Dee Williams & London River

Dee and London admire the plants Connor’s doing so well with. The smell hangs heavy and sweet in the air. Two men step into the shop—big, dark, broad-shouldered—and the women’s smiles sharpen at the same time. Dee glances sideways at London, who doesn’t bother to hide the interest lighting up her face. She steps closer to Connor and rests a hand low on his back, letting everyone see the easy hunger in her touch. “Customer first,” he says, voice casual, but his mother’s lips curl with that knowing, filthy little grin she saves just for these moments. When the door clicks shut and the four of them are left alone, London peels Dee’s blouse open right there beside the resin-sticky leaves, exposing heavy, pale breasts that beg a stronger grip. Connor watches, hard already, as London kisses his mother’s nipples, then turns to the visitors and invites them to trade samples of their own. The deal seals itself in grunts and wet mouths, bare flesh against the warmth of hemp and overhead lamps. Two pairs of thick hands circle London’s hips, bend her over the workbench, take turns sinking deep while Connor holds Dee against his chest, fucking her from behind at the same vicious rhythm. The only sound in the grow room now is skin slapping skin, the wet slick of greedy cunts claiming every inch they’re offered, mothers and son sharing the same forbidden pleasure in loud, unashamed moans.