Three years. Three fucking glorious years of having my son’s thick, sexy wife soaked and moaning under my touch, right under his roof. I’m 50, but my cock is a stallion, hung like a horse and still rearing to go. She’s 28, with an ass that could make a priest sin and tits that just beg to be groped. My son, the spineless prick, knew the first night he saw me slide my hand up her skirt at the family dinner table.

We all live under the same roof. It’s my home, my rules. And a huge part of my game is flaunting it right in his face. He sits there, jaw clenched, watching me plant a wet, lingering kiss on his wife’s neck while I ask him about his day at work. I don’t let him forget. I’ll reach over, grab her generous ass with both hands, and squeeze it slowly, kneading the firm flesh right in front of his dinner plate. He knows what he’s about to hear later from behind their bedroom walls, but my personal favourite is fucking the brains out of her on the living room couch, his armchair, or right on the kitchen counter.

Last night was top-tier. My son was in the living room, trying to watch the news. I was in the kitchen finishing a beer. She walked in for some water. I couldn't help but slide my hand up the side of her grey yoga pants. She didn't squirm; she just smiled, that *knowing* smile that tells me I'm still her favourite toy. Grabbing her by the hips, I spun her around, bending