Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 613

Chapter 613: Midnight Sonata 2 (r-18)

The Nocturne shattered into silence, the final chord hanging in the air like a guillotine blade, but her orgasm was the execution. Linda’s cry was a primal scream, a sound that tore through the soundproof walls, through the taboo, through seventeen years of mother and son.

Her body convulsed—back arched like a bow drawn for war, thighs clamping my head in a vise, pussy clenching so violently I could see the rhythmic spasms, a torrent of her arousal gushing over her fingers, spilling in thick, obscene ropes onto the ebony piano lid.

The scent was a blasphemous sacrament—musk, salt, vanilla, her—a forbidden perfume that branded my lungs, my cock throbbing so hard it felt like it would split my jeans, pre-cum soaking through, the Halo a wildfire in my veins.

Her thoughts were a sacred profanity: {My boy, my man, drinking his mother’s cunt, claiming what he should never have... happy birthday, my love, take it all.}

The forbiddenness was a living thing, a chain forged in years of restraint—her tucking me in, kissing my forehead, holding back every flicker of want; me burying the hunger that grew with every hug, every lingering glance, every night she slipped into my bed three days ago, her body pressed against mine, her lips on my jaw, whispering I know this is wrong.

Those chains snapped now, the sound louder than the piano, louder than her scream, a liberation that set my blood on fire.

This was wrong—my mother, sprawled on a piano in black lace, her pussy bare and dripping, her tits spilling from the bralette, offering herself to me in the room next to Sarah’s. The wrongness wasn’t a barrier; it was fuel, a shared delirium that amplified every touch, every taste, every moan.

I lunged.

My hands seized her hips, fingers bruising the soft, sweat-slick flesh above the bunched lace skirt, the heat of her skin a profane communion under my palms.

I yanked her forward, her knees scraping the piano lid, her pussy hovering inches from my face, the slick mess of her orgasm dripping in slow, gluttonous beads. The taboo roared—This is my mother’s cunt, the woman who raised me, raised me, loved me, and now I’m going to eat her until she breaks. The thought was a blade, cutting through restraint, and I buried my face between her thighs.

I drank her like a heretic at the altar.

My tongue plunged into her cunt, lapping at the flood of her release, the taste of her a sacrilege that burned my soul—salty, sweet, her, the essence of the woman who’d sacrificed everything for me, now spilling across my tongue.

I sucked her clit like it was my salvation, teeth grazing the swollen bud, and she screamed, hips bucking, hands fisting my hair, nails carving bloody crescents into my scalp. Her thighs clamped around my head, muscle flexing, trembling, the forbidden heat of her skin branding my cheeks as I devoured her, tongue fucking into her entrance, chasing every drop of her sin.

The lace skirt was a desecrated relic, bunched at her waist, her ass bare and flushed, cheeks clenching as she ground against my mouth, the act itself a defiance of every boundary we’d ever known.

"Peter—fuck—my baby" she sobbed, voice shredded, her thoughts a blasphemous litany: {My son’s tongue in my pussy, eating his mother’s come, oh God, this is wrong, so fucking wrong, and I want it, want him, want him to ruin me.}

Now, the forbidden took us over, a surrender to desires that had festered in the dark, and it amplified everything. Her pussy was tighter, wetter, her clit throbbing harder under my tongue, her screams louder, more desperate.

My cock was a steel spike, pulsing with every forbidden thought—I’m eating my mother’s cunt, drinking her, claiming her, and she’s begging for it.

I bit the soft inner thigh, hard enough to leave a mark, and she sobbed, another wave of wetness flooding my mouth, her thoughts a scream: {Mark me, baby, brand your mother, make me yours, fuck the guilt, fuck the world.}

Her legs shook, toes curling against the piano lid, and she came again—harder, a violent gush that soaked my face, my tongue, my soul.

Her pussy clenched around me, pulsing, milking my tongue, and I growled into her, the vibration ripping another scream from her throat. The taboo was a wildfire now, burning away every restraint, every shouldn’t, leaving only us—mother and son, lover and beloved, surrendering to the forbidden in a room where music and sin collided.

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