I was kissing a teenager. My son, in fact. I slammed my head backwards, and stumbled off his lap to my feet.I was crying, again. I looked down at him....He looked crestfallen, or something, like he was disappointed. I knew he was. I knew he wanted more, I felt it.“I’m sorry, Rob...” I mumbled, tears in my voice. “I’m sorry, honey...” I staggered out the door and to my room, and threw myself on my bed. I was sorry. I didn’t know what I was sorry for, for what we did, what I allowed, or for ending. Her hands unfasten his shirt buttons. When he attempts reciprocation, she brushes away his hand. The kisses end when his shirt opens.“Take it off,” she insists.She studies the result, with eyes and hands. Hands move down to remove the rest of his clothes. When his long fat cock bounces free, she stops.“It’ll fit,” he tells her.“Promise?”“I’ll make you ready. I’ll always make it good for you.”“You better.” She studies it thoroughly, eventually touching it. “It feels ... interesting. And hot. You. More

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