Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 391

Chapter 391: A Mother’s Desire 2 (R-18)
A raw moan tore from her chest, swallowed by the hissing water. Her right hand abandoned the aching weight of her breast, skimming down the dip of her stomach, a path slick with soap and need. Her fingers plunged into the coarse, dark curls guarding her sex—that primal, untamed bush she’d never bothered with now feeling wild, obscene, and utterly right. Her fingertips found the swollen, saturated folds beneath. Hot. Drenched.

I shouldn’t be feeling this. The thought was a whisper against a scream of sensation. Forbidden. But her hips bucked, betraying her. Is it, though? He’s not my blood. He’s… my best friend’s son. The logic was a flimsy shield against a tidal wave of want. Not incest.

Just… a line. A line I’m about to cross.

Her middle Finger found her clit, and the electric shock made her knees buckle. Not mine. But her body ground forward, shamelessly chasing the friction of her own hand. He watched my ass. He knows. The knowledge was as potent as the touch.

She imagined it wasn’t her own hesitant fingers, but his. Those capable hands she’d seen guide a tactical knife with terrifying precision… what would they feel like here? Not hesitant. Certain. Parting her slick flesh, claiming her. She pictured him behind her, his broad chest an iron wall against her back, one hand claiming a breast while the other…

Right there.

The fantasy took over, no longer a thought but a living thing in the shower steam with her. His hand, broad and demanding, slid down her spine, cupping the very curve of her ass she’d just flaunted. Squeezing. Spreading her open. She imagined the heat of him, the coarse hair of his chest scraping against her shoulder blades, his breath a low growl in her ear.

His other hand in her mind came around, refusing gentleness, claiming her breast. His fingers twisted her nipple just as she was doing now—a searing jolt of pain-pleasure that made her breath hitch, ragged and raw.

Her own fingers abandoned her clit, sliding lower to gather the copious slickness pooling at her entrance. She didn’t tease. She plunged two fingers deep, a desperate, full-body “Oh!” tearing from her throat as she curled them, seeking that spot, a pale imitation of the thick, filling thrust she craved. His thrust.

Her other hand flew back, grabbing her own ass cheek, squeezing hard, imagining his grip bruising her flesh as he drove into her. “Take it,” she whispered, the words filthy and sharp in the steam. “Like this… Peter… take me like this…”

Linda moaned, the sound swallowed by the drumming water as she leaned her forehead against the cool tiles, the steam a private, intimate confessional. The memory of his gaze on her stairs was no longer a memory; it was a brand, a fresh wave of heat blooming deep within her, entirely separate from the shower.

I don’t want to stop this feeling. The thought was a jolt of pure adrenaline. It makes me feel… alive. Like I’m not just a mother or a nurse. Like I’m still a woman who can be wanted. The admission was a key turning, unlocking a frantic, greedy need.

Her movements became faster, more demanding. Her fingers, slick and shameless, plunged deeper, a frantic mimicry of the hard thrust she imagined. Her other hand slapped against the wet curve of her ass, gripping and pulling, as if to open herself wider for the ghost behind her.

The fantasy was so vivid, so real, the steam-filled bathroom no longer a bathroom but a chamber of illicit pleasure.

She wasn’t a respected nurse or a caring mother anymore. She was a woman on fire, furiously fucking herself with the memory of the young man—her best friend’s son—waiting just downstairs.

Her movements became frantic, desperate. The wet sounds of her fingers pumping, the slap of her palm against her skin, filled the small bathroom. Steam cocooned her in the forbidden dream.

A final, savage image seized her, hyper-real in the steam: his face, contorted with a dark, possessive lust, not looking at his mother, but at as his woman. At prey he had finally cornered.

The words weren’t a thought; they were a command spiking through her nervous system. His cock… his thick, young and strong cock… inside me… filling me… splitting me open…

The mantra was a lit match to gasoline. Her thumb smashed down on her clit, grinding against the swollen, hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves as her two fingers curled into a desperate, beckoning ‘come-hither’ motion deep inside.

The slick, wet sounds of her own body were obscene, a filthy percussion to the roar of the water. She was no longer in control; she was a passenger, her body a vessel hurtling toward a cliff edge. Now. Oh, god, now.

The explosion wasn’t an event; it was an erasure. A choked, animalistic sob was ripped from her throat as an orgasm so violent it was a seizure seized her. It wasn’t a wave, it was a series of detonations, white-hot and devastating, starting deep in her core and ripping outwards.

Her inner muscles clamped down on her fingers in a frantic, milk-drinking rhythm, trying to pull the phantom cock deeper. Her vision went white, her knees buckled, and she convulsed against the tiles, every muscle in her body straining, her entire being reduced to a single, pulsing point of ecstatic agony. It ravaged her, stole her sanity, and left her a trembling, gasping wreck.

Her forehead was still pressed to the cool tile when awareness seeped back in, slow and syrupy. The water was no longer scalding, now a cooling balm against her overheated, hypersensitive skin. She was panting, each breath a ragged, desperate pull for air, her body still quaking with powerful aftershocks that made her thighs tremble.

A long, shuddering breath escaped her, and with it, a small, breathless laugh. She slowly pushed herself upright, her muscles feeling like jelly. She slapped a flat palm playfully against her own wet chest, the sharp smack echoing in the small room, a sound of utter, glorious finality.

“Oh, Linda Carter,” she whispered to the steam, her voice a husky wreck, a slow, utterly unrepentant smile spreading across her lips. “You are so, so wicked.”

Slowly, more awareness returned. The water felt suddenly cold against her flushed skin. The evidence of her arousal coated her thighs. The reality slammed into her: She’d just masturbated to a violent climax, fantasizing about fucking Peter Carter.

Her son. The boy she’d raised herself. Shame, thick and acrid, rose in her throat. ‘Wicked. Oh god, you wicked, wicked bitch.’

Yet… beneath the shame… a terrifying calm settled. The door was open. The dam had burst. The desire wasn’t a flicker anymore; it was a roaring furnace. She turned off the water, the sudden silence deafening.

Reaching for a towel, her movements felt heavy, deliberate. The denial was gone. Only the hunger remained—a raw, terrifying need that demanded to be fed.

Downstairs, Peter ladled sauce onto pasta, the rich aroma filling the kitchen. A slow, smile touched his lips oblivious his mother wanted to eat him raw.