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Tem 27

Making Slime With Mommy Pt. 01

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Babes

A slimy Introduction

“Oh pumpkin, where did you find that picture?” I asked, barely able to form the words, feeling as if medusa herself was staring me in the eyes. I was petrified, unable to turn my head away from the computer’s monitor.

My son, quite innocently, and by my request, had just opened a picture on the computer entitled “SlimeExample_4.jpg”.

“I, I can’t remember-” he said timidly.

Every instinct told me that I should look away, but I couldn’t peel my eyes from the most beautiful, most horrific photograph that I had ever seen. One that I had inadvertently asked my son to seek out…

We had spent the entire summer together, making every conceivable type of slime known to man. Corn-starch Slime, Fluffy Slime, Unicorn Slime, Glitter slime. We tried it all. But no matter what recipe we followed, no matter how much we experimented, my enthusiastic little-guy always looked disappointed.

“You’re a teacher. Shouldn’t you know how to make this stuff?” he asked.

“I’m a re-search-er,” I corrected, “but beside the point, civilizations from the past worshiped Gods and Monsters not slime! So how would I know?”

He always had a complaint about the slime we made. “It’s too thick, It’s too thin,” and my personal favorite “That’s too white!” As if glue white, corn-starch white, and baking-soda white were any different.

Nothing I did could make my little man happy.

So one day in frustration I yelled. “That’s it. No more slime! Until you can find me a picture of exactly what you want I. am. Done!”

The little kid ran off to his room crying, and I felt like crap.

Now, a week later I found myself in his bedroom, sitting motionless with my mouth agape, staring at a goddess, a monster, a splendid gorgon that had me enthralled.

She was an absolutely stunning girl, whose ethnicity would forever remain a mystery. She was a blend of every coffee-colored race on the planet, with features stolen from the best parts of her deeply mixed ancestry – as though the world’s top geneticists had collaborated to recreate a modern version of Oshun, Aphrodite or Xochiquetzal.

The girl, güvenilir bahis who looked to be in her very early twenties, had straight blue-black hair which gently brushed the tops of her slender shoulders. She was pulling down one side of her shiny locks, with a little curl that had coiled around a few of her immaculately manicured fingers. They were painted and polished in neon pink and stood out in stark contrast next to her silky hair and smooth, tanned skin.

Her innocent, doe-eyes were rimmed with a subtle black mascara that had been expertly applied. They held aloft two sets of long dark lashes that were flipped upward.

She was looking straight at the camera.

She was looking straight at me.

She appeared slightly confused, and tugged on her lower lip with one of her teeth, making a cute little pout. Although she looked shy, she knew it, and was happy, proud, and beautiful.

My cheeks went bright red. I felt hot and dizzy. I was unable to blink, or do anything other than just stare.

A thick, white rope of semen that started at the top of her forehead tracked through her eyebrow brow as it flowed down her face. It crossed the bridge of her nose and formed a wobbly line across her cheek, ending in a pearlescent glob that hung precariously. Gravity pulled on the weight of the syrupy substance and it stretched downward in a teardrop, as if about to slip off onto her body.

Many other sticky, winding streaks zig-zagged across her face. It was difficult to tell where they began or ended. They formed a web-like pattern that clung to her like glue. A large wad of that cream-colored substance smeared the tip of her nose, and a dangling bridge connected it to her top lip.

My heart thumped as I inspected the photograph as intensely and as thoroughly as I examined ancient artifacts at the university where I was a research professor of mythological & religious studies.

I observed that creamy-white goop was everywhere. It was even in her hair. A blob of it partially covered a hot-pink jack-rabbit hair-clippy that had come unsprung and was now hanging uselessly.

Her right thick eyelash was smeared güvenilir bahis siteleri into her brow, coated in a globule of gunk that was keeping it plastered to her face. Three stringy, white prison bars connected her upper and lower lids, covering the outer edge of her slightly pink eye.

I was completely, and utterly speechless. Shock, curiosity, embarrassment, I’m not sure which prompted my son to snap me from my intense scrutinization.

“I. I. I like how sticky it looks.” he stammered.

I turned my head, and cocked it a little. I knew of course what a cum facial was, but only because some TV show I watched had mentioned it in a joke. I had never seen one, or imagined that it was so… horrific? Beautiful?

It was certainly messy.

It almost looked like a crime scene photograph, but it had an alluring, captivating, feel. The girl was so – proud? The mess so – carefully orchestrated? Everything about the photo was a juxtaposition of what it looked like at first glance. Like the deities I studied, it held conflicting multi-faceted aspects that kept revealing themselves the more I stared.

My groin was warm. Hot. And I studied the picture again, with intense scrutiny.

The girl was wearing a soft downy sweater, it was a spun navy blue number, and I noticed that the semen was even scattered across its knitted textures. Little pearly beads sat atop the dry fabric. A squiggly “j” shaped mark of white rested on one of the sweater’s ribbed ridges.

“It’s kind of like someone sprayed a can of white silly string on her huh?” He clicked a few buttons and zoomed in on the photo.

“Look. It’s in her hair, and even on her clothes.” He panned around the image. It was sharp and crisp, like it had been captured on the world’s most expensive camera ever – for virtually no detail was lost as the disheveled young girl filled the screen.

I put my hand on my son’s to stop the erratic gyrations caused by the movement of the mouse. The image settled – in a perfect close up of her messy, sticky face.

Tiny glittering sparkles and miniature lens flares reflected off the semen. Her button nose shone, iddaa siteleri her penetrating eyes glimmered, Her plump lips glistened. Her face was flushed, and a slight pink hue surrounded her mouth which was moist and saturated with fluid. The smallest, almost imperceptible smear of lipstick painted the corner of her lips.

I thought of King Poseidon, assaulting medusa in the temple of Athena for her voluptuous hair, and at the snakes he cursed her with in jealousy.

These white snakes coiled around the woman’s face, caressing them, writhing on them. I kept my gaze firmly fixed.

“Do you think it was her birthday or something?” he laughed, and I snapped back to reality again.

The kiddo was oblivious.

This was wrong. Really wrong. I shouldn’t be getting wet while my son was sitting right next to me. But I was. My nipples were hard, and I was practically quivering.

I let go of my son’s hand, cleared my throat and swiveled in my chair.

“Oh pumpkin, that isn’t slime. And I don’t think it was her birthday.”

“Oh? Are, are you sure?”

“Yes, honey. I’m sure.” I bobbed my head.

“Well” he scrunched his face, “then if it’s not slime, what is it?”

I said nothing. How could I?

“I want to make a batch that looks exactly like that. Pleeeeassssse!” He begged.

I swallowed again, and cleared my voice. I didn’t want to scar my kid for life by explaining the bird and the bees to him right here, right now, so I just smiled, patted him on the head and said “Sure kiddo. Maybe later this week we can try. Why don’t you run downstairs and see how much supplies we still have left over, I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Yes!” He pumped a fist, and then gave me a big hug. He squeezed into my breasts, and accidentally brushed against one of my nubs. Then he hopped up and darted downstairs.

It felt nice.

I sat in the chair for a moment, breathing hard, wanting nothing more than to stare at the girl, and to maybe even touch myself. But I regained enough sense and composure to quickly close the photo.

With the image minimized, I saw that there were about a dozen other images in the folder called “White Slime Research”.

My heart skipped a beat. I wanted to open those photos more than Pandora, but I quickly dragged the folder to the trash, shut down the computer, and then slowly, very slowly walked downstairs.

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