Roberta’s bulbous hot-air-balloon-ass cheeks slumped down upon the wooden bench with an echo which rebounded about the house. She wasted no time in setting a bouncing pace, rolling her ass from the back of the bench toward the front again as she heaved her entire three-hundred pound weight to and fro, all upon the pivot point of Kyle’s haplessly trapped frame. The legs of the bench creaked for mercy.
Sensations novel and perfect to Roberta rolled through her being; she couldn’t believe the volume of new feelings and angles she was reaching now with the mere replacement of her inanimate dildo with a live one. Straight as her vaginal cavity kept him, Kyle was in a state of epileptic gyration, knocking his knees and knotted arms against the tender, sensitive terrain within, and it was every bit as effective as Roberta hoped. The woman’s mouth hung blearily open, blurting the occasional involuntary gasp of shocked pleasure.
Minutes rolled by. Roberta was doing her absolute best to recall that her dildo did require oxygen from time to time. She lurched back up, high enough that Kyle could gulp some air. The sight of his naked form emerging from her gooey opening was akin to watching a newborn expelled from the same department, given how heinously drenched in her juices he’d become.
Kyle roared in a high-pitch, overcome with animal panic. Ejaculate poured down his body, dripping over the side of the bench in glistening strands. Just after she heard him begin hyperventilating, confirming he was in fact still conscious, Roberta descended again, harder than the initial comedown. In a single concussive plop, the woman’s plump buttocks slammed into the bench. With that fall, Kyle’s body vanished almost instantaneously into her opening, this time even lower than before.
“Oh, fuck me…” Roberta groaned. The rhetorical comment was baritone and fraught with sticky eroticism, though ugly as anything in Kyle’s tiny eardrums, as he heard her screech through the brush of slick-matted pubic hair and skin. The bucking recommenced. In the low, vanilla light, Roberta and her bountiful curves were beginning to glow with loving perspiration. Her hefty cleavage lubricated like a slip-and-slide, but the real show was the mounting glaze of sweat making its way down her back, collecting beneath her continually bouncing cellulite-ridden glutes. The metronomic slap of her ass on the wood turned wet and harsh.
Gripping the side of the bench in both white-knuckled hands, Roberta forced herself lower. The end of this game was coming, and she wasn’t going to half-ass the big conclusion. She felt her separated pussy lips sliding over his tiny shins, down past the shoes, until at last the boy’s entire body was consumed by her electrified womanhood. The woman squealed and grunted, her cries of bliss resembling multiple phylums of nature’s fauna. She could feel every square inch of him now, embraced by the skin-tight enclosure of her tunnel.
With one hand latched on the cusp of the furniture and the other combing through her wildly flailing tresses of dark frizz, Roberta rode the bench like a bull, with her worming son poised perfectly inside. His head had risen high enough inside her now that she could feel his huffed, desperate breaths flowing cool against parts of her inner self she never expected to distinguish. The mere realization of this delicacy caused Roberta to spasm, riding into the sunset of the most intense orgasm of her entire life. Her cunt clinched hard around Kyle’s body, pleading to remain around his body forever as she reared back for the finale.
Blushed a near-crimson red and wearing several extra skins of gushed love juices, Kyle opened his mouth as he felt the giantess tense in the aching seconds prior to release. Perhaps to scream, perhaps to take in the hail-mary breath before passing out. Either way, his lips were instantly flooded with a half-gallon of cum squirting in a frenzy from his mother’s pressurized pussy. The volume of goo literally muted the sound as his entire windpipe filled with Roberta’s fluid.
Racing through the final throttling waves of pleasure, Roberta steadied her pace to a crawl. Her moans had swelled, almost to full-on yodeling. She leaned back again on the foot of the bed, mired in a pool of cum and sweat collected beneath her ass. In a zombified haze of victorious gratification and emotional assuredness, Roberta stood up. Kyle’s unconscious body was slurped out of its tight prison, and with it, a last dump of ejaculate bottled inside her pussy, preserved until gravity took hold. The entire liquid mass spilled squarely down upon the shrunken sex toy boy while Roberta caught her breath.
Her fingers twirled around her hardened, prickled nipple caps, dark with sexual fascination. Thin lips spread wide apart, she inhaled through her throat, drinking in the muggy, candlelit atmosphere of this now-holy room. Her frizzy hair, too, was suddenly a favorite toy for spinning and tugging. All of herself, she wanted to touch: languish upon the riptide of glorious sensations.
Roberta couldn’t help but smile. Skin still grooved with lingering goose bumps and ever-sensitive even to the lush feeling of the carpet beneath her bare soles, she looked down upon the fruits of her labors. Most of the bench was soaked through with her cum, leading to the center like the mouth of a riverbed; a gray stain was pooled in the carpet. At the head of the gooey wreckage was Kyle, slumped over on his back. His entire body fossilized in his mother’s juices, his feet still hooked into the glued boots. And if Roberta wasn’t mistaken, the middle of the bench seemed to slope just a little lower than she remembered, after the terrific pounding her massive derriere bestowed into the paltry wooden slat. Her thumb found its way back to her swollen labia.
With a sigh of finality, though, Roberta acknowledged she couldn’t stand here all evening touching herself. Not when Kyle wasn’t awake, and especially not when her body was still atwitter, begging for more than boring old masturbation. That orgasm, if anything, had only cranked up her nerve endings to full sensitivity. Rather than looking for rest, the whole of her bottom-heavy corpus was starved for greater exploration. There were still discoveries to be made. Frontiers to cross. Forbidden fruits to sample.
“Kyle. Wake up, baby.” Roberta cradled her son’s sticky body in her palms, having pried him from the boots. He was very pink, certainly, but after she brushed the build-up of cum from his breathing orifices and affirmed the rise and fall of his chest, followed by his coughing up of her nectar, the boy was obviously none the worse for wear. Well, maybe a little worse, but he was alive and unbroken, it seemed. Which was more than plenty for Roberta.
“Thank goodness you’re awake. I admit, I may have gone a little overboard this time, honey. That’s on me, and I’m genuinely sorry about that,” Roberta said with sincere conviction. “But can you really blame me, with all the teasing you did the last time I had a drink? This has been a long time coming. There’s some responsibility to share on both sides, really, when you think about it.”
It was unclear whether Roberta’s caring explanations were getting through to the boy. He was curled into a fetal ball in her palm, occasionally yucking up another mouthful of her gunk, and not necessarily reacting to the sound of her voice nor her well-based defenses.
“C’mon, sweetie. I need you to stay with me. I’m willing to wait a minute for you to get your bearings, but this body of mine, well… it’s only going to hold out for so long before the next round.”
This, at least, seemed to catch Kyle’s attention through the messy reverie. He rolled over with some painful effort in his mother’s hand, laid flat on his back, and gazed up at her with a thousand-yard stare.
“Next round?” he muttered with surprisingly clear diction despite his obvious shell shock. His pupils shrank.