literally.

* * *

Wade was waiting for her in the guest bathroom. He’d already undressed. He hummed lackadaisically; arms crossed, eyes flicking everywhere, trying to look natural while in the natural.

Nigella sashayed into the bathroom with him, her wedge-heeled sandals going tikk-takk on the travertine. She locked the bathroom door, and flicked on the ceiling fan. The motor ratcheted; accelerated; then became a steady hum. Such precautions were probably unnecessary—she was starting to think that she could suck Wade off in front of Cade’s face, and he’d remain none the wiser.

Nigella shrugged off clothes, aware of her son’s eyes crawling over her flesh like scorpions.

“These things do pinch a bird,” she sighed, slid her shirt onto a chipped-enamel wire shirt rack, then faced her son in her knickers. “Do you have your suit…?”

Wade nodded, indicating behind him. “I piled all that crap in the bathtub.”

“You’re a class act, kid.” Naked and gleaming under the lights, Nigella went to the claw-footed tub and began an inventory check. Black tailcoat. White waistcoat. Dress pants. Bowtie. Mother-of-pearl cufflinks. It all seemed to be there.

“Um, so…” Wade said as her fingers flipped fabric. “There will be a dance.”

“I’ve taught you the Charleston and triple-step swing. Those were sufficient in my school years. Perhaps schools today expect you to twerk, or whatever. I can’t help you there.”

I bet you could… he said with his stare, if not his mouth.

“It’s just…my leg muscles keep seizing up.” Wade caressed the back of one thigh. “Maybe I prayed too hard earlier,at rugby. Is there some way you can…maybe flex out the tendons or do some chiro-whatsit shit, or something?”

Chiro-whatsit shit, or something. Good to see twelve years of private schooling hadn’t gone to waste.

Nigella unhooked her bra, then stood completely naked before the bathroom mirror. Her back was turned to Wade—who was watching, his eyes were just spotlights for her—but he saw her divine reflection.

“My uncultured belief is that muscles can be strengthened by activity,” Nigella arched her back, and stretched. Her joints popped as she arched her back. Four big breasts wobbled—two on her chest, two in the mirror. Wade murmured oh my God… in a voice he thought she wouldn’t be able to hear. “Blood contains healing enzymes, so the key is to flex.”

She turned and kissed him. It was a shock. Lightning shooting out of a cloudless sky. As her lips feasted on his, her hands tapped scurrying paths down his body, exploring salaciously. Shamelessly. They found the muscles of his hamstrings and quadriceps, and began pinching and poking bands of muscular fiber.

“Yes, they are rather tight. They’ll need a lot of loosening. Let me get more comfortable.”

Then the dark-tipped nails traced paths down her delectable hips. Lips set in a secretive pout, she spun back to the mirror, pulling her underwear down to expose her huge ass. It seemed to explode into existence as the black lingerie slid down, a white mushroom cloud detonating before Wade’s eyes.

She raised a thick thigh, and swung it up onto the faux-porcelain countertop. Her foot hung suspended over the white-enamelled sink.

Wade drooled as he approached, attracted dick-first to her abundant flesh.

His Mom smiled. Flicked her head. Jiggled her arse on the bathroom countertop. Her whorishly thick bottom wobbled as it spread across the porcelain, glistening moisture briefly sparking, indicating her pussy and asshole.

Wade reached out, grasping unbelievable handfuls of his beautiful mother’s rump. The height was perfect for his cock to slide onto the countertop along with her arse—as though the interior designer had intended it for this precise use. He didn’t need to crouch or stand on tiptoes to get his cock in line. It was already there.

Maybe that’s why he did the thing that came next.

Nigella felt excitement pounding through her as her flesh was groped, as Wade’s cock touched her piled-up ass. She felt fierce pride. Arrogance at her son’s virility. She’d created the horny fuck-beast on the other side of the cock. He was her progeny, her spawn. Hers, hers, HERS.

The boy—who wasn’t a boy any longer, but a grown man—gripped her from behind, and a thrill cut down to her bones. Their neat social relationship had subsided beneath the rising waters of a different, more primal one. She was not a mother. She was a female. A broodmare being mounted by a stud.

With lewd, cheesecake slowness, Nigella slid her body across the bathroom countertop, spreading out her haunches further and further. Beneath her planetary-scale arse, Wade got a whiff of her moist, shaven gash. It was meaty and puffy and dripping. He saw pink glimmers, sunken inside meaty flaps. A gush of precum issued from his glans. He lubricated two of his fingers with the clear liquid and deftly spread it on the inner lips of his mother’s shaven pussy.

She shivered as his fingers hit her clitoris. Her hips rolled backward against his fingers. She was embarrassed by her failure to stop it.

A terrified certainty hit her as she was masturbated by her son. Too far. Too far. Oh Lord, this is too far! They were sliding down a slope together, and unless she stopped it now, it wouldn’t be stopped.

It wasn’t just teenage boys who had to worry about committing sh’chatat zerah—the sin of masturbation.

“N-No!” She squealed, needy clit going thumpthumpthump—yesyesyes!—on the cool porcelain. “Don’t!”

She saw Wade smirk at that vulnerable crack in her voice. But he pulled back just a little. “Mom? Are you okay with this?”

“Yes,” she murmured as his cock lay inside her asscrack. No, you fucking sexy animal, I’m not okay. I’m about to lose control and just shag you to pieces and then go to Cade’s bedroom and do the same to him, Holiness Code be damned. “K-keep going. Just remember, as you…flex your muscles, make sure you do not…flex yourself into my…lady area.”

Loopholes would only take you so far.

“Right.” He nodded.

Leaning forward, Wade grasped his Mom’s heavy tits, which lay in big white sacks on each side of her torso. He plunged greedy hands through them, exploring their massive surfaces. They had such a meaty, lewd texture compared to the antiseptic porcelain countertop they were spreadeagled on.

Then Nigella felt a fat teenage cock cleaving against her buttocks, hunting for an entrance. For a second, she thought he was going to shove it into her twat anyway, and was about to scold himaway…but then he grunted, slid further up, and found another hole.

A worse hole.

His heavy mushroom-head plopped onto her puckered asshole, catching against the spiderweb of wrinkles. It stayed right there, on her rectum, trapped and oozing precum.

This is fine. She chewed her lip academically while her heart thundered like six hundred horses. He’s going to take it off my asshole, then hump himself to orgasm on my arse like he usually does. Surely he’s not going to…

Then his huge prick exploded through her anal ring, plunging into her body! She squalled like demonfire as he filled her.

The affront! The outrage! The little brat was arsefucking his own mother!

“Oh my…OH MY! WADE!” She squealed in conflux of horror and glee as her son’s boner cleaved through her dirty arsehole. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

“I’m loosening up my hips.” In the mirror, she saw Wade smile with half his mouth as he snaked his pelvis into her defiled butt. “Remember?”

“But…NO!” She felt her arse get filled like a stocking with his huge, hard prick. “Not like THIS! This is a SIN!”

“You said I could do anything except put it in your clunge,” he said truculently. “So I am.”

Bastard! Nigella’s mind was awhirl, as though his cock was going so deep up her ass that it was inside her head, stirring thoughts into confusion. Is this a breach of the Holiness Code? Is this sh’chatat zerah?

She decided no.

Mainly because it felt too good to stop, even if it was a sin.

Gasping, Nigella rotated and swerved her ass around his throbbing shaft. Her hot, dirty shit-chute clung to him like film. A zoetrope of emotions whirled through her mind as Wade railed his massive prick right through her guts.

Sklurrrrrppp shlapp gloopppp!

Guilt. Horror. Lust. Sex. Joy.

Splorrrrrshhhhhhhhh glapp skluppppp!

Freedom.

Nigella bellowed a deep roar into the unyielding porcelain. Her sanity was torn to shreds upon the meaty, ass-gaping stabs of her son’s prick. She gripped the edges of the mirror, leaving bleary thumbprints on the glass. Her reflection wobbled as her son’s impacts shook the mirror.

This had better not be a sin! Her mouth gashed open—A punctuation-mark of shock—as her son just pushed his cock deeper and deeper. Because I can’t stop!

The thrusts began. Powerful, hard, and fast. Her arsehole filled with throbbing cock, then filled with a sucking emptiness. Full. Empty. Full. Empty. His cock drove into her with savage rhythm, each thrust hard and deep, striking angles that jolted her whole body forward.

Nigella gripped the scalloped edges of the countertop to stop her body being flung into the mirror. Soon, Wade was rooting away noisily inside her ass, fucking his cock up her shitpipe. He slammed balls deep, grunting as he packed her tight arsehole, pounding his girthy slut-breaker into her.

I’m a good girl, she thought as she was arsefucked. I’m not masturbating. Even though I want to.

Her butt clenched and spasmed around the invader pillaging and defiling her rectal chute. She felt him throbbing deep in her guts.

Meanwhile, her shocked cunt spasmed, spraying juices against the coolness of the porcelain. The room flooded with a messy, sticky, woman-in-heat smell. The ripe scent issued from her pores as she gasped and sweated. Her huge breasts swung back and forth. Her nipples jutted in throbbing diamonds.

Wade sank his hands into the big Mommy-bottom and powerfucked his hips forward, beating a savage tattoo upon her hungry, sweaty ass. His glistening shaft vanished up her asshole in long, desperate lunges that shockwaved ripples through her fleshy, Rubenesque body. Her entire body bounced and clapped—her tits shotputted forward, her arse cheeks flew in rebounding mountains, even her lust-slack lips rattled and shook, spilling a mixture of drool and moans.

“Ummmff…” Nigella sighed. She felt her son pull back out, then drill back in.

SCHLOOOOORRRRRKKKKK-GLUUUUURRRRPPP-SQUUUEEELLLCHHH-SPLUUUURRRRTTTT-PLAAAAPPPP-OOOOOZZZZZE-HISSSSSS!

The bathroom boiled with indecent splurches and squelches, thinly undercut by pants. The reflection of herself getting bumfucked on the counter was rapidly disappearing, engulfed by a fog of her own excited breath.

She bucked and accordioned, flexing in tension, arching her back. Sweat gleamed on her skin. She was almost humping the countertop. Broken down to a bitch in heat. A puddle of vaginal fluid had seeped onto the countertop, secreted by her overactive Skene and Bartholin’s glands. Her clit throbbed lustily against the marble, a hard bullet of flesh.

Wade slowed his thrusting, and reached down between her legs to rub her clit. Nigella grunted loudly as her fat petals throbbed, then slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch me like that!” she squealed. “It’s…it’s a sin! I think!”

A wonderful sin! A sin so good I’m about to lose my fucking mind! I’m one touch away from abandoning this shitty, paper-thin charade altogether, and then who knows what will happen? KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF ME, WADE!

“Sorry,” Wade huffed non-apologetically. His hands slid back onto the lust-quenching floods of her hips and ass. He used her derriere like a ladder, pulling himself ever-deeper through her yawning black depths. He glimpsed himself in the mirror, deep-dicking his Mom up the ass while she pretended not to be aroused by it. He smiled. She looked so gagging-desperate for it. She wasn’t hot to trot, she was in full gallop.

Her gasps and cries hissed out like sparks from an arc-grinder. Her clit throbbed unbearably on the countertop. She made eye contact with her reflection, as though her mirror-locked twin was a rescuer. Someone who might save her from herself. No good. There was only blind lust in her twin’s eyes. She and her reflection were drowning sailors, clasping each other uselessly, drowning each other.

Holier than thou? More like hole-ier than thou.

Wade slammed hard and deep, butt-rutting Nigella with punishing strokes. His thighs slapped, whiplashing against her soft buttocks as his cock ground and rasped and squelched into her hot asshole. Each meaty, musky fucking sound was followed by a richochet—the sound of her fat, flying arse slinging backward against her son’s pumping hips. Ripples exploded through her obscenely mountainous dumper, each barely subsiding before the next shockwave hit.

Staring at her shocked reflection, Nigella couldn’t believe she’d fallen so far, so fast.

Nigella had been butt-fucked before, of course. Loads of times. She’d had a lot of positions before breaking out in broadcasting, some less metaphorical than others—but that had been in her younger, more wordly years, when she’d been ready to do anything (or anyone) to get ahead. She believed she’d left her anal fixation behind when she’d retired. And she’d never imagined that her son would do this to her.

The pornography these boys must watch…! As Wade’s slavering prick chewed a path up her arse, she made a note to audit Cade’s internet history extra carefully.

“I’m gonna cum…” he hissed, face cauled in sweat. He gasped, blasting open her shitbox once again.

“Don’t. Talk. Like. That.” Nigella spat back. “You’re finishing your stretching exercises.”

Call it whatever. His inner stopwatch had run out. Heavy, terminal pummeling thrusts rocked her—powerful, explosive, and fast, his hips slammed into her. Her guts went from empty to full to empty to full to empty, multiple times per second. Faster. Faster. Faster.

“Ughhh…” Nigella’s moans and grunts bubbled out of her as her arse was gaped. She shivered as Wade fired his huge cock up her moist shit-chute, unbelievably fast. Squelches mingled with her lewd grunting. Both sets of noises gained in volume, crested in pitch, accelerated in velocity.

Nigella convulsed helplessly, impaled on Wade’s huge shaft. The leg still on the ground flew up, kicking back at his ankles. Then he buried his slick cock up her widely-stretched bumhole with a sound like a post-hole digger shifting earth.

SQUELCH!

Wade hilted himself, gritting his teeth. Every muscle and tendon in his skinny white legs flexed in ecstasy, and then his thick cock began to pulse. And pulse…and pulse…and pulse…

Heavy surges of sperm slammed into her asshole.

Skluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrsh!

As he spewed powerful cum-blasts deep inside his mother’s bowels, Nigella tilted back her head, nipping off a cry between her teeth. Gasping, he heaved his cock all the way up her back door, jetting out cum until he was fucking his cock through a frothy trench of his own sperm.

Wade smacked his hips against the yielding pasty-white ocean of assflesh as he blasted a ball-clogging load up her colon. She groaned messily as she felt her insides flood with his gooey-hot sludge. He fell forward, lying on top of her back.

The moment lasted for several seconds and a thousand years.

Then the next one began.

Wade straightened up and pulled his cock out of her. His thick-but-softening erection slid out of her shit chute, steaming in the air. A ribbon of cum coursed out of her slack, rutted-open ass.

With legs as wobbly as a newborn gazelle’s, Nigella clambered down from the porcelain countertop. The porcelain cuntertop she thought to herself, seeing the puddle of fluid she’d blasted there.

She panted, hair askew and flanks heaving with sweat. Too winded to laugh at her own crap joke.

“Ughhh…and that…that is…uh…how you do the…dance…or…whatever it was…get cleaned, or we’ll be late! UGH!”

* * * *

The formal went off the way it had started: with a bang.

Later that night, Nigella sat on her bed, esconced in amber light. The desk and wall lamps bronzed her skin, recasting her as an apricot-hued effigy of herself. She swiped sideways. Photos scrolled past. Her smile widened. Deepened. Tooth after tooth appeared.

Those lads of hers had scrubbed up well!

Yet…

Wade was smiling, fresh-faced, and glowing with health. His mother in miniature. Standing beside him, Cade looked…tight. Repressed. Bottled up. A boy sick with secrets. His eyes were sunk into sallow skin, which had the texture of chalk. Drug-addict eyes.

They were dressed like regents. But where Wade looked like a son of the Empire, Cade looked like the laudanum-addicted wastrel of the family. Yet it was hard to miss or ignore the difference between Cade and Wade. Particularly when you knew its cause.

Nigella had already said her goodnights to Wade—and had done something else with him, too. After spitting and rinsing in the bathroom—he still had the taste of her arsehole on his cock—she’d visited Cade’s room, and had found him passed out in bed. Not asleep. Unconscious. His face had an unhealthy vampiric pallor. You didn’t see many teenage boys who were a thousand years old.

In his wardrobe drawers—not even a different hiding place!—she found another stolen bra, absolutely flooded with rivers of fresh cum, still warm from Cade’s balls.

The poor boy had lasted to the end of the formal, but not one second beyond.

She decided to let him get away with it. This time. Oh, Cade. Why are you choosing such a hard road for yourself?

She wondered how blunt her hints would have to get…

* * *

Alone at last in her bedroom, Nigella could finally see to her own pleasure.

She locked the door. Dimmed the lights. Double-checked that she’d locked the door.

Then she reached over to her bedside dresser.

Inside was a travel case marked MEDICINAL SUPPLIES. Black. Plastic. Innocuous. Neither of her sons, in their not-infrequent panty raids, would have any reason to open it and see what was inside.

A Fun Factory VIM Wand.

Her publishing agent had gifted it at her retirement party. They’d all laughed when she saw what was wrapped up in the box.

Yes, buy Nigella a sex toy. Very funny, lads. Not like that’ll get brought up at a sexual harassment mediation meeting.

The sturdy water-resistant vibe filled her hand—twelve rechargeable inches, stunningly lilac, swirled and dimpled with ridged silicon. The electrified wand fit inside her fingers like it had grown naturally inside her grasp, as moss fills a crack in stone.

It had eight settings. The box claimed two to three hours of continuous play, which was high. Nigella had never gotten more than ninety minutes out of it before she had to plug it in.

Someone should sue Fun Factory for false advertising. Not her, but someone.

Murmuring fragmentary mitzvots, she snapped fresh batteries into the gift. She listened to the dishwasher hum through the wall, hoping it would mask sound. Wade wouldn’t care if he heard things, but Cade might be troubled if Mom did not appear to practice what she preached.

Then she shucked her bloomers, and tossed them in a hamper with a wrist-flick. Her shaven pussy gleamed, pearlescent with sweat and excitement. Her sex-organs pulsed with need as the vibrator filled her hand.

But guilt set teeth to her.

Was she failing in some sense? Things had gotten very close with Wade in the bathroom. She’d carved a Halakhal loophole for herself, but it was getting so broad that there soon might not be any of God’s law left.

She closed her eyes. Argued with her guilt until it subsided. Vibrators have many nonsexual, therapeutic qualities. They can stimulate muscular tone, and trigger the release of endorphins.

Sh’chatat zerah involves orgasming for reasons of selfish pleasure. This is not that. I am a mature woman looking after my body.

Repeating and repeating the words until she almost believed them. Then she repeated them some more.

Nigella settled back, propped her long, meaty legs up on a couple of pillows, and clicked on the toy. It whirred, a lilac purring cat. Rivers of sensation flowed up her wrist. Her body conducted rivers of shivery sensation. It was as if she was a magnetic field, coursing around the polar points of the sex toy.

It has been a very long day. I think I strained my wrist while helping Wade. Oh, look at it fall into my lap. How careless.

Sliding the whirring VIM against her pussy lips, she began grinding out the first of the night’s six or seven climaxes.

Guilt is useless.

Stupid people break the law. Midwits keep the law. Smart people do both at the same time. There is always a loophole. Find one, and you deserve to use it.

Fuck your sense of shame.

Nigella Lawson’s angelic face tensed as the vibrator buzzsawed against her overheated vagina. She planted the purring device against her turgid clit, grinding the flanges back and forth, igniting gouts of frantic pleasure. She growled tigerishly. Writhed her hips. Let hot, juicy, sinful sensation bubble up and up and up. She was its cauldron. Its crucible.

I’m not sinning.

Twisting and moaning in bed, riding the edge, letting her painted toes curl with each seethe of ecstasy.

My usage of this…marital aid is PURELY medicinal.

Her vagina seemed to slobber and gnaw upon the toy. Famished. Feasting.

I am not masturbating. I’m not.

The vibrator plunged through a quivering, sodden mass of writhing vaginal flesh. Her bra-encumbered tits rolled and sloshed heavily on her chest. Her gasps took on a frantic, pre-orgasmic tenor. The breaths shuttling around her lewd moans became ragged and uneven—she spiralled down into a black hole within her herself, so deeply lost in self-abuse that she could barely remember air. Her thighs and breasts and belly jiggled. Her clit smoldered and sang, and when her thighs scissored blindly in pleasure, she forgot her inward chants of innocent.

Eyelids fluttering, tongue out and lolling, saliva running down her chin, she began to moan and grunt beneath the vibrator. Chasing the forbidden. Finding it even with her eyes closed.

I am a woman of God!

Her clit surged. Her head snapped back.

It arrived like death. She had time to lock a scream inside her throat, then her pretense of innocence shattered in a single bright pulse, as did everything else.

THE END