Mark was gone by morning.
A single suitcase.
The wedding album left on the kitchen counter like a corpse.
Elena didn't touch it.
She burned it in the backyard fire pit while Alex watched, arms around her waist from behind, cock half-hard against her ass.
The flames curled the photos—smiles melting, vows turning to ash.
She leaned back into him, pussy already wet, and whispered,
"Fuck me here. In the open. Let the neighbors see if they dare."
He did.
Bent her over the patio table, dress flipped up, tits pressed to the warm wood.
Took her slow—deep, grinding strokes that made her moan loud enough to echo off the fence.
She came with the sun on her back, pussy gushing down his balls, his name a prayer on her lips.
He filled her again—another load to nurture the life growing inside her.
They left the ashes smoldering.
A warning.
A baptism.
The house sold in a week.
Cash offer.
No inspection.
They didn't care.
They'd already moved into the new place—forty minutes away, ten acres, no neighbors in sight.
A modern farmhouse with floor-to-ceiling windows, a wraparound porch, and a master bedroom the size of their old living room.
One king bed.
One crib in the corner—still empty, but waiting.
Elena's body changed fast.
By week ten, her tits were heavier, nipples dark and sensitive, leaking the faintest drops when Alex sucked them.
Her belly rounded softly—barely a swell, but he kissed it every morning, every night.
Her pussy stayed *dripping*.
Pregnancy made her insatiable.
She'd wake him at 3 a.m. with her mouth on his cock, riding him until the headboard cracked against the wall.
She'd bend over the kitchen island at noon, begging him to take her from behind while lunch burned on the stove.
Her squirt came easier—hot, forceful jets that soaked the hardwood, the sheets, his chest.
He drank from her like wine.
They built routines.
Rituals.
**Mornings**
She'd wake first.
Kneel between his legs.
Suck him slow—worshipping every vein, every throb—until he came down her throat.
Then he'd flip her, spread her, and eat her until she screamed, thighs clamped around his head.
**Afternoons**
Naked walks on the property.
She'd ride him in the wildflower field, tits bouncing, belly glowing in the sun.
Or he'd press her against an oak tree, lift one leg, and fuck her standing—slow, deep, her pussy creaming down his shaft.
**Evenings**
Dinner on the porch.
She'd sit on his lap, dress hiked up, pussy full of his cock while they ate.
No thrusting.
Just *there*.
Connected.
She'd feed him bites of steak, then kiss him, tasting herself on his tongue.
The world shrank to them.
No Mark.
No guilt.
No shame.
At four months, the ultrasound confirmed it—a boy.
They named him *Leo*.
Strong.
Fierce.
Like his father.
That night, they celebrated.
Candles.
Wine (sparkling cider for her).
A blanket on the living room rug.
He laid her back, kissed every inch—her swollen tits, her rounded belly, the slick heat between her thighs.
Entered her slow.
Made love like a vow.
She cried when she came—quiet, shuddering sobs of joy.
He held her through it, cock pulsing inside her, filling her again.
At six months, her belly was full and tight, tits massive and veined, nipples leaking steadily.
She couldn't wear clothes anymore.
Didn't want to.
She padded naked through the house, pussy always wet, always ready.
Alex built a sex swing in the bedroom—low, padded, perfect for her weight.
He'd strap her in, legs spread wide, belly cradled, and fuck her for hours—slow rolls of his hips, hands cupping her tits, milking the drops that beaded on her nipples.
She'd squirt in arcs, soaking the floor, the walls, *him*.
He'd lick it off her thighs, then kiss her, sharing the taste.
At eight months, she was a goddess.
Huge.
Radiant.
Horny beyond reason.
She'd wake him with her pussy on his face, grinding through orgasm after orgasm.
He'd carry her to the shower, fuck her against the wall, water pounding her back.
Her contractions started during one—mild, teasing.
She came so hard she nearly passed out, pussy clamping down like a fist.
He carried her to bed, called the midwife, and stayed inside her until the contractions strengthened.
Even then, she begged—
"Don't stop. Fuck me through it. I need you."
He did.
Slow.
Gentle.
Until the real labor hit.
Leo was born at home, in their bed, at 4:17 a.m.
Alex caught him—tiny, perfect, screaming.
Elena sobbed, laughed, reached for them both.
The midwife cleaned up, smiled, and left them alone.
Alex laid Leo on Elena's chest, then slid behind her, cock hard against her back.
She turned her head, kissed him.
"Later," she whispered.
"When he sleeps."
He did—two hours later, in the bassinet.
Elena stood, legs shaky, pussy sore but *aching*.
She climbed onto Alex, sank down slow.
Took him to the root.
Rode him gentle—milk leaking from her tits, dripping onto his chest.
They came together—quiet, intense, tears in their eyes.
The hunger never faded.
It evolved.
Years passed.
Leo grew—strong, loved, *theirs*.
The house filled with laughter, toys, and the constant undercurrent of their love.
Elena's body softened—curves fuller, tits heavy with milk for years.
Alex's cock stayed her obsession—thick, perfect, *home*.
They fucked in every room, every season.
On the porch swing at midnight.
In the barn during a thunderstorm.
In the kitchen while Leo napped upstairs.
One night, ten years in, Elena stood at the window—naked, belly soft from two more children (girls, fierce and wild).
Alex came behind her, hands on her hips, cock sliding home.
She moaned, pushed back.
"Look at us," she whispered.
"Still burning."
He thrust deep.
"Always," he growled.
"My mother.
My wife.
My *everything*."
Outside, the fire pit glowed—new logs, new memories.
Inside, they burned brighter.
The obsession had become a life.
And the life?
It was *perfect*.
The farmhouse had grown with them.
Wings added.
A treehouse in the old oak.
A swing set where Leo once ruled, now claimed by his younger sisters—fiery, fearless girls with Elena's curves and Alex's eyes.
The property stretched farther now—fifty acres of wildflowers, a pond, a barn converted into Alex's workshop.
The porch wrapped all the way around, creaking under bare feet and late-night whispers.
Elena was sixty-two.
Still breathtaking.
Her hair silver-streaked, pulled into a loose braid that brushed the small of her back.
Her body softer, fuller—hips wide from birthing three perfect children, tits heavy and pendulous, nipples dark and sensitive even after weaning the youngest five years ago.
Her pussy stayed *dripping*.
Always.
Pregnancy had rewired her—hormones, obsession, *need*.
She woke wet.
Slept wet.
Fucked wet.
Alex was thirty-nine.
Still carved from marble—broad shoulders, thick arms, cock as massive and relentless as the day she first took him.
He'd built the life around her—furniture from the barn, shelves lined with her cookbooks, a bed frame he'd carved with their initials hidden in the grain.
He woke hard.
Slept hard.
Fucked her like the world was ending.
The children were grown or growing.
Leo—twenty, away at college, calling every Sunday to tease his mom about "still being gross with Dad."
The girls—fourteen and ten—knew their parents were *in love*.
Didn't know the half of it.
Never would.
It was a warm September night.
The kids asleep at friends' houses.
The house empty.
*Ours.*
Elena stood at the kitchen sink, washing dishes in nothing but an apron—strings tied loose, ass bare, tits spilling over the neckline.
Alex came in from the barn, shirtless, sweat-slick, sawdust in his hair.
He didn't speak.
Just crossed the room, dropped to his knees behind her, and spread her cheeks.
His tongue found her pussy—still shaved smooth, still dripping—lapping slow from clit to entrance.
She moaned, gripped the counter, pushed back.
He ate her like a starving man—tongue fucking her, nose buried in her ass, hands kneading her thighs.
She came fast—hard, squirting into his mouth, down his chin.
He drank it all.
Then he stood.
Unzipped.
Entered her in one slow, perfect thrust.
She gasped, head falling forward, braid swinging.
He fucked her against the sink—deep, steady strokes, one hand on her hip, the other sliding under the apron to cup a heavy tit, thumb flicking her nipple.
Water splashed.
Dishes clattered.
She came again—pussy clenching, milking him, a low, guttural moan echoing through the house.
He pulled out, spun her, lifted her onto the counter.
Spread her legs wide.
Entered her again—face to face, eyes locked.
Slow.
Deep.
Her tits bounced between them.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass.
"Still mine," he growled.
"Always," she breathed.
"Fuck me forever."
He did.
On the counter.
On the table.
On the rug by the fireplace.
Hours.
Until she was boneless, pussy swollen and gaping, cum leaking from her in thick rivers.
Until he was spent, cock raw, chest heaving.
They lay tangled on the rug, fire crackling low.
Her head on his chest.
His hand on her belly—soft now, marked with silver stretch marks like medals.
She traced the veins on his forearm.
"Do you ever think about… before?" she asked quietly.
"Mark. The lies. The hiding."
He kissed her temple.
"Never."
A pause.
"You?"
She smiled.
"Only to thank him."
A soft laugh.
"He gave me you."
Outside, the moon hung full and low.
Crickets sang.
The fire pit glowed faintly—twenty years of ashes, twenty years of *them*.
Inside, Elena shifted, straddled him again.
His cock—still half-hard—twitched against her thigh.
She sank down slow.
Took him to the root.
Rode him gentle—hips rolling, tits swaying, eyes never leaving his.
The hunger hadn't faded.
It had deepened.
Become *sacred*.
She leaned down, kissed him soft.
"Happy anniversary, baby."
He smiled against her lips.
"Twenty years down.
Forever to go."
They moved together—slow, perfect, *eternal*.
Mother and son.
Lovers.
Partners.
*Everything*.
The flame never went out.
It only burned brighter.
**The End.**