The washing machine hummed in the narrow utility balcony off the kitchen, its rhythmic thump-thump-thump already vibrating through the floor. Priya had tossed in a load of bedsheets—still faintly scented with last night's sins—and set it to the heaviest spin. She wore nothing but a thin cotton housecoat, tied loosely, the knot barely holding.
Arjun leaned in the doorway, towel slung low on his hips, droplets clinging to his chest from the shower. His cock tented the towel obscenely; the sight of his mother bending over the machine, ass peeking from the hem, had him hard in seconds.
"Ready?" she asked, voice low, eyes glittering.
He dropped the towel. "Always."
Priya untied the housecoat and let it fall. Naked again, gloriously so—big tits swaying, hips wide, pussy already glistening. She climbed onto the machine as it kicked into full spin, the vibrations buzzing up through the metal into her thighs, her clit, her core.
"Fuck," she hissed, knees trembling. "It's like a giant vibrator."
Arjun stepped up behind her, hands sliding around to cup her breasts, rolling her nipples between calloused fingers. The machine's rhythm made her grind instinctively; her juices smeared the white enamel top.
"Hold on," he growled.
He guided her forward until she was bent over the machine, cheek pressed to the cool lid, tits squashed beneath her, ass high. The spin cycle rattled her bones; every pulse shot straight to her clit. Arjun spread her cheeks, licked a hot stripe from clit to hole, making her cry out. Then he stood, lined up, and thrust in to the hilt.
The vibration amplified everything. His thick cock stretched her while the machine buzzed against her front—double stimulation, relentless. Priya's moans turned to broken sobs.
"Arjun—beta—oh god—"
He fucked her hard, hips slamming, the slap of skin against skin mixing with the mechanical thrum. One hand fisted her hair; the other snaked under to rub her clit in time with the spin. The angle was brutal—every thrust nudged her cervix, every vibration made her clench around him.
She came fast, sudden, pussy gushing over his cock and the machine. The spin cycle didn't stop. Neither did he. He kept pounding, chasing her through the aftershocks, until she came again—harder, legs buckling, squirting in hot pulses that splashed the floor.
Arjun pulled out, spun her, and lifted her onto the machine fully. She straddled it backward now, facing him, the vibrations buzzing up through her ass and pussy. He stepped between her thighs and slid back in, slow and deep.
Priya wrapped her legs around him, arms around his neck, and rode the dual rhythm—his cock and the machine. Her tits bounced in his face; he sucked one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing. The spin cycle hit its peak—wild, chaotic—and so did she.
Third orgasm. Fourth. She lost count, head thrown back, screaming his name into the humid air. Arjun's stamina held; he fucked her through every spasm, sweat dripping, abs flexing.
When the machine finally whirred to a stop, he was still hard inside her. Priya panted, limp, pussy fluttering around him.
"Bed," she whispered. "Now. I want you slow this time. Want to feel every inch for hours."
Arjun carried her—still impaled—down the hall, her juices dripping with every step. The sheets were gone, the mattress bare. He laid her down, hovered over her, and began again.
Slow. Deep. Worshipful.
Outside, Mumbai roared into Saturday afternoon. Inside, mother and son had seven days left—and no intention of wasting a single minute.
The bedroom fan spun lazy circles above them, pushing warm air across sweat-slick skin. Priya lay on her back in the center of the bare mattress, legs spread wide, one knee hooked over Arjun's hip. He moved inside her with deliberate, unhurried strokes—long, deep glides that ended with a slow grind of his pelvis against her clit before pulling almost all the way out.
No rush. No frenzy. Just the wet, intimate sound of her pussy taking him again and again.
She'd lost track of time. The washing machine had finished its cycle an hour ago; the sheets were still damp in the drum. Sunlight slanted through half-closed blinds, striping their bodies in gold. Arjun's forearms bracketed her head, his dark eyes locked on hers.
"Like this," she whispered, fingers tracing the flex of his back. "I want to feel every vein, every throb. Don't come until I say."
He nodded, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his brow. His cock was iron-hard, slick with her cream, stretching her walls with each languid thrust. Priya's pussy fluttered around him, greedy but patient. She'd already come twice—once when he'd licked her clean after the spin cycle, once when he'd fingered her open and slid back in. Now she wanted to savor.
She cupped her own breasts, pushed them together, offered them up. Arjun dipped his head, sucked one nipple slow and deep, tongue swirling. The pull shot straight to her clit. She moaned, hips rolling to meet his next thrust.
"Talk to me," she breathed. "Tell Mummy how her chut feels."
"So wet," he rasped, voice rough. "So tight. Like it was made for me. Every time I pull out it tries to suck me back in."
Priya clenched deliberately, milking him. His breath hitched.
"Better than those college girls?" she teased.
"None of them even come close." He kissed her slow, filthy, tongue stroking hers in time with his cock. "You ruin me for anyone else, Ma."
She smiled against his mouth, then pushed at his shoulder. "On your back."
He rolled, cock slipping free with a wet sound. Priya straddled him reverse—facing his feet—so he had the full view of her round ass, the way her pussy lips gripped his shaft as she sank down. She leaned forward, hands on his thighs, and began to ride.
Slow. Torturous. Up until only the head remained, then down until her ass met his hips. Each descent made her heavy tits swing; each rise left her empty and aching. Arjun's hands settled on her hips, not guiding—just holding, thumbs tracing the dimples above her ass.
Minutes stretched. The fan clicked overhead. Somewhere down the lane a pressure cooker whistled. Priya's thighs trembled; her pussy dripped steadily, coating his balls, running down to the mattress.
She reached between her legs, rubbed her clit in small circles. "Close," she panted. "Don't move. Let me use you."
Arjun groaned, hips twitching but obeying. She rode faster—just enough to chase the edge—then slammed down hard and ground. Her orgasm rolled through her slow and deep, pussy pulsing, juices flooding. She kept grinding, drawing it out, until she collapsed forward with a shuddering sigh.
Only then did she turn, straddle him face-to-face again, and sink back down. His cock jerked inside her, on the brink.
"Now," she whispered, cupping his face. "Come inside Mummy. Fill me up."
Two more slow thrusts and he did—hips bucking, cock swelling, hot pulses painting her walls. Priya kissed him through it, swallowing his groans, clenching to wring every drop.
They stayed joined, breathing hard. Afternoon light shifted; the room grew warmer. Eventually she slid off, cum trickling down her thigh, and curled against his side.
"Nap," she murmured, tracing lazy hearts on his chest. "Then dinner. Then the sofa again. I want you from behind while we watch something filthy."
Arjun's spent cock twitched against her hip.
"Seven days left," he said, voice drowsy but smiling.
She nipped his earlobe. "Plenty of time to break every rule twice."
The living-room lights were off, the only glow coming from the television—some late-night adult channel Priya had found with a remote click. Moans and wet slaps spilled from the speakers, low and rhythmic. The sofa cushions still carried the faint imprint of their bodies from the first night.
Priya knelt on the thick rug, back arched, palms flat on the coffee table. Her heavy breasts hung free, nipples grazing the glass with every breath. Behind her, Arjun stood naked, cock slick and shining from the slow blowjob she'd given him while the opening credits rolled. He traced the curve of her ass, spread her cheeks, and watched her pussy clench at the cool air.
"Like the movie?" he asked, voice rough.
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes hooded. "I'd rather make our own."
He knelt, rubbed the fat head of his cock through her soaked folds—once, twice—then pushed in slow. Priya's head dropped, a low moan vibrating in her throat. He filled her completely, thick shaft stretching her walls, balls nestled against her clit.
Arjun started steady—long, deep strokes that ended with a roll of his hips, grinding against her G-spot. The coffee table rocked; a half-empty glass of water tipped, spilled, ran in rivulets across the glass and dripped onto the rug. Neither cared.
Priya pushed back to meet him, ass rippling with every slap of skin. "Harder," she breathed. "Make the sofa shake."
He gripped her hips, pulled her onto his cock with every thrust. The rhythm built—wet, relentless. Her tits swung wildly; one nipple caught the spilled water, cold and shocking. She gasped, pussy fluttering.
On screen, a woman cried out in climax. Priya echoed her—real, raw, pussy clamping down as she came. Juices gushed around Arjun's cock, splattered his thighs. He didn't stop. Just shifted his angle, one hand sliding under to circle her clit, the other reaching forward to pinch a nipple.
Another orgasm rolled through her, smaller but sharper. Her arms gave out; she collapsed onto her forearms, cheek against the cool glass, ass still high. Arjun followed her down, chest to her back, cock never leaving her heat. He fucked her prone now—slow, grinding, the weight of him pinning her deliciously.
"Again," he growled against her ear. "Come on my cock again, Ma."
She whimpered, oversensitive, but her hips rolled back greedily. The sofa creaked as he braced one knee on it, driving deeper. The television flickered—new scene, new moans. Priya's third climax built slow, coaxed by his fingers on her clit, his teeth on her shoulder.
When it hit, she sobbed his name, pussy spasming so hard he had to fight to stay inside. Arjun's control snapped. He pulled out, flipped her onto her back across the sofa arm, and sank back in. Her legs went over his shoulders; the angle was obscene—cock spearing deep, her tits bouncing with every brutal thrust.
Priya's hands flew to her breasts, squeezing, pinching. "Inside," she begged. "Fill me—"
He came with a roar, cock pulsing, flooding her womb in thick, hot ropes. She milked him with deliberate clenches, drawing out every drop until he collapsed over her, panting.
The credits rolled on screen. Neither moved. Cum leaked from her pussy, pooled on the leather sofa. Priya traced lazy circles on his sweat-slick back.
"Six days," she murmured.
Arjun kissed her slow, tasting salt and sex. "We'll make them count."
The monsoon broke just after midnight, a sudden roar of water on tin and concrete. Priya woke to the sound, thighs sticky, Arjun's arm heavy across her waist. The bedroom window rattled; cool, wet wind slipped through the gap and kissed her bare skin.
She slipped from bed, padded naked to the dresser, and pulled on a thin white cotton kurti—nothing else. The fabric clung instantly to her heavy breasts, nipples dark shadows beneath. Arjun stirred, eyes opening to the sight of her silhouette against the storm-lit window.
"Rooftop," she whispered. "Now."
He was up in seconds, cock already half-hard. They crept through the dark flat, past the sleeping neighbor's door, up the narrow stairwell to the building's flat roof. The rain hit them like a slap—warm, relentless, turning the world into silver sheets.
Priya laughed, wild and free, spinning under the downpour. The kurti went transparent, plastered to every curve—big tits bouncing, ass round and gleaming. Arjun caught her, hands sliding over wet skin, mouth crashing into hers. Rain streamed between their lips.
She pushed him against the water tank, dropped to her knees on the rough concrete. His cock sprang free, thick and proud, rain sluicing down the veiny length. Priya took him deep—gagging, drooling, rain mixing with her saliva as she sucked him with filthy enthusiasm. Thunder cracked overhead; lightning lit the rooftop in stark white.
Arjun hauled her up, spun her, bent her over the low parapet. The city sprawed below—wet streets, flickering neon, cars crawling like beetles. He yanked the soaked kurti up to her waist, spread her ass, and thrust in to the hilt.
Priya cried out, the sound swallowed by the storm. He fucked her hard—hips slamming, rain slapping skin, water cascading off her swinging tits. One hand fisted the wet fabric at her back; the other snaked around to rub her clit in tight, slippery circles.
The rooftop shook with their rhythm. Water pooled around their feet; her pussy gushed with every thrust, mixing with the rain. She came fast—pussy clamping, squirting in hot pulses that the storm washed away instantly. Arjun kept pounding, relentless, until she came again—harder, legs buckling, nails scraping the parapet.
He pulled out, turned her, lifted her onto the narrow ledge. Her back hit the cool metal tank; legs wrapped around his waist. He slid back in, slow and deep, rain drumming on their joined bodies. Lightning flashed again—illuminating her face twisted in ecstasy, his cock disappearing into her again and again.
Priya's third orgasm built slow, coaxed by the storm, the danger, the sheer wrongness of it all. When it hit, she screamed into the thunder, pussy spasming, milking him. Arjun followed seconds later—hips jerking, cock pulsing, filling her with thick ropes that leaked out instantly, washed away by the rain.
They stayed locked together, panting, drenched, until the storm eased to a steady patter. Priya kissed him slow, tasting rain and cum.
"Five days," she whispered against his lips.
Arjun carried her downstairs—kurti plastered, cum and rainwater dripping with every step. The flat was dark, warm, waiting.
They had time.
The hallway mirror ran floor-to-ceiling, a relic of Rajesh's gym obsession that had never quite been used. Tonight it became their stage.
Priya stood naked before it, palms pressed to the cool glass, legs spread wide. Rain still dripped from her hair, tracing paths between her heavy breasts, down the curve of her belly, to the swollen lips of her pussy. Arjun stood behind her—cock rigid, glistening with their mixed juices, eyes locked on their reflection.
"Look at us," she whispered. "Mother and son. So wrong. So perfect."
He stepped closer, the head of his cock nudging her entrance. In the mirror she watched it happen—his thick shaft parting her folds, stretching her pink flesh, disappearing inch by inch until his hips met her ass. The sight made her clench; a fresh gush of wetness coated him.
Arjun's hands slid up her wet torso, cupped her tits, squeezed until milk-white flesh spilled between his fingers. He rolled her nipples—slow, deliberate—watching her face in the glass: eyes half-lidded, lips parted, breath fogging the mirror.
"Watch," he growled. "Watch me fuck you."
He started slow—long, deep strokes that made her ass ripple, her tits bounce in his hands. Every withdrawal left her empty and aching; every thrust filled her to bursting. The mirror showed everything: the obscene stretch of her pussy, the way her thighs trembled, the slick shine of their joining.
Priya's moans echoed down the hall. She pushed back to meet him, grinding her clit against his balls on the downstroke. One of his hands left her breast, slid down, spread her lips wider so they could both see his cock plunging in and out.
"Touch yourself," he ordered.
She obeyed—one hand sliding down to circle her clit in tight, frantic loops. The other braced against the glass, leaving foggy handprints. Her reflection was pure debauchery: tits swinging, ass bouncing, pussy dripping down his shaft.
The pace built. Arjun's hips snapped faster, balls slapping her clit with every thrust. The mirror rattled in its frame. Priya's first orgasm hit like a wave—pussy spasming, squirting in hot pulses that splashed the glass and ran down to the floorboards. Arjun kept fucking her through it, relentless, until she came again—harder, knees buckling, a broken sob tearing from her throat.
He pulled out suddenly, spun her, pressed her back to the mirror. The glass was cold against her heated skin. He lifted one of her legs, hooked it over his hip, and slid back in—deep, brutal. The new angle let her watch over his shoulder: her own ass clenching, his cock spearing her again and again.
Priya's hands flew to his hair, pulling him into a filthy kiss. Tongues tangled, teeth nipped. She felt him swell inside her—close.
"On me," she gasped. "Mark me."
Arjun pulled out, fisted his cock twice, and erupted—thick ropes painting her tits, her belly, dripping down to her pussy. She rubbed it in with both hands, smearing his cum over her skin like lotion, then brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked them clean.
They slid to the floor together, backs against the mirror, legs tangled. The glass was fogged, streaked with handprints and cum. Priya traced a lazy heart in the mess.
"Four days," she murmured, head on his shoulder.
Arjun kissed her temple, cock already stirring against her thigh.
"Plenty," he said.
The guest room had always been a museum piece: crisp white sheets, untouched pillows, a faint scent of naphthalene from Rajesh's old suits hanging in the closet. At 5:47 a.m., with the sky outside shifting from ink to pearl, Priya pushed the door open and flicked on the single bedside lamp.
Arjun followed, naked and half-hard, eyes still sleepy but sharpening the moment he saw her climb onto the high bed on all fours. The mattress—firmer than theirs—sprang beneath her weight. She looked back over one shoulder, hair tousled, lips swollen from midnight kisses.
"This bed has never known sin," she said, voice low. "Make it remember us."
He was on her in a heartbeat—kneeling behind, hands spreading her ass, tongue dragging one long, wet stripe from clit to hole. Priya moaned into the pillow, hips rocking back, greedy. He licked her open like a starving man—sucking her clit, spearing inside her, lapping up the fresh flood of arousal that dripped down her thighs.
When she was trembling, close to the edge, he rose up and slid home in one slick thrust. The guest bed creaked in protest—old springs singing a new song. He fucked her slow at first, savoring the tighter grip of her pussy in this unfamiliar space, the way the headboard tapped the wall with every deep grind.
Priya pushed up on her elbows, arching her back to take him deeper. "Harder," she begged. "Wake the neighbors."
Arjun obliged—hips snapping, balls slapping her clit, the bedframe rattling like it might collapse. One hand fisted her hair; the other reached under to knead a swinging breast. Her nipples were diamond-hard, begging. He pinched one, rolled it, and felt her pussy clamp down in response.
She came with a sharp cry—pussy gushing, squirting onto the pristine white duvet in dark, spreading stains. Arjun kept pounding, chasing her through the spasms, until she came again—smaller, sharper, her whole body shaking.
He pulled out, flipped her onto her back, and pushed her knees to her chest. The new angle let him watch his cock disappear into her—thick shaft stretching pink lips, cream coating every inch. Priya's hands flew to her tits, squeezing, offering them up.
"Suck," she ordered.
He bent, took one nipple deep, teeth grazing. The dual sensation—his mouth on her breast, his cock spearing her cunt—sent her over a third time. She screamed into the pillow, pussy fluttering wildly.
Arjun's control frayed. He straightened, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and fucked her with short, brutal thrusts—chasing his own release. The bed screamed louder than they did. When he came, it was with a guttural groan—cock pulsing, flooding her womb in thick, hot ropes that overflowed instantly, soaking the sheets beneath her ass.
They collapsed sideways, still joined, panting. The room smelled of sex and fresh cum. Dawn light crept through the curtains, illuminating the wreckage: duvet ruined, pillows askew, headboard dented.
Priya traced a lazy circle on his chest. "Three days," she whispered.
Arjun kissed her slow, tasting salt and satisfaction. "We'll destroy every room twice."
Outside, Mumbai stirred. Inside, mother and son drifted back to sleep—cock still inside her, the guest bed forever christened.
The dining table was Rajesh's pride: solid rosewood, seats eight, polished to a mirror shine for dinner parties that never happened. At 12:03 p.m. the sun poured through the sheer curtains, turning the surface into liquid gold. Priya walked in wearing only an apron—frilled, ridiculous, tied tight beneath her heavy breasts so they spilled over the neckline like ripe fruit.
Arjun sat at the head, naked, cock already thick and resting against his thigh. A single plate of mango slices sat between them—golden flesh dripping juice. Priya picked one up, bit into it slow, let the sweet liquid run down her chin and onto her chest.
"Lunch," she said, voice husky, "is served."
She climbed onto the table, knees sinking into the wood, apron riding up to reveal her bare ass and the slick shine between her thighs. Arjun pushed the plate aside; mangoes scattered, juice pooling. He stood, gripped her hips, and pulled her to the edge.
Priya leaned back on her elbows, legs spread wide, apron pushed up to her neck. Her pussy glistened—swollen, ready, dripping with anticipation. Arjun dragged the head of his cock through her folds, coating himself in her wetness, then thrust in to the hilt.
The table rocked. Plates rattled in the kitchen cabinet. He fucked her hard—hips slamming, balls slapping her ass, the apron's frills bouncing with every stroke. Mango juice smeared between their bodies, sticky and sweet. Priya's tits jiggled free of the fabric; she pinched her own nipples, head thrown back, moans echoing off the high ceiling.
"Use the table," she gasped. "Fuck me on every inch."
Arjun pulled out, spun her, bent her over the long edge. Her breasts squished against the wood, nipples dragging through mango juice. He entered her again—deeper this time, the angle brutal. One hand fisted the apron strings like reins; the other rubbed her clit in tight, slippery circles.
She came fast—pussy clamping, squirting in hot pulses that splashed the table and ran down the carved legs. Arjun kept pounding, relentless, until she came again—harder, legs shaking, a broken sob tearing from her throat.
He lifted her then, turned, sat back in Rajesh's chair with her straddling him reverse. The table became their stage: Priya rode him slow and filthy, ass bouncing, mango-stained hands braced on the wood. Arjun's fingers dug into her hips, guiding her up and down his thick shaft.
Minutes blurred. The sun climbed. Sweat and mango juice mixed, dripping onto the chair. Priya's third orgasm built slow—coaxed by the stretch of him inside her, the scrape of the apron against her clit, the sheer wrongness of defiling Rajesh's throne.
When it hit, she screamed—pussy spasming, milking him. Arjun followed seconds later—hips bucking, cock pulsing, flooding her with thick ropes that leaked out instantly, pooling beneath them.
They stayed locked together, panting, the table a battlefield of sticky fruit and cum. Priya reached for a fallen mango slice, fed it to him over her shoulder, then licked the juice from his lips.
"Two days," she whispered.
Arjun kissed her slow, tasting mango and sin.
"We'll break the table next."
The building's stairwell was a concrete echo chamber—cool, dim, smelling faintly of damp and old paint. At 6:47 p.m. the last of the daylight bled through the narrow window slits, painting violet stripes across the steps. Priya backed Arjun against the wall between the third and fourth floor, apron long gone, wearing only the gold waist-chain that glinted against her sweat-slick skin.
No one used the stairs this late. Still, the risk hummed between them like electricity.
She dropped to her knees on the hard step, took his cock in one hand, and swallowed him to the root. Arjun's head thunked against the wall; his fingers tangled in her wet hair. She sucked him sloppy—gagging, drooling, cheeks hollowed—until his thighs shook and pre-cum coated her tongue.
"Up," he growled.
Priya stood, turned, braced both palms on the higher step. Her ass arched high, pussy dripping down her inner thighs. Arjun stepped in, kicked her feet wider, and thrust in with one brutal stroke. The stairwell rang with the wet slap of skin, her sharp cry bouncing off concrete.
He fucked her hard—hips snapping, balls slapping her clit, the gold chain jingling with every thrust. One hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her moans; the other snaked around to rub her clit in tight, frantic circles. The angle was perfect—his cock dragging over her G-spot, the cold step biting into her knees.
She came fast—pussy clamping, squirting in hot pulses that splashed the stairs and ran down the drain grate. Arjun kept pounding, relentless, until she came again—harder, legs buckling, a muffled scream vibrating against his palm.
He pulled out, spun her, pushed her down onto the steps. She lay back, legs spread over the edges, pussy gaping and glistening. Arjun straddled her, slid back in, and fucked her missionary on the narrow staircase—slow, deep, the concrete cold against her shoulder blades.
Twilight faded to indigo. A distant door slammed somewhere below; footsteps echoed, then faded. Priya's third orgasm built slow—coaxed by the danger, the stretch of him inside her, the way his thumb circled her clit like a promise.
When it hit, she bit his shoulder to stay quiet, pussy spasming, milking him. Arjun followed seconds later—hips jerking, cock pulsing, flooding her with thick ropes that leaked out instantly, pooling on the step beneath her ass.
They stayed locked together, panting, hearts hammering against each other. The stairwell smelled of sex and wet concrete. Priya traced a lazy circle on his back.
"One day," she whispered.
Arjun kissed her slow, tasting salt and risk.
"Then we make it count."