NOVEL WEB Chapter 642: Caught In The Act
Olivia's cheeks burned as Kafka's words echoed in her ears, his teasing claim that her breasts were made of some 'magic breast muscle' sending a fresh wave of embarrassment through her.
"Kafi, don't say such embarrassing things!"
She stammered, her voice trembling with fluster as she sat astride his abdomen, her massive breasts thrust forward, still tingling from his earlier groping. The sheer size of them, so prominent under the open shirt, made her feel ashameful about them, and she couldn't shake the fear that he was mocking her, exaggerating their size to poke fun at how they dominated her frame.
"They're...They're not that special. And please don't talk about them like that since I-I'm actually quite self-concious about their size." She mumbled, her eyes darting away, her hands gripping his sides to steady herself.
The thought that her son was laughing at her expense, highlighting her difference, gnawed at her, deepening the insecurity she'd carried for years.
But then to her surprise, abruptly, Kafka's hands stilled, his fingers pausing their playful touch, and the sudden stop startled her. Her eyes snapped to his, confusion flickering as she found him staring at her with a stern, almost solemn gaze that made her heart skip.
Before she could ask what was wrong, his voice cut through, firm and resolute.
"You're wrong, Mom." He said, his tone carrying a weight that caught her off guard. "You should never feel self-conscious about these breasts of yours."
Olivia's breath caught, her body tensing as his hands resumed their touch, but now with a gentler, caressing motion, his fingers tracing the curves of her breasts with a reverence that made her chest tighten.
"These..." He continued, his voice softening but no less earnest. "These are absolute treasures, pieces of art that everyone should admire. They're perfect, Mom—so big, so incredible."
"...No one else could have a pair like this. If anyone's gonna feel self-conscious, it should be the other women around you, dwarfed in comparison."
His eyes held hers, a fierce sincerity burning in them.
"They're the ones who should look at their own chests and feel lacking, who should envy you. Your breasts are objects of envy, Mom, and you should walk proud, head high, knowing you've got assets like these."
His words struck her like a thunderbolt, her heart racing as a rush of emotions flooded her.
From a young age, Olivia had been acutely aware of her difference—her massive breasts drawing stares, whispers, and unwanted attention that made her feel like an outsider.
In a world where a woman's vulnerability could be a target, she'd buried her self-consciousness deep, cloaking it in her icy demeanor to protect herself. She'd longed to be average, to blend in, to escape the weight of eyes that saw her as an object rather than a person.
That longing had shaped her, a quiet wound she'd never shared, until this moment, when her son's words pierced through years of guarded silence.
Kafka's smile was warm, his hands still caressing her breasts, but his gaze was one of pride, not mockery.
"Never hide them, Mom." He said, his voice a gentle command. "Be proud of what you've got."
The sincerity in his eyes, the way he celebrated her body, dissolved the shame she'd carried for so long.
For the first time, she felt seen—not as a spectacle, but as a marvel, a source of pride for her son. The realization was electric, her spirits lifting as a newfound confidence bloomed within her.
Every mother craved her child's approval, and though the reason was unconventional—her breasts, of all things the fact that Kafka was proud of her, fascinated by her, filled her with a joy she hadn't known she needed.
Unconsciously, her shoulders squared, her breasts lifting slightly as if responding to his words, their full, firm shape standing prouder under his touch. The weirdness of the moment, the taboo sensations that had plagued her, faded, replaced by a radiant happiness.
After years of distance, of sharing nothing with her son, his interest in her even if it was just a part of her body was magical, a bridge across the chasm of their past.
The pleasure she'd felt, the guilt that had tormented her, seemed a small sacrifice for this closeness, this moment where she could satisfy his curiosity and feel so deeply connected to him.
The warmth of his hands, the gentle caress as he marveled at her breasts, no longer felt wrong; it was a gift, a way to make him happy, to be the mother he admired.
Olivia's blush softened, a shy smile tugging at her lips as she met his gaze, her voice trembling but warm.
"You...You really think that, Kafi?" She asked, her heart swelling with gratitude. "I've always...felt different, you know. But hearing you say that...it means a lot."
Kafka's grin widened, his hands giving her breasts a final, gentle caress before resting on her waist, his eyes sparkling with affection.
"Hell yeah, Mom. You're one of a kind...Own it."
His words were playful, but the pride in his voice was unmistakable, sealing the moment with a warmth that made her feel invincible.
The warmth of Kafka's words, laced with playful pride, enveloped Olivia, making her feel invincible for the first time in years. Her blue eyes, usually guarded and reserved, glowed with a rare, unguarded happiness, a subtle shift that spoke volumes despite her struggle to show emotion.
Kafka's gaze softened as he noticed, his hands pausing their exploration of her breasts, a smile spreading across his face.
"Alright, Mom." He said, his voice warm and teasing, spreading his arms wide. "I've had enough of these treasures for now."
"...Come here now, I want all of you in my embrace. Give your son a hug that's been held off for long enough."
Olivia's heart swelled, the joy of his acceptance, his celebration of her, washing away the last traces of her earlier turmoil and without hesitation, she leaned forward, her body sinking against his, her massive breasts squishing against his chest as she wrapped her arms around him.
Their bodies melded together on the sofa, close and intimate, like lovers sharing a quiet moment, yet bound by the familial love she clung to. She buried her face in his chest, her cheek pressed against the hard planes of his muscles, a wave of gratitude flooding her.
In a world where sons often dismissed their mothers, shaped by a society quick to judge and divide, Kafka's love, his open admiration and affection was a rare gift. She snuggled closer, her heart full, thankful for a son who not only respected her but celebrated her in ways she'd never imagined.
His touch, however, carried a hint of his characteristic intimacy, a quirk she'd come to recognize like how instead of a simple hug at the moment, one of his hands slid to her back, his fingers tracing slow circles along her back, sending a shiver through her.
The other hand drifted lower, resting on her plump ass, patting and caressing gently, a possessive edge to his touch that made her body hum with a meek, conflicting thrill.
The sensation was both comforting and unsettling, stirring a warmth she tried to dismiss as maternal. She told herself it was just his way, his slightly over-intimate way of showing love and if this was the only flaw in a son who adored her so fiercely, she could overlook it.
But deep down, though, a part of her craved his touch, relished the way his hands made her feel alive, desired, even if the thought flushed her cheeks with shame. Shaking her head to banish the notion, she snuggled deeper into his embrace, savoring the moment, thinking to herself that life, right now, was Impossibly good.
The emotions swirling within her, gratitude, love, a quiet joy bubbled over, and she couldn't hold back. Her voice, soft and trembling, broke the silence as she whispered against his chest.
"I love you, Kafi. I love you with all my heart...You're my one and only baby boy, and I-I'd do anything for you. I'm so thankful...so thankful for having such a wonderful son."
Her words were raw, unguarded, a confession of the love she'd held for years, now spilling out in the warmth of their closeness.
Hearing this, Kafka's hands paused, his touch shifting as he pulled her closer, his fingers tightening on her waist. The movement made her look up, her blue eyes meeting his dark gaze, now softened with a sincerity that took her breath away.
"I love you too, Mom." He said, his voice low and earnest. "Just as much. I'm thankful for you, thankful for such an amazing mother."
"...I know I was a shitty son before, but I'll do everything to make up for it, to be the best son you could ever want."
His words were a vow, each syllable heavy with promise, and Olivia's heart soared, a radiant happiness flooding her.
"Oh, Kafi." She murmured, her voice thick with emotion as she hugged him tighter, snuggling into his embrace. "You're such a good son."
She then lifted her head, ready to shower him with more praise, but his voice continued, a new tone creeping in that made her pause.
"That's right, Mom..." He said, his tone shifting, a possessive undercurrent threading through his words. "I'm your son, and you're my mother—my mother, who I won't give up to anyone."
"...My mother, who's all mine and mine alone."
His hand on her ass tightened, his fingers caressing with an almost claiming touch that sent a strange shiver through her. The innocence she'd always seen in him seemed to flicker, replaced by something deeper, more intense, that unsettled her even as it thrilled her.
But before she could process the shift, the sound of footsteps broke the moment as Abigaille entered the living room, and her voice rang out.
"Dinner's ready, you two! You coming or—"
Her words cut off abruptly as she stepped into the living room, her eyes widening at the sight before her. Olivia, sprawled across Kafka, her body pressed intimately against his, her shirt open to reveal her cleavage, his hand caressing her ass with a casual possessiveness.
The scene was unmistakable, charged with an intimacy that froze Abigaille in place, her expression a full of shock and uncertainty.
Facing this unexpected scenario, Olivia's heart plummeted, her body stiffening as panic surged through her. Caught in such a compromising position, with Abigaille, her best friend, Kafka's other mother witnessing it, was a nightmare she hadn't prepared for.
Her mind raced, searching for an excuse, a way to explain the unexplainable, but her voice caught in her throat.
Worse, Kafka didn't flinch, his hand continuing its slow caress on her ass, his expression calm, almost defiant, as if Abigaille's presence didn't faze him.
The nonchalance in his demeanor heightened Olivia's fear, her mind spiraling with questions—What will she think? Does she know about the village's customs? Is this...normal to her?
The uncertainty, the dread of judgment, made her stomach twist, her happiness shattering under the weight of potential consequences, as she waited for the fallout of this intimate moment exposed...