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Give it to me. Conversations like these are never fun with your mommy, are they?”
I don’t answer, giving her the impression that she’s right. I taste so amazing on her tongue. Because before me is my mother bending over to push her clothes in the basket in her overshirt. I speed up my fingering, adding another finger as she rides me, sucking even harder on her neck as she moans louder and louder. You mean to tell me that all of what I was thinking was actually being screamed at the top of my lungs? I love this so much. That’s my only option. No one compares to her. She’s just gardening. I shut my eyes, basking in the pleasures of my own touch, wishi- pretending it was mom’s.
