With his youthful innocence he figured if he could fuck his mother once, he had the right to fuck her again. He knew nothing about emotions, about his mother's distaste with his father, of her sense of embarrassment. All he knew we his cock was hard, that his mother's face and body made his cock hard, and he had fucked her once and he wanted to fuck her again. What his mother wanted never entered his mind.

Marcy trembled as she leaned against the washing machine. She knew Jerry was behind her, knew he had his cock out. She could hear his breathing clearly. She felt the desire to flee, to rush from the laundry room and lock herself in her room, stay away from her son, or at least his cock.

But she knew she wouldn't run from him.

She would stand there, her back to him, and listen to him jack his cock, his excited breathing, her cunt bubbling with fiery wetness, her tits swollen and her clit knotted.

"Mother…"

"Hush, baby," she whispered without turning around.

"Mother, I need…"

"I know what you need," she replied. "But, Jerry, it's not."

She gasped loudly when she felt her son's hand on her ass, squeezing it through her dress and panties.

"It's very nice, Mother!" Jerry moaned behind her.

Marcy stopped breathing, her son running his hand over her ass, feeling it. His other hand came up and around her waist, then he was cupping one firm tit, still holding her ass with the other hand Marcy made a low a moaning sound her ass pushing back despite her effort to hold perfectly still.

When she felt her son lifting the back of her dress, she whimpered and leaned forward, eyes closed as a feverish shudder went through her. Jerry was going to fuck her again, and she couldn't stop him. She felt her dress lifted to her waist, and she lowered her head, blushing hotly, holding herself up with her elbows on the washing machine.