The musky aroma of Willow Schnee's ripe body was the only thing that her son, Whitley, noticed. It was a unique perfume of alcohol, expensive moth-eaten silk, and the copious sweat of an unfulfilled, unsatisfied slut.
That odor was a constant with Willow, much like her alcoholism. In the confines of the four-poster bed of Willow's bedroom, however, naked save for her unrivaled beauty and the garters that held up what remained of a pair of satin stockings. Willow's scent was free to mingle with the ruined bed sheets, the musty abandonment that infused the walls of the room, and Whitley's naked lust which ran in copious streams down his slender chest before it pooled in the pit where his pale, down covered ram plundered his mother's endless, swampy depths. More lust flooded freely down Willow's thighs every time Whitley bottomed out against his mother's back.
"My man!" Willow said as her hips ground against Whitley's crotch, "My strong, courageous man! Show me your strength and fuck me!"
Willow abruptly groaned with an animal howl of undeniable emotion and raw sensation that boiled up from between her legs and up her spine and belly. Her wide hips and back tossed ferociously like a stuck mare before she doubled over and groaned again into the pile of thick pillows stacked beneath her.
From behind, Whitley gritted his teeth and groaned as well. It was a yell of extreme, muscular exertion and represented Whitley's exercise of all his strength to pull back on Willow's arms and ride out her frenetic orgasm without getting pulled down onto the bed. If Whitley hits the sheets, he won't be able to get up again, and it is proof of his skill as a horseman that he kept his balance through that ordeal.
At the end of Willow's orgasm, however, Whitley was thoroughly smashed and he had to rest himself against Willow's sweat-drenched back. The rise and fall of her back against Whitley's chest sent a wave of warmth down to the marrow of his bones, and he would have fallen asleep had Willow not stirred, placed her wet, slurred lips close to Whitley's head and said.
"My man, my glorious, fabulous man! So much stronger than your father ~!"
The impact of his adultery and the fact that he had taken the wife of the man he respected most flared in Whitley's mind and sent a wave of shame through his slender frame. He pushed tight against Willow so that her body could cover his nakedness and said,
"I am your son, mother. Not an emotional tampon for your dissatisfaction with father."
Willow responded with a sharp yank on Whitley's hair and forced him to look into her eyes.
"You are my man! Even if you are not, you are the only man in this family after your father! You must prove yourself, whatever the circumstances, you must prove yourself!"
Forced to behold his mother's body, forced to look away from the insane lust that blazed in her once matronly face, the fact that his mother was a wretched wreck of a woman slapped him across the cheek. Her skin was still a perfect, porcelain pale save for the thin blue veins across the tips of her breasts which ruined the cold tundra landscape. Those same breasts were heavy and ripe but hung slightly loose down her sides and exposed the valley of her cleavage. The pouch of belly fat that was always hidden by the corsets she wore fell obscene across her hips, and added a vulgar manner to the white bush that crowned the triangle of flesh that quivered in damp anticipation.
Willow was in a wretched state then, and that was what made Whitley want her most of all.
Willow squealed as Whitley forced her back against the bed and plunged fully into her depths with renewed vigor. The force of Whitley's assault made a horrendous din whenever the bedframe struck the bedroom wall. A din overshadowed by the bestial harmony that swelled from between the bodies of Willow and Whitley. To call those noises animalistic would be a disservice to the beasts of the field and the farm. No animal at their most primal could fall to the depths of the degeneracy plunged by mother and son that torrid night.
Whitley's masculine performance that night could not be outdone, but his untrained and inexperienced body soon proved no match for Willow. Undoubtedly, Willow was far past her prime as a woman. Yet the ardor within her belly burned hot enough to melt the finest blades a man could raise against her. As Whitley struck Willow down, again and again, his back had unknowingly begun to arch farther and farther backward. He had lost control over the rhythm of his thrusts, and he had eagerly overextended his reserves in his wanton abandon.
There then was a painful, paralyzing lurch deep in Whitley's bowels, and the brave hero was struck down before the finish line.
"NO!" Willow said as the sudden paralysis of her son's efforts broke the woman out of her lust-fueled stupor. She had gotten close, but her son had betrayed her expectations and ruined that night's rapturous work.
"Be strong, Whitley!" Willow said again as she spat into her hand and shoved it down between her legs. With clumsy desperation, she alternated furiously between an attempt to bring herself over the edge, and tried to hold her son's eruption back for just a few seconds more.
"Aren't you a man, Whitley?! A strong man?! Show me that you are a man! Fight!"
Helplessly, Whitley lunged forward to kiss his mother on the lips before his weakened, exhausted cock was defeated and he broke just short of his mother's gates. Admirably, Whitley did not give up even at the end. He planted kisses on Willow's face and pawed desperately at her breasts. He even attempted to use his fingers to accomplish what his cock failed to do. It was all in vain, however, and Whitley could only embrace Willow as his loss was indelibly stamped into his body as he quivered, spasmed, and finally fell still.
When Whitley was finally able to get back up, any hopes he had were dashed when he beheld Willow as she lay flat on her back. The marks of their love duel still marked Willow; her hair was disheveled and matted, fluids oozed lazily down her thigh, and her breasts were bared to her son. However, Willow had one hand draped over her face, and her face was turned resolutely to the side.
Willow did not respond when Whitley tried to kiss her, and in his frustrated anger he cursed Willow with all the breath he could muster; Whitley cursed her insensitive womb and her temptress's ways, cursed the burden she had placed upon him, and cursed her deception that brought him to this humiliation.
When Whitley could think of nothing more to say, he petulantly drove his cock into Willow again. Willow once again did not respond and allowed her son to vent himself against her body until the weakness came over him again after a few meager thrusts. With one final act of pettiness, he straddled Willow and lashed a watery rope of pale seed across Willow's breasts. Finally, spent, Whitley fell alongside his mother's body and fell asleep.
