Mom's Nuru Secret

India Summer's turning her bathroom into a private rub spot and the house feels good and empty today. Bra and panties only—she looks damn fine under that daylight. The mattress blows up fast while she checks the room. The wooden bowl's dry, so she pours in Nuru gel and gets busy rubbing it over her chest, arms, stomach, tits, ass, thighs—her skin turns slick and shiny in seconds. Nipples pop when she slips the bra off and pinches them, head tilted back, lost in her own touch. Donnie walks straight into it. India snatches her bra off the floor and presses it over her chest, asks why he's home. Bathroom, he says, but what's she up to? She spills that it's extra cash on the side and tells him he breathes one word to his dad and she's finished. He offers to be the guinea pig; she asks if he's lost his damn mind. Donnie cuts to the chase—mouths stay shut or else. She reads the look in his eyes, hesitates, then tells him to strip and hit the shower. Water off, she slides in close, hands gliding over wet skin, lotion-slick fingers skating down his calves, the back of his thighs. He flips over. Cock standing straight up like it owes someone money. She stares at it a second, then locks eyes with him: not a fucking word to Dad. Lips sealed, he swears. India wraps her hand around the shaft and takes it in her mouth, swirling tongue, soft wet suck, gulping deeper each stroke. Heat climbs fast. They drop onto the squishy mat. She climbs on top, straddles him, spreads her thighs wide, and sinks down until he fills her. Hips roll, gel-wet skin slapping loud, every bounce making promises they both already keep. Same time next week? She'll keep the secret if he keeps his grades up—and his mouth shut.