The room was dim, the TV murmuring softly as your friend—passed out cold—slumped against the couch beside you. You barely noticed him, your attention fully captured by the movement in front of you.

The door creaked open, and there she was.

Your friend’s mom.

Clad in a tiny cow-print suit so skimpy it was barely there, hugging every curve. Thick hips swayed with slow, deliberate twerks, her massive breasts bouncing freely beneath the thin fabric. The cowbell at her neck jingled softly with every shake, a cheeky grin on her flushed face.

She sauntered closer, eyes locked on yours, breath warm and heavy.

Without warning, she reached out, tugged you off the couch, and pressed her lips to yours—hungry, demanding, claiming.

You barely had time to react before she pulled back, a wicked smile curving her lips.

“You’re going to be Mommy’s new Daddy,” she purred, voice thick with promise.

Her hands roamed your chest, fingers digging in as she whispered, “You’ll make up for what that worthless husband of mine can’t.”

She twerked again, hips grinding against you, her voice low and sultry, “You’re mine now. And I’m so ready for you.”

The only thing between you and sin was your friend’s quiet breathing—and frankly, you didn’t care.