He lay sprawled across his bed in nothing but boxer briefs, forehead dramatically pressed to the back of his hand, moaning loud enough for the sound to carry down the hallway.
"39.6… Mom, I'm dying…"
The door creaked open. Sayuri stepped in, still wearing the soft cream sweater and dark apron she used for housework. Forty-two years old, widowed for six, and still so beautiful it hurt to look at her directly—long chestnut hair in a loose bun, gentle eyes, and a body that refused to believe in middle age. The sweater clung to the impossible swell of her breasts; the apron strings cinched a waist that flared into hips Kenta had measured in secret with his gaze for longer than he cared to admit.
She leaned over him, cool hand against his forehead.
"You're burning up, baby…" Her voice was pure worry, but Kenta could smell the faint vanilla-sweet scent of her skin, feel the soft weight of her breasts brushing his arm as she bent closer. "Let Mommy take care of you."
He almost broke character right then.
Sayuri sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her generous curves. She peeled the blanket down to his waist, revealing the thin fabric of his boxers already tented obscenely.
"Poor thing," she murmured, fingers trailing lightly over his bare chest. "You're so hard… I mean hot. So hot."
Kenta let out a pathetic whimper that turned into a genuine groan when her palm slid lower, stopping just above the waistband.
"Mommy knows a special way to bring fever down," she whispered, cheeks flushing pink. "But only big boys who really need it get this medicine."
He stared up at her, pulse hammering. "I… I really need it, Mom."
Sayuri's eyes darkened with something that wasn't maternal concern anymore. She stood just long enough to lock the bedroom door, then returned, climbing onto the bed and straddling his thighs. The apron fell away; the sweater followed, revealing a lacy white bra that looked two sizes too small for the soft, heavy breasts spilling over the cups.
Kenta's hands moved on instinct, cupping those glorious tits, thumbs brushing stiff nipples through lace. Sayuri moaned softly and rocked forward, grinding against the rigid length trapped beneath his boxers.
"Shhh, baby. Let Mommy do the work."
She reached behind, unhooked the bra, and let it fall. Her breasts—full, creamy, with wide pink areolas—bounced free, swaying inches from his face. Kenta surged up, mouth latching onto one fat nipple, sucking hard the way he'd fantasized about for years.
Sayuri's head fell back, fingers threading through his hair. "Yes… just like that… good boy…"
Her hips rolled in slow circles, soaking the front of his boxers with the heat between her legs. When she finally tugged the fabric down, his cock sprang up thick and leaking, slapping against her belly.
She wrapped both hands around him—still not enough to meet—and stroked once, twice, watching pre-cum bead at the tip.
"Such a big boy," she breathed. "Mommy's so proud."
Then she leaned down, breasts dragging over his chest, and kissed him—deep, wet, filthy. Tongues sliding, moans muffled. When she pulled back, a string of saliva connected their lips.
She shifted higher, knees on either side of his head, and lowered herself until the soaked lace of her panties brushed his mouth.
"First dose," she whispered. "Drink from Mommy."
Kenta didn't need to be told twice. He yanked the panties aside and buried his face in her dripping pussy—tasting her for the first time, sweet and rich and perfect. Sayuri cried out, grinding down, smearing wetness across his lips and chin as he licked and sucked like a starving man.
Minutes or hours later—she wasn't sure—she came with a broken wail, thighs clamping around his head, flooding his mouth.
Only then did she slide back down his body, line him up with her entrance, and sink down in one slow, relentless glide.
They both shouted.
She was scorching, velvet tight, fluttering around every inch as she took him to the root. Her breasts bounced with each roll of her hips, nipples brushing his chest.
"Feel better, baby?" she panted, riding him harder. "Is Mommy's pussy making the fever go away?"
Kenta could only nod, hands gripping her ass, guiding her as she fucked him into the mattress.
She came again—harder this time—walls milking him in rhythmic pulses. The sight of his beautiful mother lost in pleasure, tits bouncing, head thrown back, was too much.
"Inside," she begged, voice cracking. "Give Mommy all of it—fill me up—"
He did.
He thrust up once, twice, and erupted—thick, endless ropes of cum flooding her clenching cunt until it overflowed, dripping down his balls and onto the sheets.
They stayed locked together, trembling, her forehead pressed to his.
"The fever's… still a little high," he rasped after a minute.
Sayuri laughed breathlessly and clenched around his still-hard cock.
"Then we'll need round two," she murmured, already starting to move again. "And three. And however many it takes until my baby is all better."
Outside, the thermometer on the nightstand read a perfectly healthy 36.8.
Neither of them looked at it again for the rest of the weekend.