She stops stirring the pasta—the mother of my sweet girlfriend—and bends lumbarly to load the washing machine with her dirty clothes… Her jeans tighten, full with the cellulitic flesh of her thighs and lovely bottom. The delicate pressure of her panties rimple against the bulging blue, soaking up her scented imprint. She squats now, and her slipping jeans show the lunula of her lower back, a hint of pale buttock, the slim shadow of a crack. She throws in a handful of her old fig leaves—Monday (conjugal, clean), Tuesday (filial, soiled haste), Wednesday (us alone, powdery front bloom). I look on sadly. When the house is empty I steal near to her bed and pluck like flowers as many of them as I can from her dirty linen basket. I examine them all carefully one by one for the best of the bunch. Most have stains, at least half are soiled, dry and friable (IBS, a fostress’ haste). Just in the middle-front where her femality rubs the best have the clear-green streak of mature effluvium I’ve yet to find a name for. It has a gentle pungent aroma, exotic, a mildly musky labium smell like that of her daughter. This secret nectar, rich and rare as oud, I hunt for like ambergris. There’s sometimes a slight tinge of rancidity which I prefer the purest lack.
I select my prize and scuttle off to the toilet, my bowels turning and bouncing with excitement. I lock the door, lift the lid, drop my trousers, plunge myself, and release a short succession of burring browns. I sniff her stain, I pull it away and breathe my own corrupt air and then bring it back again like a master perfumer. I do this so my nose never gets used to her backside’s scent. I loop it around my head so the crotch is just under my nostrils, and then I search for simulacra on my phone. I search for things like mature brunette, Selena Steele, Rachel Steele, Andi James. I have a surprising memory for erotic names, faces, faecal focal points.
I spend ten minutes or so doing this—with gentle intermittent caress to tease out my blood—and then, finding a near replica of her body, face, dimensions and pale flabbiness, I begin to unravel my lust. There is a disciplined pace to this ritual. Rushing it leaves the body empty and hollow, a little ashamed. But I do not want guilt. I want to feel it all, untainted, whole and healthy.
When my throb reaches a particular pitch I take her knickers off my head and feed the streak of discharge into my mouth and lick it, wetting again the dry honey so it crumbles onto my tongue and into my mouth, my throat. Just this morning, only a few hours ago and before her bath, this thin strip of fabric was wrapped cosily amongst her underfolds and puckered ring like a foetus within the womb, soaking up the mucus and sweat she emits when I make her laugh. She is a whore, my whore, and doesn’t know it, no more than if I had slipped a sleeping potion into her camomile, and when she went to lie down on the sofa, sweetly dreaming, I softly unzipped and opened her with my fingers… I am eating her. I can feel her heavy cheeks, I can smell her stink. I’ve stolen her genitals. This woman who cleans the toilet after using it so no one will see her leavings, cleans her house if she knows a friend is coming over, I’m smelling her filth, I’m watching her defecate.
She’s fifty and birthed two children, she must gape like an old woman’s mouth when she bends or sits. I taste it, the sheer pink chasm of it. I imagine she’s sitting on my face, pulling my head inside her, feeding my tongue with her depraved panting and excited doggish humping. Thirty years married, she must be existentially gagging for new skin, fresh plentiful milk. Her husband, my girlfriend’s father—the one man with whom she’s ever been shared—is paunched, bald and tired. He once cheated on her. She needs me, languishes before me. I know all her secrets, every little pica. She needs a good, hard, simple, solid lover up her groin.
Then I see the darkness of her twin-gibbous dimpled cheeks backing like a bus onto my swollenness. Babily hairless—I’ve sucked her tangled razor, watched closely her swimsuit slips. She guides me with her ringed hand like a lost boy—come to momma. I try to grab her, pull her apart, but she swells through my fingers. I imagine my girlfriend’s smaller but simular young arse and lovehandles, and transplant her usurping mother’s head. I feel her transliterated slit, slippery as snot, slurply swallow my polyped glands. She gobbles me up, all, and yet simpers for more. She moans and launches into groin-wateringly desperate pelvic thrusts like I saw her bounce on her exercise ball, smiling demonically, idiotically, childishly at me. When she gets excited she’s like a little girl again, ice-cream smeared all over her pink cheeks.
Then I finish. I flush the tissue, clean myself, dry my spit off her underwear with a communal flannel, and return it to the laundry basket. I make a final check everything is as I found it, and then I go back to the living room, wash my mouth with water and return to typing my novel.
—Do you want pasta or fish soup? She asks as I type.
—I’ll have the pasta please.
Oh, please let me have you!
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/8izd0y/mothers_thongs_mf_scat_piss_underwear