I stumble through the front door, the world tilting like a funhouse mirror, my heels clacking unevenly on the hardwood. The bottle of cheap red wine dangles from my fingers, half-empty, the bitter tang still coating my tongue. My name’s Lisa, and tonight, I’m a fucking mess. Forty-two, a single mom, with a life that feels like it’s unraveling thread by thread. My chestnut hair’s a tangled cascade, spilling over my shoulders, a few strands sticking to my tear-streaked cheeks. I’m wearing a low-cut black top, my 36DD tits practically spilling out, the lace of my bra peeking through where the fabric sags. My skirt’s tight, hugging my curvy hips, riding up my thighs as I sway. Underneath, a skimpy thong clings to my skin, the kind I wear to feel something—anything—other than this gnawing emptiness. My makeup’s smudged, mascara tracks painting my face like war paint, and my red lipstick’s smeared from the wine glass I’ve been kissing all night.
The living room’s dim, lit only by the flickering glow of the TV, some late-night rubbish droning on. The air smells of stale cigarette smoke and the lavender candle I lit earlier, now burned down to a waxy puddle. I collapse onto the leather couch, the cold material sticking to my thighs, and take another swig from the bottle. My head’s swimming, but the pain in my chest is sharper than ever—grief, loneliness, the weight of raising Robbie alone since his dad pissed off years ago. Robbie, my sweet boy, eighteen now, all broad shoulders and quiet eyes. He’s the only thing keeping me tethered, but even that feels like it’s slipping.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my voice thick with tears. I wipe my eyes, smearing more mascara, and let out a shaky laugh. “What a bloody disaster you are, Lisa.” The wine’s making everything blurry, but not blurry enough to drown out the ache. I think about Robbie, probably asleep upstairs, and my heart twists. He’s been so distant lately, tiptoeing around me like I’m a bomb about to go off. Can’t blame him. I’m not the mom I used to be, all smiles and Sunday roasts. Now I’m this—drunk, broken, clinging to the bottle like it’s my lifeline.
The stairs creak, and I freeze, wine sloshing in the bottle. Robbie’s silhouette fills the doorway, his pyjama bottoms hanging low on his hips, his bare chest catching the TV’s glow. His dark hair’s messy, and his eyes—God, those eyes—are wide with concern. “Mom? You okay?” His voice is soft, hesitant, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter.
I force a smile, but it wobbles. “Just peachy, love. Go back to bed.” My words slur, and I hate how weak I sound. I take another gulp of wine, the liquid burning down my throat, and pat the couch beside me. “C’mon, sit. Keep your old mom company.”
He hesitates, then pads over, his bare feet silent on the carpet. He sits, close enough that I can smell his clean, soapy scent, a stark contrast to the wine and smoke clinging to me. “You’ve been crying,” he says, not a question. His gaze flicks to the bottle, then back to my face, and I see it—pity, worry, love. It’s too much.
“Yeah, well…” I shrug, my top slipping lower, exposing more of my cleavage. I don’t bother fixing it. “Life’s a bitch, innit?” I laugh, bitter and raw, and lean back, my head lolling against the couch. “You ever feel like… like you’re drowning, Robbie? Like no matter how hard you kick, you can’t reach the surface?”
He’s quiet for a moment, his hands clasped between his knees. “Sometimes,” he admits, his voice low. “But you’re not alone, Mom. You’ve got me.”
Those words crack something open inside me, and before I know it, I’m sobbing, ugly and loud, my shoulders shaking. “Oh, Robbie,” I choke out, “you’re too good to me. I don’t deserve you.” I reach for him, my hand landing on his thigh, and he doesn’t pull away. His warmth seeps into my palm, grounding me, and I cling to it like a lifeline.
“You do,” he says firmly, his hand covering mine. His touch is gentle, but there’s a strength there, a steadiness that makes my heart ache. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
I laugh through my tears, shaking my head. “Strong? Look at me, love. I’m a bloody wreck.” I shift closer, my skirt riding up higher, my thigh brushing his. The wine’s making me reckless, blurring the lines I know I shouldn’t cross. But he’s here, and he’s real, and I’m so fucking tired of feeling alone. “You’re the only thing that makes sense anymore,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
His eyes darken, a flicker of something I can’t name passing through them. “Mom…” he starts, but I don’t let him finish. I lean in, my lips crashing against his, desperate and clumsy. He freezes, and for a moment, I think he’ll push me away. But then he’s kissing me back, his hands tangling in my hair, and it’s like a dam breaking. The taste of him—mint and something uniquely Robbie—mixes with the wine on my tongue, and I moan into his mouth, my body pressing against his.
“Robbie,” I gasp, pulling back just enough to look at him. His cheeks are flushed, his breathing ragged, and there’s a hunger in his eyes that mirrors mine. “I need you. Please.” It’s a plea, raw and vulnerable, and I hate how much I mean it.
He swallows hard, his hands sliding down to my waist, his fingers digging into my hips. “This… this is wrong,” he says, but his voice is strained, and he doesn’t let go. “We shouldn’t…”
“I don’t care,” I cut him off, my hands roaming his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle under my fingers. “I just want to feel something good. Just for tonight.” I climb onto his lap, my skirt bunching around my waist, my thong barely covering me. My tits press against his chest, the lace of my bra scratching against my skin, and I grind against him, feeling the hardness in his pyjamas. “Please, Robbie.”
He groans, his hands gripping my ass, and then he’s kissing me again, harder this time, all teeth and tongue. The room spins, the TV’s hum fading into the background as my world narrows to him—his touch, his scent, his heat. My top’s yanked down, my bra shoved aside, and my tits bounce free, heavy and aching. His mouth finds my nipple, sucking hard, and I cry out, my fingers clawing at his shoulders. “Fuck, yes,” I moan, my pussy already wet, soaking through my thong.
The leather couch creaks as he flips me onto my back, his body pinning me down. My skirt’s gone, my thong ripped aside, and I’m bare before him, my pussy glistening, my clit swollen and begging for attention. He stares, his breath hitching, and I spread my legs wider, inviting him in. “Don’t stop,” I whisper, my voice trembling with need.
He doesn’t. His pyjamas are off, his cock thick and hard, the tip glistening with pre-cum. He lines himself up, and then he’s inside me, stretching me, filling me. I gasp, my nails digging into his back as he starts to move, slow at first, then faster, harder. My ass presses into the leather couch as he pants above me, fucking me with a desperation that matches mine.
“Ahhh, ahhh, Robbie baby… harder… yeah,” I hold his ass tight as he keeps pumping in and out, each thrust sending sparks through my body. My pussy clenches around him, wet and hot, the slick sound of our bodies colliding filling the room.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he gasps, his voice rough. “Shall… shall I stop, Mom?” He slows, his eyes searching mine, and I see the conflict there, the guilt. But I’m too far gone, too lost in the pleasure of his cock buried deep inside me.
“No… keep going, baby… don’t… don’t stop,” I moan, hugging him tight as he picks up the pace, shagging me so good I can barely think. “Keep fucking me… ohhh, please, baby, harder!” My voice cracks, half-sob, half-plea, as I grind against him, my clit throbbing so bad I could scream.
“Fuck me… ohhh, fuck me harder,” I beg, my nails raking down his back, leaving red trails. He growls, low and primal, and slams into me, the couch scooting an inch across the floor. My pussy’s on fire, the wet slap of his balls against my ass driving me wild.
“Unngh, yes… just like that… ohhh, Robbie!” I cry, my voice breaking as my clit throbs, begging for touch. My body’s trembling, every nerve alight, and I know I’m close, so fucking close to falling apart beneath him. The wine, the tears, the pain—it’s all fading, replaced by this raw, aching need, and I let it consume me, let him consume me, as we move together in the flickering light of the TV.
“Fuck, Robbie, don’t stop,” I pant, my voice hoarse, nails digging into his arse, urging him deeper. His cock’s stretching me wide, the slick, wet slide of it hitting every nerve, making my pussy pulse with need. My clit’s swollen, throbbing, begging for attention, and I grind my hips up to meet him, chasing that edge. His mouth’s on my tits again, sucking hard on one nipple, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make me yelp. “Ohhh, yeah, baby, suck ‘em… fuck, that’s so good,” I moan, my head lolling back against the couch, the leather sticking to my skin with a faint squeak. The sensation’s electric, his hot mouth pulling at my sensitive flesh, sending jolts straight to my core. My tits are heavy, bouncing as he fucks me, the soft flesh jiggling under his lips, and I love how he worships them, like they’re the only thing that matters.
His thrusts are relentless now, hard and deep, his balls slapping against my arse with every slam. The couch creaks, sliding another inch across the hardwood, and I can hear the wet, obscene squelch of my pussy as he drives in, my juices coating his cock, dripping down to my thighs. “Shit, you’re so fuckin’ wet,” he groans, his voice rough, almost feral, as he lifts his head from my tits, his lips shiny with spit. His dark hair’s damp, falling into his eyes, and those eyes—God, they’re burning with something wild, something that makes my heart race even faster. “You like this, don’t you? My cock in your tight little pussy?” His words are dirty, unexpected, and they hit me like a spark, making my cunt clench harder around him.
“Fuck, yes, I love it,” I gasp, my voice breaking as I arch my back, pushing my tits toward his face. “Keep fuckin’ me, baby, don’t you dare stop.” I’m a mess, my body trembling, my pussy so full it’s almost too much, but I crave more, need more. His mouth dives back to my other nipple, sucking greedily, his tongue flicking over the hard peak, and I cry out, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The suction’s intense, almost painful, but it’s perfect, making my clit throb even harder, my whole body humming with pleasure. My pussy’s gushing now, the slickness making every thrust louder, wetter, and I can feel the couch beneath me growing damp, my juices pooling under my arse.
“Robbie… ohhh, fuck, I’m so close,” I whimper, my hips bucking wildly, meeting his rhythm. My clit’s screaming for touch, and I snake a hand between us, my fingers finding the swollen nub. It’s slick, pulsing under my touch, and I rub it in frantic circles, moaning louder as the pleasure spikes. My pussy’s tightening, gripping his cock like a vice, and I can feel every inch of him, the thick shaft, the pulsing veins, the way the head nudges deep inside, brushing my cervix with every thrust. “Harder, baby, fuck me harder,” I beg, my voice raw, desperate. He growls, his hands gripping my hips so tight I know I’ll have bruises, and he slams into me, the force making my tits bounce wildly, my whole body shaking.
The room’s spinning, the TV’s flicker a distant blur, and all I can focus on is him—his cock filling me, his mouth on my tits, the heat of his body against mine. My fingers work my clit faster, the pressure building, coiling tight in my core. “Ohhh, shit, Robbie, I’m gonna cum,” I cry, my voice cracking as the orgasm hits, a white-hot wave crashing over me. My pussy spasms, milking his cock, and I scream, my body convulsing, my thighs trembling as I gush around him, my juices soaking his cock, dripping down to the couch. The pleasure’s blinding, tearing through me, and I cling to him, nails raking his back, my tits heaving as he keeps sucking, keeps fucking, drawing out every pulse of my climax.
He’s not done, though. His thrusts slow but don’t stop, his cock still rock-hard inside me, and he lifts his head from my tits, his lips red and swollen, his eyes dark with hunger. “Fuck, you’re so hot when you cum,” he murmurs, his voice low, and he leans down to kiss me, his tongue plunging into my mouth, tasting of my skin and sweat. I moan into the kiss, my body still twitching, my pussy hypersensitive but aching for more. “I wanna make you cum again,” he says against my lips, and before I can respond, he shifts, hooking my legs over his shoulders, folding me nearly in half. The angle’s deeper, his cock hitting spots that make me gasp, my eyes rolling back.
“Ohhh, fuck, yes,” I moan, my voice slurred with pleasure as he starts thrusting again, slow and deliberate, letting me feel every inch. My tits are bouncing wildly now, spilling out of the bra completely, and he can’t resist, his mouth latching onto one nipple again, sucking hard as he fucks me.
He groans, his thrusts faltering, and I feel his cock twitch inside me, hot and thick. “Shit, I’m gonna cum,” he gasps, his mouth leaving my tit, his eyes locking on mine. I nod, frantic, my pussy still spasming, and he slams into me one last time, his cock pulsing as he spills inside me, hot cum flooding my pussy, mixing with my juices. The sensation’s intense, the warmth spreading deep, and I moan, my legs trembling as he collapses onto me, his weight grounding me, his breath hot against my neck.
We stay like that, panting, sweaty, tangled together on the couch. My pussy’s still twitching, his cum leaking out, pooling beneath me, and my tits are heaving, red and swollen from his mouth. The room’s quiet now, save for our breaths and the faint TV drone, and as the haze of pleasure fades, I feel a flicker of something else—guilt, maybe, or fear. But it’s distant, drowned out by the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart against mine. “Robbie,” I whisper, my voice soft, uncertain. “What… what did we just do?”
He lifts his head, his eyes searching mine, and for a moment, I think he’ll pull away, say it was a mistake. But instead, he brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, his voice low. “But… I don’t regret it.” His words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, and I swallow hard, my heart twisting with a mix of emotions I can’t name. The wine’s still buzzing in my veins, the ache in my chest quieter now, and as I look at him, I know one thing for sure—this isn’t the end of whatever this is.