Urban Seduction: Housewives Club

Chapter 1603: How Can I Make You Feel Good?

That last grind snapped Liu Yiru back to reality. She shot her hand behind her, wormed it under the waistband of his briefs, and clamped her fingers around the thick, blazing shaft that was turning her brain to mush. Stop this before it goes nuclear, she told herself.

”Easy, sweetheart,” she panted. ”Let Mom finish you off again—quick and clean.”

Ye Feiʼs answer was a growl. ”No.” He upped the pressure on her breast and kept rocking, sliding his cock through her fist and along the cleft of her ass at the same time. It felt—God help her—like he was already inside her.

The motion scrambled her last working brain cell. She tightened her grip, desperate to end the stand-off. ”Fine. If you donʼt want my hand, Iʼm done helping—ever.”

The threat hit like a bucket of ice-water. He froze, hands off her tits, hips still. ”Okay, okay—whatever you say, Mom.”

The sudden loss of heat left her dizzy. She sat up, raked her hair back, and tried to look stern instead of starving. ”Listen, brat. Iʼve used my mouth and both hands on you. How many mothers on planet Earth do that for their kid? Zero.”

”Maybe,” he answered, eyes shining. ”But none of them look like a goddess either. Only you, Mom.”

The compliment landed straight between her legs. She rolled her eyes, but the pleased flush gave her away.

”Flattery wonʼt get you extra credit.”

Still, the praise sped her pulse and her movements. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxer-briefs and yanked.

The fabric fought back. His cock—harder than steel and thicker than the designer had planned—jammed the shorts halfway down. She tugged harder; the elastic snapped free and the monster sprang up, slapping her under the chin with a wet thwack.

She burst out laughing. ”Unfilial son—hitting your mother with that?”

”Let it apologize,” he grinned, flexing so the head nuzzled her jaw in slow, obscene kisses.

Every brush of velvety skin sent a shot of static down her spine, pooling hot and liquid in her core. She realized, dazed, that any contact with his cock—chin, cheek, even the curve of her neck—lit her up like a switch. Either she was born hyper-sexual, or she was wired only for her son. The second idea shouldʼve horrified her. It didnʼt.

To shut the thought up, she wrapped her right hand around him and pumped, slow to fast. Her left cupped his balls, rolling them gently. On impulse she bent, popped one testicle into her mouth, and sucked, warm and wet, tongue swirling.

She heard his soft sigh.

Pulling off, she asked, ”Too much?”

”Too perfect,” he groaned. ”Thatʼs the problem.”

She lifted her head. ”Explain.”

”Iʼm feeling fantastic—and youʼre not. Itʼs not fair. If you had a cock youʼd know how insane this feels.”

Laughter bubbled out of her. ”Honey, women get their own brand of fireworks.” She tapped her clit through her panties. ”Different wiring, same blast.”

He propped himself on an elbow, eyes wide. ”Show me where. I want you to feel what Iʼm feeling.”

”Lots of places, baby. You just played with Momʼs breasts—those already feel amazing.” Liu Yiru answered as if they were discussing a recipe.

Part of her knew a mother shouldnʼt be coaching her son on how to get her off, yet the words rolled out naturally. She still drew a line: she only mentioned the spot heʼd already explored.

Ye Fei sat up instantly, trapping her wrist so she couldnʼt stroke his cock any longer. ”Mom, lie back. Your turn to feel good.”

She glanced at the angry-red erection jutting up like a flagpole. ”Wonʼt that leave you hurting?”

”So what? Youʼve made me come twice already. I want to give you one.” His voice carried the stubborn sincerity only a nineteen-year-old can manage.

She almost warned him that most women donʼt climax from breast-play alone, but his eager face stopped her. Why crush his generosity? She settled against the pillows. ”All right, show me.”

Ye Fei swung one leg over her hips, knees bracketing her ribs, and began undoing the tiny pearl buttons of her silk pajama top. The fabric parted, and her breasts spilled free—heavy, proud, not a hint of sag despite their size.

Years of Xuan Yin Art and daily maintenance kept them sculpted: creamy domes with pinky-sized areolae and nipples no bigger than peanuts, stiff now and flushed rose. Lit by the bedside lamp they looked almost sculpted—half Madonna, half centerfold.