Rajesh's study smelled of old books, leather, and the faint cedar of his cologne. The room had always been off-limits to Arjun growing up—sacred space for spreadsheets and video calls. Tonight, Priya locked the door behind them with a soft click and leaned back against the polished teak desk, legs parted just enough for the hallway light to catch the slick shine on her inner thighs.
"Papa's throne," she purred, running a manicured finger along the edge. "I want my son's cum all over it."
Arjun's eyes darkened. He'd followed her in naked, cock jutting heavy and proud, still glossy from the balcony. The sight of his mother—lush, shameless, spreading herself on his father's desk—sent a fresh surge of blood south.
Priya hopped up, the wood cool against her bare ass. She scooted back, knocking a stack of files to the floor without care, and lay down fully. Her heavy breasts settled to either side, nipples dark and begging. She hooked her heels on the desk's edge and let her knees fall open, exposing her swollen, dripping pussy to the dim desk-lamp glow.
"Come here, beta," she whispered. "Fuck me where your father signs his useless contracts."
Arjun stepped between her thighs, gripping the base of his cock. He dragged the fat head through her folds—once, twice—coating himself in her juices, teasing her clit until she whimpered. Then he pushed in, slow and relentless, watching her lips stretch around his girth.
Priya's back arched off the desk. "So thick… always so thick…"
He bottomed out with a groan, balls flush against her ass. For a moment they stayed locked like that—mother impaled on son, the desk creaking beneath them. Then Arjun started to move.
Long, deep strokes. Each withdrawal left her empty and clenching; each thrust punched the air from her lungs. Her tits bounced wildly; he caught one in each hand, kneading, thumbs flicking nipples in time with his hips. The desk rocked, papers sliding, a pen clattering to the floor.
"Yes—yes—ruin me on his desk—"
He hooked her legs over his elbows, spreading her wider, angling deeper. The new position let him grind against her clit with every thrust. Priya's moans turned to broken sobs of pleasure. She clawed at his forearms, heels digging into his back.
"Touch yourself," he growled. "Show me how wet your son makes you."
One hand flew between her legs, fingers circling her clit in frantic loops. The other pinched her own nipple hard. She came suddenly—pussy clamping down, juices gushing around his cock, soaking the leather chair behind him. Arjun kept fucking her through it, pace brutal, sweat dripping from his brow onto her heaving tits.
When the aftershocks faded, he pulled out, spun her around, and bent her over the desk face-down. Her breasts squished against scattered invoices; her ass arched high. He entered her again in one slick thrust, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.
The angle was perfect—his cock dragged over her G-spot with every stroke. Priya's fingers scrabbled for purchase on the wood, knocking Rajesh's gold nameplate to the floor. It landed with a dull clink neither of them noticed.
"Again," she begged, voice muffled against her forearm. "Make me come again—"
Arjun reached under, two fingers rubbing her clit in tight, slippery circles. His other hand fisted her hair, pulling her head back so he could watch her face in the dark computer screen's reflection—eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream.
She shattered a second time, pussy spasming so hard he had to fight to stay inside. Her squirt splashed the desk, ran down the wooden legs. The sight undid him.
With a guttural groan he pulled out, fisted his slick cock twice, and painted her ass and lower back in thick, white ropes. Some landed on the leather desk mat—Rajesh's monogrammed one. Priya reached back, scooped a dollop onto her fingers, and sucked them clean with a filthy moan.
They stayed like that—Arjun panting behind her, Priya limp across the desk, cum cooling on her skin. Finally she pushed up on shaky arms and turned, pulling him into a slow, deep kiss. She tasted herself on his tongue.
"Eight days left," she murmured against his lips. "Tomorrow… the kitchen counter at sunrise. Then the washing machine while it spins."
Arjun's spent cock twitched against her thigh.
"Whatever Mummy wants," he said, voice hoarse.
She smiled, wicked and sated, and led him out by the hand—leaving the study door wide open, the desk a battlefield of crumpled papers and drying cum.
The kitchen glowed soft orange when the first light slipped through the blinds. Priya was already up, naked except for the thin gold chain around her waist that glinted against her skin. She'd wiped the counter clean after midnight, but the faint scent of sex still clung to the air—musky, unmistakable.
Arjun padded in barefoot, hair tousled, morning erection leading the way. He stopped in the doorway, drinking her in: heavy breasts swaying as she reached for a steel tumbler, the curve of her ass catching the dawn, the way her thighs glistened with fresh arousal.
"Coffee?" she asked, voice husky with sleep and want.
He crossed the room in three strides, took the tumbler from her hand, and set it aside. "Later."
His hands were on her instantly—cupping her tits, thumbs circling nipples until they stiffened into tight peaks. Priya melted back against him, head falling to his shoulder as he kissed down her neck, teeth grazing the spot that made her shiver.
She turned in his arms, pushed him until his back hit the fridge. The cold steel made him hiss; she dropped to her knees on the cool tile, took his thick cock in both hands, and stroked slow and worshipful. A bead of pre-cum pearled at the tip; she licked it off with a moan.
"Still tastes like me," she whispered, then swallowed him deep.
Arjun's head thunked against the fridge. She worked him with mouth and hands—sucking, twisting, humming until his thighs shook. When his hips started to thrust, she pulled off with a wet pop and stood.
"Counter. Now."
He lifted her easily, setting her on the edge. The marble was cold against her ass; she hissed, then spread her legs wide. Her pussy lips were puffy, slick, begging. Arjun stepped between them, rubbed the head of his cock through her folds, teasing her clit until she whimpered.
"Inside," she ordered. "Fill me before the milkman rings."
He pushed in with one smooth thrust, groaning at the tight, wet heat. Priya's legs locked around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper. He started slow—long, grinding strokes that dragged over every sensitive spot inside her. The counter was the perfect height; each thrust nudged her cervix, made her breath catch.
She leaned back on her elbows, tits bouncing with every slam of his hips. The sunrise painted them gold—sweat-slick skin, her dark nipples, the obscene sight of his thick cock disappearing into her again and again.
"Faster," she gasped. "Fuck me like the slut I am for you."
Arjun gripped her hips, pulled her to the very edge, and pounded. The counter shook; steel utensils rattled in the drawer below. Her pussy made filthy wet sounds, juices dripping onto the marble, running down to pool beneath her ass.
He reached between them, thumbed her clit in tight circles. Priya's back arched, a low keen tearing from her throat. She came hard—pussy clenching, squirting in hot pulses that soaked his abs and the counter beneath. Arjun kept thrusting, chasing his own release, until she came again—smaller, sharper, her nails raking his shoulders.
With a guttural groan he pulled out, fisted his cock, and painted her tits in thick ropes. Some landed on her chin; she caught it with her tongue, eyes locked on his.
They stayed like that—panting, trembling—until the doorbell buzzed. The milkman, right on time.
Priya laughed breathlessly, slid off the counter on shaky legs, and grabbed a dish towel to wipe herself. Arjun watched, cock already stirring again.
"Shower," she said, tossing him the towel. "Then the washing machine. I want to feel you while it spins me dizzy."
He caught her around the waist, kissed her hard. "Yes, Mummy."
The milkman left the packets outside. Inside, the kitchen counter gleamed wet in the sunrise—evidence of a mother and son who had eight days left to sin.