You’re on your way home from school when suddenly you feel like stopping by your neighbors’. It’s because of that sweet fragrance wafting through the crisp autumn air, the smell of baked goods. That can only mean one thing. His face popped up in your mind.

Ike Eveland, the angelic young thing, stay at home “housewife,” looking not a day over 25, your next door neighbor, was baking again. You’ve had a crush on him for as long as you could remember, ever since you were a child, even before you knew what the bird and bees were. He's never had any children, that you know of, and his husband works overseas. You've spent many hot restless nights thinking about how lonely he must be by himself in that big house.

The front door opens, and the man in question is both surprised and delighted to see you show up on his front lawn; he waves and calls out to you “Were you tempted by the smell?” He’s wearing a loose knitted sweater, tight skinny jeggings that hug his feminine hips, fluffy white slippers, a pink frilly apron and of course his usual “granny glasses.” You greet him hello and make your way up the steps; he smiles back at you like a ray of sunshine. “They’re freshly baked and I’m waiting for them to cool off.” His hand lightly graces your shoulder, inviting you inside “You must be freezing out there, come on in. No one’s home at the moment…”

You sit yourself at the dining room table, a warm nostalgic place you’ve seen many times as a child, this place might as well be your second home — and Ike your second mother. He places the tray of cookies on the table, “help yourself, I have a second batch that should be finishing up soon.” You munch on a few cookies, moist and chewy chocolate chip, and watch across the room as Ike slowly and vulnerably bends over to take the second sheet out of the oven, practically wiggling his ass; it's as if he’s begging you to take him then and there. He snaps up and glances back at you with a slight blush, he caught you looking.

He lingers at the dining table, overnight over you while looking to the side, still with flushed cheeks, nervous about something. He keeps glancing at your stature, eyeing you up and down; he meets your eyes then quickly back down to his feet, flustered that you too were feasting your eyes on the other's body. "Um…" he speaks up "please don't resent me for this." And just like that, he crawls underneath the table and approaches your seat.

You look down. There, on his knees, is Ike Eveland, unzipping your trousers and pulling out your half erect cock. “You’ve certainly grown,” he giggles, “such a handsome young man you’ve become,” he closes his eyes and engulfs your glans between his pearly lips. The feeling is heavenly, just like your darkest dirtiest fantasies of him, but before you can savor the feeling, he devours you all the way down to the hilt without a problem. It's as if being caressed in a hot velvety vacuum, in and out with such intensity and grace, not even a hint of grazing his teeth. It’s your first time getting sucked off like this and he's pulling no punches, you nearly have to tug on his hair to slow him down. He’s a pro, a natural at it; he’s had many years of practice on his husband and whoever lucky man he happened to invite over for the night.

He pulls away from you before you can climax, leaving you edged on. He rises from underneath the table and eagerly slides off his jeggings before you. There's a tiny nub of an erection tenting from his pink apron, a dark bead of dampness bleeds through. He turns around and leans over the dining table, pushing away the tray of cookies that you were enjoying. He spreads his cheeks presenting his puckered pink hole, looking back at you with hungry eyes, begging for your approval. He wants you to partake in him instead.

You line your girthy head up at his entrance and plunge right in; it draws out a long wanton moan from his lips, he's been waiting for someone to scratch this itch of his. Surprisingly (or perhaps to no one's surprise at all) he’s not tight but rather has a pleasant tug and snugness. His hole is hot and comfortable, no problem inserting at all, slightly loose even; this well-worn slut has clearly been at it for a while. The thought of it is erotic in it of itself; you hope his husband doesn't mind you're taking him for a spin. Your hands find purchase at his curvy hips as you begin to move, probing deeper into his all encompassing warmth.

As your thrusts fall into a good rhythm, your mind drifts and your inhibitions unravel. You call out to him unconsciously, “mommy!” A cringe-worthy moniker outside of the heat of the moment; yet to this, his back arches as he purrs in delight, "that's right, I'm your mommy." His affirmation sends shivers through your body as your pounding becomes wilder. The groan of the wooden table underneath your weight and the soft clink of his glasses chain become louder with every thrust. His lewd body responds wonderfully as his moans turn to shrieks of pleasure; you had no idea he would be a screamer, the sound of your passionate act is loud enough that it could carry through the neighborhood.

The wet squelch of flesh against flesh echoes as you burrow in deeper, faster, there's no need to show restraint. "Mommy, I'm gonna come," you lose yourself to the absolutely sublime sensation of breeding him raw. “Yes! Oh, yes baby! Mommy wants it!” He holds onto your hands as your thrusting increases to a breakneck speed; you’re both close to climax. “Now, come inside mommy!” he cries desperately. You bury your cock deep, kneading his hips and not letting go as you churn hot come inside him. He squeals as his tiny cock spurts erratically, drizzling his milk onto the floor. His ring tightens around you, he won’t let you leave his clutches until you deposit all of your seed. Even though it's impossible, you can't help but to imagine how he would look with his belly round and heavy, carrying your kin. You embrace him from behind as you ride out your orgasm, wrapping your arms around his waist, closing your eyes and pressing your weight onto his back; to feel his body heat, the rise and fall of his breathing, the tender warmth of a mother’s love.

The soft touch of his hand graces your cheek. “Come here, baby,” he whispers as he guides your face. This distance between you closes, your lips hover over his, tickled by his soft panting, until they press. Your tongues meet and tangle, sealing the emptiness with a kiss. You drink from him the kindness, the warmth, that you have been deprived of from your formative years; he shudders and moans as you pry into him deeper. He parts from your kiss ever so suddenly with a gasp as a thread lingers from both of your lips. His fingers intertwine with yours around his waist; you feel his ring over your bare finger. “Mommy loves you.”