A gorgeous mother’s secret longings for her son, to be lovingly dominated, and taken in every way.

A devoted son, tempted into obsession by their growing physical closeness, her feline flirtation, tantalizing beauty and — especially — her increasingly taunting, teasing, irresistible backside.

A playful food ‘taste test’ leaves her blindfolded and nearly naked, both of them unable to ignore their lusts. Wine and potent pot brownies open up possibilities, tear down barriers to their forbidden desires.

His loving nickname for his mother Katie has always been ‘Kitty.’ Recently she had begun to play the cat, purring and languidly arching her rear end high when her son scratched or massaged her lower back, while she sprawled face down across his lap.

Then he discovered her secret: Kitty has a special box containing the tools of her deepest fantasies. Not only furry black cat ears, but things that make him seriously consider taking his sexy mother and her purr-fect bottom in ways he barely allowed himself to imagine.

The box contained another surprise as well: the inspiration for them both to forge a far more intimate relationship, binding them closer than either could have dreamed.

This Taboo “Tail” of Food, Family, and Fantasies Fulfilled is another addition to Kethandra Wilde’s popular PotErotica series, where marijuana — in this case pot brownies — helps open doors to possibilities and intimate explorations far beyond the ordinary.

~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~

Jimmer wasn’t sure how long her embrace lasted, welcoming him home for the long Christmas holiday after his Fall classes were complete. It had been the longest time mother and son had spent apart, ever: almost three weeks since his last weekend visit, and an entire semester since they had lived under the same roof. A sense of again becoming complete warmed his body and soul as her heady scent filled his sinuses and his thoughts. He buried his face closer, deeper into his silky soft hair, nuzzling her ear.

He felt her slim body shudder, her arms pulling him tighter, closer, when his nose brushed along one soft curving lobe. She sighed, squeezed him once more then eased back to look at him. “My man. My handsome strong man.”

She let a hand trail down his chest, tracing the outline of raised muscles there beneath his t-shirt. Her voice lowered, almost whispering to herself. “The only man I need.”

Hairs rose on the back of Jimmer’s neck. In his bones, deep in his being, beyond conscious thought, he knew that is what he wanted: to be the only man his mom needed, in every way. She had said the words that he had never been able to formulate as more than an unfocused inkling. But he knew she couldn’t mean them the way he did.

She smiled at him before leaning close, leaving a soft kiss on one cheek. “Mm. Stubble. I like that.”

She grabbed his hand, dragged him toward the hallway, toward his bedroom. “So. Am I going to see much of my son, or have all your friends monopolized your time home?”

«Mom. It’s Christmas. Family time.»

She cooed, hugging his arm to her side. He felt a soft-firm breast push against him. “Yay! Family time. Oh! I almost forgot.”

She braked to a stop under the small archway that led to the bedrooms. Her eyes studied his.

“What?”

«Look up.”

He did, saw a small clump of greenish plant taped to the center of the arch overhead. «What is…”

As soon as he looked down at her to ask the question, lean arms were around his neck, soft lips pressed to his, for a too-brief instant. She was grinning widely. “Mistletoe!”

His lips tingled, abandoned, while she again tugged him along by his hand. She led him to his room. «Settle in. Get comfy. Can you tell I’m glad you’re home, sweetheart?»

He pulled her to him for another hug. She was limp, pliable in his arms. «I’m glad to be home, Mom, with you. I love you.»

«You’re so sweet. I couldn’t ask for a better, more handsome son.» Her eyes looked moist, almost near tears. She held a palm to his cheek before pulling away. “Kitty loves you too.”

They fell into a comfortable routine. Jimmer noticed she seemed to touch him more, her hand lingering on his chest, his shoulder, his back. He couldn’t recall her referring to him as ‘her man’ so often in the past. They had always snuggled close when watching TV, had never worried about exposed skin, but now there seemed to be more bare, smooth leg draped over his own, more close, innocently intimate contact.

She reverted to an old habit, now exaggerated: purring like a cat, deep in her throat, when he would stroke her hair or massage her neck and back as they sat together. She would lean into him, rubbing her head against his shoulder for renewed attention when his hand stopped. When his massaging hand kneaded the lean muscles of her lower back as she lay draped over his lap, her spine formed a feline arch, pushing her delectable rear up into his touch accompanied by another emphatic purr.

Kethandra Wilde

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