She's Got Her Mama's Talent

Christy Love digs through the hamper and pauses. A pair of her stepdaughter’s panties lies warm in her palm, unmistakably soaked. She studies the fabric, nostrils flaring, lips parting on a sharp little inhale of surprise, but not disgust—delight. The thought alone rushes heat down her thighs. With the panties clutched like a flag, she strides down the hallway. Eliza Eves is sprawled on her bed, scrolling. When Christy bounds in and raises the damp evidence, the girl flushes scarlet. “Relax,” Christy says, voice silk over steel. “These aren’t an accident. They’re proof.” She tells the story fast: her mother, her grandmother, herself. All of them wet loud and proud when they came. A thread she thought lost—until today. Eliza’s laugh cracks open halfway, suddenly thirsty. Christy sits beside her, hand already sliding down her daughter’s stomach. “Let me watch you, baby girl. Show me what we have to work with.” Eliza hesitates, then pushes her sweats to her knees. Christy watches every motion, breathing deep. The first bead of wetness gathers on Eliza’s fingers, then another. Suddenly the girl arches, a bright cry tearing out of her, and a hard, clear jet splashes over Christy’s wrist. Christy groans, praise catching on her teeth. “Good girl.” Minutes later she’s got three fingers moving inside Eliza and her mouth busy on her clit. Wet pulses spatter her forearm and the sheets. Each time Eliza gushes, Christy swears softly, guides her hips, whispering every filthy secret her own body has ever learned. Before long they’re sprawled across each other in a tangle, legs locked, tongues plunging, the rhythm sloppy with spray. Christy keeps count—three, four jets, each cleaner and stronger than the last. The room smells like warm skin and copper pennies. She strokes Eliza’s hair back and smiles against her daughter’s thigh. “Blood or not, baby—you’re definitely mine.”