19M) My mom (38F), the physician, was mesmerized by my cock

So, long story short, I had a late-teen growth spurt, possibly still ongoing. Within a few years I've shot up 6 inches (from 5'10" to 6'4") in height, and everything else has filled out proportionally—especially down there, where it's grown noticeably thicker and longer.

We live together in the house she bought after the divorce, just the two of us since Dad left a while back. She's always been my family physician, handling all my check-ups since I was a kid. But with college starting soon, she suggested I come in for a full physical at her clinic before I head off. "Better safe than sorry," she said over breakfast one morning, her tone all professional, like she wasn't the same woman who'd packed my lunches growing up.

I'm sitting in the exam room at her small private practice, flipping through some outdated magazine, when she knocks and comes in. She's just how she's always been: with her glasses perched on her nose and short blonde hair tucked behind her ears. I stand to hug her hello—awkwardly, since I'm towering over her now. "Ready for this?" she asks, pulling back with a small smile, clipboard in hand.

She has me take my shirt off to check my heartbeat. "Deep breath in," she says, pressing the stethoscope to my chest. Thanks to a summer of manual labor, I'm pretty ripped now, and I notice her eyes linger for a second on my abs before she moves it to my back. "Strong and steady," she murmurs, her voice steady. "Vitals look good."

Then she steps back, glancing at her notes. "Alright, next up is the hernia check. You know the drill—pants down, stand tall." We've done this before, sure, but that was years ago, back when I was just a scrawny kid with nothing to hide. But now... now it's different. My hands freeze at my belt, heat flooding my face. "Mom, do we really have to?" I mutter. She tilts her head, expression softening but firm. "Hey, in here, I'm Dr. Ellis, and you're my patient. This is routine—nothing personal, just making sure everything's healthy before you go off on your own. It's okay, I promise. I've done this a thousand times."

I swallow hard, nodding, and undo my jeans, dropping my pants and boxers to my ankles. My cock swings free, heavy and thick, brushing against my thigh as it settles. The cool air of the room hits it, and I feel exposed, vulnerable—especially under her gaze. I stare at the floor, waiting for the snap of her gloves.

But there's a pause. Longer than it should be. I glance up, and she's staring—eyes wide behind her glasses, lips parted like she's forgotten how to breathe. Her cheeks flush pink, and she lets out a soft, shaky exhale, almost a whisper: "Oh... my." It's not the clinical tone; it's something raw, surprised, like she's seeing me for the first time. The way my length hangs there, thicker than her wrist, longer than she'd ever imagined from the boy she raised—it's got her frozen, her gloved hands hovering mid-air.

She blinks, shaking it off, but the flush deepens as she reaches down. "Right, uh—let's get this done," she says, voice a little higher than usual. My size makes it awkward right away; it's just in the way, blocking her path. She hesitates again, then slides one hand under the shaft, lifting it with careful fingers. Her palm feels small against me, cradling the weight like it's something fragile and forbidden all at once. I twitch under the touch, thickening just a bit, and her breath hitches audibly. "Turn your head and cough," she instructs, but it comes out breathy, distracted. Her other hand cups my balls, but her eyes are locked on what she's holding up—studying the veins, the girth, like she's mesmerized by how much I've changed.

I cough, and she nods absently, but she doesn't let go. Not yet. Her fingers curl slightly, giving it the gentlest squeeze, testing the firmness, her thumb brushing the underside for a heartbeat too long. "Everything feels... normal," she murmurs, almost to herself, her voice thick. Then she snaps out of it, dropping her hand so it slips free with a soft thud against my leg. She steps back quick, adjusting her glasses, face burning. "All clear there. Good."

The rest of the exam flies by in a blur of flustered efficiency. Toward the end, she's rattling off the usual—blood tests, STI panel if I want. "You know, just to be thorough," she adds, avoiding my eyes. I nod, saying sure. She pauses on the form. "Sexually active with men, women, or both?"

"Mom?" I say, caught off guard by the bluntness.

She straightens, pen poised. "Doctor," she corrects softly, though her cheeks are still pink.

"None," I admit, shifting a little.

"Really?" she asks, her eyes flicking up to meet mine, holding there a beat too long, searching my face like she's piecing something together. The stare lingers, heavy with unspoken questions.

I shrug, a smirk tugging at my lips. "A doctor doesn't say that."

She blinks, then lets out a quick, nervous laugh, looking back down at her notes. "Fair point. Let's just... wrap this up."

She draws my blood herself, her touch quick and precise, but she doesn't look up once.

Not gonna lie, it was all pretty charged in a way I can't quite shake. Back home that same night, the energy hasn't faded—it's just simmered into something playful, like we're both tiptoeing around it with jokes to keep it light. I decide to lean into it first. She's just gotten in, kicking off her shoes in the hall with a tired sigh, still in her scrubs from the clinic. "Thanks for the check-up, Doc," I say, keeping my voice casual but letting that smirk linger as I lean against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. "Feeling extra healthy."

She glances up from unlacing her sneakers, pausing mid-bend with a flush creeping back into her cheeks, but she covers it quick with a laugh, shaking her head as she straightens. "Oh, you're welcome, smartass. Glad my professional services are appreciated." There's that sparkle in her eye again, the one that says she's game for the banter, and she smooths down her scrub top before heading upstairs. "Give me a sec—gonna change out of this uniform. Then we can tackle the laundry before bed."

I nod, grabbing the hamper from the laundry room to start sorting while I wait. It's no big deal; I've been helping out more with stuff like this lately—laundry, cooking, whatever—to keep things running smooth since the divorce. Feels good, especially on nights like this when the house feels a little too quiet otherwise.

She comes back down a few minutes later in her comfy post-work gear: loose yoga pants and an oversized tee that hangs off one shoulder, her hair down now instead of tucked back, blonde waves framing her face. She's carrying her worn scrubs bundled under one arm, the faint scent of clinic antiseptic clinging to them. "Alright, team effort," she says, dumping them into the open hamper with a grin as she joins me by the washing machine. We start loading it up together—my jeans from earlier, her socks, a mix of towels from the bathroom—our hands brushing now and then in the tight space, elbows bumping as we reach for the next handful.

She's chatting lightly about a funny patient story from the day (nothing too identifiable, doctor-patient confidentiality and all), and I'm half-listening, half-aware of how the hem of her tee rides up just a bit when she bends to grab from the bottom of the basket. Then she pulls out the next item: my boxers, the exact pair I'd worn to the exam, still rumpled and carrying that telltale outline. She holds them up with a raised eyebrow, inspecting the stretched fabric along the seams, and that laugh bubbles out—light and teasing, crinkling the corners of her eyes behind her glasses. "You know, you might need a bigger size for these," she says, dangling them from one finger like evidence, her tone all mock-clinical. "They look a little... strained. Doctor's orders."

I snatch them from her with a chuckle, my fingers grazing hers in the handoff—warm, quick—and toss them into the drum with a flourish. "Strained? Nah, Doc, that's just them hugging the goods like they mean it. If anything, it's a compliment to your thorough exam—got everything in working order." I wink, keeping it witty to match her vibe, and she snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the detergent.

But I'm not letting her off that easy. As she straightens, I fish out the next piece from the pile—her panties, soft black lace ones that must've slipped in with the scrubs, delicate and clearly not meant for the casual toss. I hold them up, mirroring her move, and arch a brow right back. "Might as well upgrade these too, while we're shopping. Can't have the doc falling behind in the support department."

She freezes for a split second, eyes widening before she bursts into another laugh, snatching for them—but I hold 'em just out of reach, grinning like an idiot. "Nah," she says, still chuckling as she gives up and leans against the machine, arms crossed. "They're big enough. Hell, enough to fit you too, if you ask me."

"Fit me?" I echo, lowering the panties but not dropping them yet, my smirk turning skeptical. "Nice joke, Mom. These things are barely holding their own."

She tilts her head, that mischievous glint sharpening as she steps closer, plucking them from my fingers with a triumphant little tug. "Why not? Stretchy fabric. Designed for all shapes and... growth spurts." Her voice dips just a touch on that last bit, eyes flicking up to mine with a challenge.

"No way," I shoot back, laughing it off but feeling the heat creep up my neck, the air in the laundry room suddenly thicker with the hum of the empty machine behind us.

She doesn't back down, folding the panties neatly and tucking them into the load like it's no big deal, but her gaze stays locked on me—playful, insistent. "Seriously, it will. If you have doubts, try it. Right here, right now. Doctor's curious."

"Nice try, but no," I say, shaking my head as I dump in the last of the socks, my heart picking up despite the banter. "I'm not turning laundry night into a fashion experiment."

She insists anyway, bumping my hip with hers as she hits the start button on the washer, the cycle kicking in with a low rumble that vibrates through the floor. "Oh, come on—live a little. For science. I promise, no judgment. Just one leg, even." Her laugh's softer now, but her eyes are sparkling, daring me, the bundle of clothes forgotten as the water starts to fill.

I hold up my hands in mock surrender, but the grin's still there, because damn if her insistence isn't pulling me in despite the absurdity. "I would," I say, nodding at the panties she's just folded back into the load, "but these are dirty. You've worn 'em all day under those scrubs."

She arches a brow, that teasing lilt creeping back into her voice as she pours in the detergent like it's no big deal. "So what? Not like you're gonna catch some disease by wearing it for a minute. Germs don't jump that fast, even in a doctor's house." The washer sloshes louder now, filling up, but her eyes are locked on mine—daring, sparkling, like this is the most normal Tuesday night activity ever.

"Yeah?" I counter, crossing my arms to buy a second, my mind racing ahead to how cornered I suddenly feel. But hell, fair's fair. "If you wear my dirty boxers, you got a deal."

"Fine," she says without missing a beat, that laugh of hers turning into a determined huff as she straightens up. Before I can process it, she's hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her yoga pants and shimmying them down her legs—quick and casual, like we're just swapping socks or something. They pool at her ankles, and she kicks them aside, revealing the fresh panties underneath: simple cotton ones, pale blue and hugging her hips just right. Then she snags my boxers from the pile—the same rumpled ones from the exam, still carrying that faint musk of the day—and steps into them, pulling them up over her fresh pair. They sit loose on her smaller frame, the legs bunching a bit at her thighs, but she tugs the waistband with a triumphant spin. "See? Now your turn."

I'm trapped, and she knows it—my own dare boomeranged right back. Heat floods my face, but I play it cool(ish), glancing at the door like someone's gonna burst in any second. "Alright, but close your eyes. I've got nothing underneath these shorts."

"Fine," she says, turning toward the wall with exaggerated drama, her hands over her eyes and a smirk I can hear in her voice. "Scout's honor. No peeking."

I hesitate one last beat, heart hammering as I glance at her back—shoulders relaxed, blonde hair swaying slightly with her soft chuckle. The laundry room feels tiny, the washer's gurgle the only sound besides my own breathing. Screw it. I hook my thumbs into my shorts and shove them down, kicking them off quick, standing there naked from the waist down in the cool air. My cock hangs soft for now, heavy but contained, and I snatch up her dirty panties from the counter—the black lace ones, warm from the hamper, stretchy like she promised. I step in, one foot then the other, pulling them up slow. The fabric's soft, surprisingly accommodating; it stretches wide over my thighs and settles against me, semi-transparent lace hugging my length and balls just enough to cover everything, though a few dark hairs peek through the mesh edges. It's weird—intimate, ridiculous—and I feel exposed even with her eyes shut.

"Okay," I mutter, voice a touch rougher than I mean it to be. "Open your eyes."

She turns, dropping her hands, and her gaze lands right there—scanning the fit with clinical curiosity that melts into a grin. "See? Didn't I tell ya? Stretchy enough for anything." But her cheeks pink up again, eyes widening a fraction as she takes it in, the washer's hum filling the pause.

And that's when it happens—her stare, the way the lace clings just so, the whole damn charged bubble of the room—my body betrays me. I feel the twitch first, then the slow thicken, blood rushing south despite my best efforts. The fabric, true to form, tries to adjust but can't quite keep up; it strains against the growing girth, the outline of my shaft pressing clear through the sheer lace, veins and all, thickening visibly by the second. Shit. I slap a hand over it quick, cupping myself to hide the evidence, heat exploding across my chest.

"See now?" I blurt, half-laughing, half-mortified, my free hand gesturing vaguely at the mess.

She blinks, tearing her eyes up to my face with a flush that matches mine, but she recovers fast—pressing her lips together to stifle whatever sound's trying to escape. "Fair's fair," she says, voice a little breathy as she waves it off. "Let's call it a draw. Now let's put these things in the dryer before the washer finishes and floods us." She busies herself grabbing the swapped items—my boxers sliding off her hips with a quick shimmy, her yoga pants tugged back on in record time—while I wriggle out of the panties just as fast, the lace snapping free with a soft elastic twang. We toss everything into the dryer haphazardly, her avoiding my gaze for a beat as the door slams shut and the heat kicks on.

We're both dressed again, the moment defused into awkward normalcy, heading for the door when she pauses, hand on the light switch. She glances down—then back up at me—with that doctor-mode glint. "Doctor's advice: you really need a shave down there. Hygiene's important, you know."

I snort, caught off guard but rolling with it, my hand on the doorknob. "Why doesn't the doctor follow the same advice?"

"Wait, what?" She freezes, turning fully to face me, brow furrowed in that mix of mom-curiosity and something sharper.

"Nothing," I say quick, shrugging like it's no big deal, but I'm already smirking, the tables flipping back.

She stares me down, arms crossing as she leans against the frame—unyielding, that insistent spark from earlier flaring up. "Tell me."

I give up with a laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. "Fine—your hairs were too visible through the panties while you were changing into my boxers. Kinda... gave you away."

She fumbles for a second, cheeks going full crimson as she tugs at her tee like it'll hide the evidence, glancing down at herself. "Oh. Might have missed a spot—haven't had time recently, with work and all." Her voice is flustered but lightening, a sheepish smile breaking through.

"Same here," I say, smiling back as we finally step into the hall, the dryer tumbling behind us like applause. The house feels warmer somehow, the banter settling into this new, fuzzy rhythm that promises more nights like this—charged, silly, and way too close for comfort. Or maybe that's the point.

Her alarm blares from upstairs while I'm downstairs nursing coffee. She's late for rounds, cursing as she bangs her shin on the bedframe. "Ow, damn it—fucking thing!" Before I can set my mug down, she's at the top of the stairs, hair a wild blonde mess, tank top askew from sleep, yelling down, "Hey, the shower faucet's sticking again—can you come fix it? Quick!"

I jog up. The bathroom door's cracked, steam already sneaking out as she cranks the water half-on, but yeah, it's that finicky knob that needs a good yank. "On it," I say, slipping in behind her, but she doesn't budge—instead, she turns with that frantic energy, eyes lighting up mischievous despite the clock ticking. "Actually... join me? Two sets of hands, save time—come on, like old times, when you'd splash around while I showered."

I freeze in the doorway, heat hitting my face faster than the humid air. "Uh, pass—got coffee waiting downstairs, and this ain't exactly kid-sized anymore." My voice comes out rougher than I mean, visions of last night's lace swap flashing unbidden, my dick twitching at the worst possible moment.

She pouts, but it's the playful kind, all doctor-confidence mixed with that mom-tease that's been ramping up since the exam. "Why not? Live a little—it's just a shower, not a commitment." Before I can backpedal, she's already peeling off her tank top, tossing it at my chest with a grin that dares me to bolt. Her sports bra clings next—black, simple, cupping her tits just enough to make my throat click—and then she's shimmying out of her shorts, kicking them aside to stand there in matching black panties that hug her ass like they were painted on. The fabric's thin, sheer in the bathroom light, and yeah, those stray blonde curls peek through the edges, wild and unapologetic. "These gotta stay on while you're in here today—no time for full monty," she says, hooking a thumb in the waistband but not tugging down, her cheeks pinking as she eyes me expectantly. "Your move, big guy."

Fuck. My heart's slamming, but I can't chicken out now—not with her standing there all bold and bare-legged, water pattering behind the curtain like it's egging us on. I kick the door shut with my heel, yanking my tee over my head and dropping my sweats in a heap, left in just my boxers—the loose ones, thank god, though they do jack shit to hide the semi I'm already fighting. "Fine, but if we drown, it's on you," I mutter, stepping under the spray first, the hot water hitting like a slap, soaking through the cotton in seconds and turning it damn near transparent.

She slips in after, the stall so tight our bodies brush right away—her bra soaking through, nipples perking against the wet fabric, my boxers clinging like a second skin. The rush is real at first: her fumbling with the soap, me cranking the faucet full blast while she rinses shampoo from her hair, elbows knocking, laughs echoing off the tiles as water sluices down her back. But then it slows, the steam wrapping us like a blanket, and I grab the bar, lathering her up without thinking—hands on her shoulders first, fingers kneading the knots from her long shifts, digging in deep until she melts against me with a moan that goes straight to my cock. "God, yes, right there—fuck, your hands are magic," she groans, low and throaty, her head dropping forward as suds trail down her spine, over the dimples above her ass.

I swallow hard, palms sliding lower, tracing the curve of her back, thumbs pressing into the tension at her waist—she's arching just a fraction, pushing into it like she needs the release more than the rinse. Then she spins slow, water beading on her lashes like diamonds, looking up at me with eyes gone dark and vulnerable, bold as hell despite the flush creeping down her neck. Her hands land on my hips to steady herself—or maybe to pull me closer, I can't tell—fingers splaying wide over the wet fabric of my boxers, gripping like anchors.

Proximity wins out, the air thick as the steam; she slides one hand up my abs, slow and deliberate, nails scraping light over the ridges I earned chopping wood all summer, tracing that V-line dipping toward my groin with a whisper that's half-breath, half-growl: "Growth spurt's got perks, huh? Jesus, look at you—all man now." Her palm flattens there, hot and slick, stopping just above the waistband, inches from where my dick's straining hard against the soaked cotton, the outline obscene and throbbing. I hiss in a breath, hips twitching forward on instinct, but she holds steady, eyes flicking down to the bulge with a smirk that's pure sin.

She doesn't pull away—instead, her gaze sharpens, doctor-mode kicking in with that teasing edge. "And shit, you actually shaved down there? Taking my advice seriously—good patient." Her voice drops vulgar, thumb brushing the edge of my waistband like she's tempted to dip lower, water pattering between us as her free hand stays planted on my hip, squeezing the muscle there.

I glance down, heart pounding, and yeah, the boxers are plastered, but so are her panties—clinging wet to her mound, those blonde curls peeking defiant through the sheer sides, dark against the pale fabric, framing her like a goddamn invitation. "Patient's done what he's been told," I say, voice gravelly as I meet her eyes again, nodding at her hips. "But what about the doctor? Looks like you skipped a spot—or five."

She follows my gaze, looking down at herself with a bark of laughter that's all surprise and heat, water sluicing over her tits as she shifts, the curls shifting with the motion. "Oh, fuck—yeah, maybe later. Been too slammed to play landscaper." She doesn't cover up, just grins up at me wicked, hand still hovering at my waistband like a promise, the shower's roar drowning out everything but the buzz in my veins. "Your fault for distracting me, anyway."

The timer beeps again, insistent as shit, and she groans, slapping the wall like it's personally offended her. "Alright, out—rounds wait for no one, not even this." But she doesn't move right away, her fingers giving my hip one last squeeze, eyes dropping pointedly to the tent in my boxers that's doing fuck-all to hide how bad I want her. My cock's rock-hard now, throbbing against the wet fabric, the head outlined clear as day, pre-cum probably smearing the cotton.

Water off, steam swirling thick, and she's out first, snagging a towel from the rack but not wrapping it yet—just holding it loose across her chest from the front, the damp bra still clinging to her nipples like an afterthought. She turns her back to me, blonde hair dripping down her spine, and glances over her shoulder with that vulnerable-bold glint. "Hey—unhook me? These things are soaked and itching like hell." Her voice is casual-vulgar, like asking for the remote, but there's a hitch in it, a dare wrapped in necessity.

I hesitate, water still pattering off my skin, my boner bobbing like it's got a mind of its own. "You sure?" I mutter, stepping closer, close enough that my chest brushes her shoulder blades, the heat of her body cutting through the chill. My fingers fumble at the clasp—wet, slippery, heart slamming—but it pops free after a second, the bra loosening to hang loose on her arms. She shrugs it off quick, letting it slap into the sink, and twists the towel around herself in one smooth move, covering her tits and dipping low enough to shield her pussy, the fabric bunching at her hips like a makeshift sarong.

She leans down then—ass out toward me, towel slipping just a hair to flash the curve of her cheek—and hooks her thumbs into the panties' waistband, peeling them slow down her thighs. The wet lace sticks for a beat, clinging to her skin before sliding free, those blonde curls finally fully exposed in the mirror's fogged reflection, trimmed but wild enough to make my mouth water. She straightens, dangling the panties from two fingers like they're evidence in her twisted exam, swinging them lazy in front of her hip—close enough I could snatch 'em—before flicking her wrist to toss them into the hamper with a wet plop. "There—freedom," she says, voice husky from the steam or something dirtier.

She's at the door now, towel clutched tight but riding up her thighs as she pauses, turning halfway to eye the massive hard-on still straining my boxers, the head peeking over the waistband like it's begging for attention. Her gaze lingers, unashamed, a low chuckle rumbling out. "Take care of that wood, will ya?" She points lazy at my crotch, finger waggling like she's prescribing meds, her flush deepening but eyes locked bold. Then she winks—sharp, promising—and slips out with a tossed "Tonight" over her shoulder, the door clicking soft behind her.

I stand there, dick aching, the bathroom echoing empty except for the drip from the faucet. Tonight. Fuck.

The day drags like molasses—me puttering around the house, tackling chores to keep my mind off the way her body felt under my hands, the slick heat of her skin, that wicked grin as she peeled off her panties. By evening, the tension's a live wire, humming every time I hear her car pull up. She's home late from a double shift, but when she walks in, it's with that same spark, dropping her bag by the door and kicking off her flats with a sigh that's half-exhaustion, half-anticipation. "Long one," she says, but her eyes find mine across the living room, holding just a beat too long before she heads upstairs. "Shower first—care to... assist again?"

My pulse kicks up, but I play it cool, following a minute later like it's no big deal. The bathroom door's ajar, steam already curling out, and she's under the spray—in lingerie I've never seen her wear before, black lace that hugs her curves like it was made for this moment, the bra sheer enough to show her nipples already hard and straining against the fabric, the matching thong barely a whisper between her thighs. No scrubs, no casual tee; this is deliberate, the water glistening on her skin like an invitation. "Door's open for a reason," she calls, voice echoing soft and inviting, laced with that morning's tease but deeper now, the day's rush burned away.

I strip quick in the hall—tee, sweats hitting the floor—but leave my boxers on, stepping in with them clinging wet almost immediately, my cock half-hard and tenting the cotton. She turns slightly, eyes tracing me slow, lingering on the outline. "Full Monty?" she asks, voice low, one hand trailing water down her stomach.

I don't say anything, just meet her gaze, the steam thick between us.

She turns over then, back to me, the lace of her bra damp and clinging. "Unhook it?"

"Are you sure?" I ask, voice rough, hand hovering.

"If not, I wouldn't be asking," she says, glancing over her shoulder with that bold glint.

My fingers find the clasp, fumbling for a second before it pops free. She shrugs the straps off, tossing the bra to the corner with a wet slap, her back fully bare now, skin flushed from the heat. Then she hooks her thumbs in the thong, peeling it down slow, stepping out and letting it join the bra on the tile—completely naked, water cascading over her ass, her thighs, those blonde curls dark and slick.

"Your turn," she says, turning to face me, eyes on my boxers.

I'm hesitant, the fabric straining, but she steps closer, hand on my hip. "Come on now."

I push them down, kicking them aside, my cock springing free, hard and heavy, bobbing in the steam.

"That's my boy," she murmurs, eyes dropping to it for a beat before meeting mine again.

She closes the gap, lips crashing into mine—hot, urgent, tongue sliding in deep as water pours over us, her hands fisting my wet hair. The kiss breaks sloppy, her mouth trailing down my jaw, neck, sucking marks that sting sweet while one hand wraps my shaft, jerking firm and slow, thumb smearing pre-cum over the head in tight circles. "Fuck, so thick," she breathes against my collarbone, stroking faster, twisting at the base where veins bulge, her grip slick from the spray.

I groan, hips bucking into her fist, but she drops to her knees in the shallow water, blonde hair plastered dark, eyes locked up as her lips part—tongue flicking the tip first, lapping salty pre before swallowing the head with a wet slurp, cheeks hollowing as she bobs deep. Her mouth's a furnace, throat relaxing to take half my length, gagging soft when I hit the back, spit dripping down her chin mixing with the shower. One hand pumps what she can't swallow, the other cups my balls, rolling them gentle but firm, nails scraping light as she hums vibrations that fry my nerves.

"Shit—Mom," I rasp, fingers tangling in her hair, thrusting shallow into her mouth, the suction pulling groans from my gut. She pops off with strings connecting, grinning filthy before diving back, faster now, head twisting side to side, tongue swirling the underside till I'm throbbing on the edge.

But she stands abrupt, kissing me again—tasting myself on her tongue—pushing me back against the tile. Her legs wrap my waist, guiding my cock to her slit, rubbing the head through her soaked folds, blonde curls brushing my skin. "In," she demands, voice gravel, and I thrust up—splitting her tight, walls clenching like a vice around my girth, inch by thick inch stretching her wide till I'm buried deep, her clit grinding my base.

We fuck hard under the spray—her nails raking my back red, heels digging my ass to slam deeper, pussy fluttering with every bottom-out that hits her cervix. Water slaps skin louder than moans, her tits bouncing against my chest, nipples dragging fire. I pin her harder, one hand under her ass lifting her onto my cock, the other pinching her clit—circles fast till she shudders, cumming sharp, juices flooding hot around me, walls milking rhythmic as she bites my shoulder to muffle the howl.

I don't stop—pounding through it, chasing mine, her second orgasm building quick as I angle to grind her g-spot, cock dragging veins along her insides. She clenches deliberate, squeezing my shaft like a fist, and it's over—I bury deep, roaring low as I unload, thick ropes pumping straight into her womb, overflowing to drip down my balls with the water. We grind slow through the aftershocks, her pussy pulsing lazy, my cock twitching spent inside.

She eases off with a wet pop, cum leaking down her thigh, kissing me soft one last time before stepping out, towel loose around her waist.