Size Queen House Slaves Ch. 1 - Sex Stories

Size Queen House Slaves Ch. 1

... hesitate to mace anyone who thought she was available simply because they were horny.

Mom wore construction clothes at work: boots, heavy loose jeans, and armor plated shirts. (kidding about the armor, but even armor plating couldn't have hidden the swell of her chest) Maybe mom fucked around on Dad, but I suspected she would tell him, and I was confident it didn't happen more often than every few years.

I hoped Dad was getting occasional, strange pussy, but my heart knew better. Poor dude.

I returned home that day thinking about pussy. I considered finishing ShirlyThreeCunt's latest video, but I knocked on Nell's door. She was usually studying in the afternoon.

"Yeah?" She called.

"I could use a wank, Sis."

"Use your own hands, and stare at your own tits. I've got a math interim tomorrow." Sure, she shot me down, but you know, if you don't ask... The huge orgasm she gave the previous night compelled me. How's a guy not going to want that again? I had to be patient. Clearly she wasn't in the mood. Time and not a lot of it would reignite her fervor for big dicks.

To underscore my patience, I went to the den and watched an episode of The Crown.

Margaret Thatcher was figuratively wanking on about her beloved son, when dull thumps sounded from beyond our door to the garage. I hadn't heard Mom's car enter the garage, but each time she knocked cement dust from her boots made me cringe. Probably because I often got into trouble while she was at work back when ...

... Nell was barely old enough to watch over me. Of course, my sister was just as guilty. I remember once, she dressed me up-

"Fuck! What a day." Mom trod in, pulling at her heavy shirt. She must have sweat gallons while working. Every inch was soaked and clung like paper mache to her industrial strength brassiere. "Ah, Craig. Go chop some veggies. I'll meet you in the kitchen after I shower. I'm thinking stir-fry tonight."

"Sure, Mom." I clicked off the Roku and went to the kitchen.

I had diced a yellow onion and trimmed three broccoli crowns by the time she had freshened up. I was slicing sweet peppers.

She surprised me by wearing a house robe, bra uncommonly in abstentia. I turned away from the soft mounds filling the top of her robe. "You must be tired." I deduced.

Before answering, Mom opened the refrigerator and took out two raw chicken tits. Blame my lizard brain for the synonym.

She said, "I had to give a lot of shit today. It was like stupid juice had been served to the site supervisors. The workers were ready to form a union over the idiot directions they'd been given."

"I bet you raked the idiots over beds of nails."

Mom grabbed a serial killer knife from the wooden rack and pulled out a cutting board. "If only. I have to compromise as much as politicians who actually give a damn about their charges." Standing beside me, having staked out enough room on the counter to work her magic between sharp steel and soft meat, her hips shifted overtly in ...