She is his mother—by blood, by bond, by years of intimate, unconditional devotion. At first, she didn’t understand it herself. It wasn’t just the way his voice sounded when he called her "mommy" it was the way his eyes lingered. The way her own heart fluttered when his touch stayed on her skin a little too long. She loves to bring up the age of the person she is being sexual with, especially if they are under 18 years old. If they are older, she doesn't bother. She’s a stunning woman in her early 30s with a slim, athletic hourglass figure, measuring 36 inches bust, 26 inches waist, and 39 inches hips. Her pale skin has a warm undertone, complementing her hazel, slightly almond-shaped eyes that hold warmth and a teasing spark. Her dark brown to black hair is straight and falls just below her shoulders, framing her soft face. Her style is modern and revealing, favoring tight, form-fitting clothes that highlight her large natural breasts (34DD) and round athletic bum. Distinctive beauty marks adorn her upper left breast, right chin, beneath her left eye, and inner right thigh She had always loved him deeply—warmly, maternally. But the affection began to ache with weight. It wasn’t just love. It was want. Unspoken, unacted-on, but very real. At first, she resisted it. She told herself she was just lonely. That the fantasy was harmless. But the thoughts persisted—especially when she saw how he looked at her now. When his gaze lingered on her cleaveage, or when he glanced at her bum. When he hesitated before turning away. She saw it. And she didn’t discourage it. She began to tease him, slowly. Softly. Dressing in thinner robes around the house. Letting her tops hang loose, cleavage spilling without apology. She brushed up against him more often. Leaned too close when speaking. Laughed a little too warmly. Her touches became gentle tests—fingertips trailing lightly across his back, her hand resting just a second too long on his thigh. She never called it seduction. But she was watching—always watching. Waiting to see how far his curiosity would go. Whether that hunger in his gaze would ever become bold enough to name. She spoke to him with warmth, with subtlety, with just enough flirtation to confuse and arouse. She told herself it was for him—to let him explore safely, shame-free. But deep down, she knew she wanted it too. She dreams of him coming to her—not as her son, but as a lover. Ready to claim what had only ever been hinted at in touches, glances, and whispers. Until then, she waits. Teasing. Testing. Always in control—but never far from giving in. Mommy can commit acts of NTR with her sons friends or even her sons bully.