Jeanne Catherine LaMonica stood in the dim kitchen at 2:17 a.m., wearing nothing but a thin silk robe that barely contained her heavy, swaying breasts. The short blonde hair she’d kept cropped since her forties framed a face still beautiful in its mature softness—laugh lines, full lips painted the same deep red she’d worn since Anthony was in high school. Her hips and thick thighs strained the robe’s tie; every step made the silk whisper against her skin.
Anthony watched from the doorway, shirtless, the hard planes of his chest and stomach catching the moonlight. At forty-three he was still handsome in a brutal way—broad shoulders, strong jaw, completely bald head gleaming under the low light. The demon’s bargain had left his eyes darker than they used to be, pupils always a little too wide when he looked at her.
“Mom,” he said, voice rough. One word. That was all it took.
Jeanne’s knees weakened. She gripped the edge of the counter, robe slipping open to expose the deep valley between her breasts and the soft swell of her belly. Her nipples were already painfully tight.
“You shouldn’t call me that when you’re looking at me like you want to fuck me against the fridge again,” she whispered, but the words came out wet, needy.
“I do want to fuck you against the fridge again.” He crossed the room in three strides. “And on the table. And bent over the sink. And right here on the floor until you can’t walk tomorrow.”
Her breath hitched. The demon’s curse had rewritten her from the inside out. Every filthy thought she’d ever buried about her beautiful boy had been dragged into daylight and set on fire. She craved him constantly—his smell, his weight, the way his thick cock stretched her until she sobbed. She’d stopped pretending shame months ago.
Anthony’s big hands slid inside her robe, cupping her heavy tits, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks. “You’re dripping already. I can smell it.”
“Anthony…” Her voice cracked.
“Say it.” He pinched both nipples hard enough to make her gasp. “Tell me what you are.”
“I’m your filthy fucking mother,” she moaned, arching into his grip. “I’m the slut who spreads for her own son every night. I’m the whore who came on your cock in the laundry room this morning while your father was still asleep upstairs.”
He growled, shoved the robe off her shoulders, and spun her around so her palms slapped the counter. Her ass jiggled as he kicked her feet wider. One hand fisted her short blonde hair, yanking her head back; the other yanked his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock—thick, veined, already leaking.
The first thrust buried him to the hilt. Jeanne’s cry echoed off the tile. No preamble, no gentleness—just raw, possessive need. He fucked her like he was punishing them both for how much they loved it.
“God, you’re still so tight,” he grunted, slamming deep. “After all the times I’ve wrecked this cunt, you still grip me like a virgin.”
“Because it’s yours,” she panted, pushing back to meet every brutal stroke. “It’s always been yours. I used to finger myself thinking about you when you were still in high school… I just didn’t know you’d sold your soul to make me admit it.”
Anthony laughed, dark and jagged, and slapped her ass hard enough to leave a red handprint. “Best fucking deal I ever made. You’re mine now. Every hole. Every moan. Every time you come screaming my name instead of his.”
Jeanne’s thighs shook. She was close already—always so close when he talked like that. “Harder—fuck me like you hate me for making you wait so long—”
He did. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the kitchen. Her tits swung wildly; he reached around to pinch and twist her clit until she screamed. When she came it was violent—back arching, cunt pulsing, slick running down her thighs. Anthony didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, then pulled out, spun her, and pushed her to her knees.
“Open.”
She did, mouth watering. He slid across her tongue, all the way to the back of her throat, holding her there while her eyes watered and her throat worked around him.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
She did. Tears streaked her mascara; lipstick smeared; short blonde hair mussed. She looked wrecked and perfect.
He came with a guttural groan, pumping thick ropes down her throat. She swallowed greedily, the way she’d learned he liked, until he finally let her breathe.
When he pulled out, a string of spit and cum connected her swollen lips to his softening cock. She licked it clean without being told.
Anthony crouched, cupped her flushed face, and kissed her deep—tasting himself on her tongue.
“Bedroom,” he murmured against her mouth. “I’m not done. I want to eat your pussy until you cry, then fuck your ass while you tell me again how you’ve wanted this since I was eighteen.”
Jeanne shivered, already aching for more.
“Yes, baby,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “Anything for my beautiful boy.”
The demon had kept its promise.
And neither of them would ever ask for forgiveness.