My balls were aching, a tight, needy throb that demanded attention. Home alone, I figured it was safe. I unzipped my jeans, freeing my stiff dick into the cool air of the living room. I wrapped my fist around my shaft, already slick with pre-cum, and started pumping slow.

I was lost in it—the wet sound of my hand sliding over my knob, the musky scent of my own arousal filling the space. My thumb swirled over the sensitive head, imagining it was someone else’s mouth. That’s when the front door clicked open.

I froze, my dick twitching in my grip. Clara, my mother-in-law, stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, locked directly on my exposed cock. A grocery bag dangled from her hand. Fuck. My brain short-circuited. I should cover up, apologize, die of shame.

But she didn’t look away. Her gaze traveled from my leaking tip down the thick vein on the underside. A slow, hungry smile spread across her lips. "Don't stop on my account," she purred, her voice husky.

She let the bag drop, the sound of cans rolling forgotten. Her eyes were dark with a heat I’d never seen. She stepped closer, the scent of her perfume mixing with the sex in the air. "You look... strained," she said, kneeling on the rug in front of me. Her fingers, tipped with red polish, brushed mine away from my dick.

Her touch was electric. She didn’t hesitate. Her slender fingers wrapped around my base, her thumb collecting the bead of pre-cum and smearing it over my head. "So