It was a dreary Saturday—one of those half-heartedly rainy afternoons that smelled like wet concrete and burnt toast from somewhere two houses down. The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the TV’s standby light and the fairy lights I hadn’t taken down since Christmas. I was already curled up under my favourite navy throw—half blanket, half emotional support animal—wearing my oversized grey jumper with the neckline that insisted on falling off my left shoulder, no matter how many times I tugged it back up. Joggers, thick socks, hair in a chaotic bun. Not fit for public consumption, and that was the point.
On the coffee table: three types of crisps, a block of soft brie sweating under cling film, chocolate buttons in a bowl that still had glitter in the bottom from last New Year’s, and two bottles of red wine. One open. One ready. Mum-grade preparedness.
Jamie knocked once, then barged in like he still lived here.
“Smells like carbs and abandonment issues in here,” he said, shrugging off his coat and kicking his trainers into the hall corner like a grown man who still thought house rules were optional.
I didn’t look up. “You’re lucky I like you.”
He came into the living room, holding up the two wine bottles. “Cabernet and Shiraz. One for each emotional stage?”
I reached out for one. “You planning to sedate me or join me?”
Jamie flopped onto the couch with the kind of graceless sprawl only he could get away with. “Depends. What terrible film are we watching tonight?”
“You get first pick,” I said, tugging the blanket tighter around my legs. “But I reserve the right to mock your taste relentlessly.”
He grabbed the remote like it was a weapon. “Fine. Die Hard. It’s comforting.”
“You’re twenty-seven,” I said, already pouring us both a generous glass. “At some point, you’ll need to emotionally detach from Bruce Willis in a vest.”
Jamie took the glass and raised it. “Not today.”
We clinked. I winced. “You didn’t chill the red.”
“You don’t chill red wine.”
“I do,” I said, “because I’m reckless and over forty.”
He laughed, and I caught the exact expression he used to make at age five when he’d sneak biscuits behind my back. Except now he had a beard and better taste in shoes.
The film started. Bruce was on the plane. Jamie was already quoting lines under his breath.
“You used to love this one,” I said, reaching for a handful of crisps. “You tried to sneak ‘Yippee-ki-yay’ into your Year 6 spelling test.”
He smirked. “And you grounded me.”
“You were eleven. You’d written ‘Yippee-ki-yay, mother—’ and then just trailed off with a dash.”
Jamie leaned back, grinning. “I was being respectful.”
“You were being cheeky.”
He raised his glass again. “Must’ve got it from somewhere.”
I gave him a pointed look. “Watch it.”
By the time Alan Rickman fell off the building, we were halfway through the second bottle and deep into the crisps. The remote sat untouched while I picked Love Actually without discussion. Jamie groaned.
“Oh come on, Mum,” he said, adjusting the blanket to cover his feet. “You’re just trying to make me cry again.”
“I’m not trying,” I said, already pressing play. “That’s just good writing.”
“Or emotional manipulation set to a soundtrack.”
“It’s called cinema, darling.”
“Fine,” he said, reaching for the chocolate. “But if you start quoting Colin Firth again, I’m leaving.”
I tucked my legs under me, sipping the wine that now tasted sweeter than before. “He learns Portuguese for her. That’s commitment.”
“He also falls in love with her without ever having a conversation,” Jamie said, frowning. “It’s giving silent red flag.”
“Let me have this,” I whispered. “Let me live in my romcom delusions for one night.”
Jamie laughed, then glanced over at me. “You’ve gone quiet.”
I looked at him. “I’m just watching.”
“You’re doing that thing where you pretend not to cry.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
I wiped the corner of my eye. “It’s allergies.”
“To what?”
“Emotional growth,” I said, sniffling.
He shook his head, smirking. Then his expression softened. “You alright though, Mum?”
His tone had shifted. Quieter. Genuine.
I looked at him, surprised. “Yeah. Why?”
Jamie didn’t look away from the screen. “You just haven’t really called lately. And when you do, you sound tired. Not your usual ‘I hate everyone at Tesco’ tired—like, properly worn out.”
I sighed and set my glass down. “It’s been a rough few months. Nan’s been forgetting things more. Work’s insane. And the house feels… weirdly quiet without you here. Like something’s missing.”
Jamie nodded slowly. “I figured. I mean, I sort of hoped it wasn’t just me forgetting to text.”
“No,” I said, gently. “You’re still terrible at that. But you’re not the reason.”
He looked over at me again. “You miss me?”
I smirked. “Don’t get cocky.”
We sat there a moment, quiet, except for Hugh Grant dancing down the stairs in the background.
“I miss this,” he said after a pause. “Even the weird snacks and the brie that smells like regret.”
I nudged his leg with my foot. “You’re welcome any time. You know that.”
“I do,” he said, voice lower. “And I will. I just… sometimes forget how good this is until I’m back in it.”
We leaned back into the couch. I reached for the last handful of crisps.
“I love you, you know,” I said, voice barely above the rustle of the packet.
Jamie didn’t even pause. “I love you too, Mum. Always have. Even during Bridget Jones: The Marathon Years.”
“Hey,” I said. “That was a trilogy. With merit.”
He laughed. “And wine. Lots of wine.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk young man,” I laughed as he poured me another glass.
Jamie grinned mischievously as he filled your glass to the brim. “Maybe I am. Is it working?”
“I think I am getting a bit drunk,” I say, taking a sip and letting the wine warm my throat.
“You’re growing up,” I said, my words a little slurred. “You know that? Getting all handsome and grown-up on me.” Jamie chuckled and reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed against my cheek, sending a shiver down my spine.
“I think you’re the one who’s getting old and sexy, Mum,” he said, his voice low and husky.
“You’re just saying that to be nice. It sounds weird you calling me sexy,” I said, trying to keep my tone light and playful. Jamie leaned in closer, his breath tickling my ear.
“I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re sexy, Mum. Always have been. Even when you’re wearing that ratty old jumper and your hair’s a mess.” I felt a lump form in my throat at his words, and I had to swallow hard to respond.
“Jamie, you’re drunk,” I said, but my voice came out breathy and uncertain. Omg was he… was he trying to get into my knickers? I am his mum.
I felt Jamie’s hand slide up my thigh, his fingers grazing the hem of my joggers. My breath caught in my throat as he moved closer, his body pressing against mine. The wine buzz was making everything feel fuzzy and warm, and his proximity was making it hard to think straight.
“Mum,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear. “You’re so soft. So warm.” I shivered at his touch, my skin tingling where he stroked my leg.
He kissed the side of my neck, his beard rough against my skin. I let out a quiet moan, my head falling back against the couch. This was so wrong, but it felt so right. His hand slid higher, cupping my sex through the fabric of my joggers. I gasped, my hips bucking involuntarily into his touch. “Oh God, Jamie,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “What are you doing?”
Jamie’s hand moved with purpose now, he pulled the string on my joggers. Why wasn’t I stopping him? He slid down my joggers as I lifted my ass and let him. “Jamie you are so naughty, we… we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Jamie,” I breathed, my voice a shaky whisper, “this is… we can’t.” But my body betrayed me, hips shifting slightly toward his touch, thighs parting just enough to invite him closer. His hand slid back up my leg, slow and deliberate, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. The oversized jumper still hung off my shoulder, exposing the curve of my collarbone, and beneath it, my plain cotton knickers—nothing fancy, just soft and slightly worn from too many washes—felt suddenly inadequate, vulnerable.
He leaned in, his breath hot against my neck, lips brushing the spot just below my ear. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Mum,” he murmured, voice rough with something primal. His fingers reached the edge of my knickers, tracing the elastic band before slipping beneath it. I gasped, my body tensing as his fingertips brushed the coarse hair above my pussy, then lower, finding the slick heat of my folds. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned, his voice thick with awe, like he’d discovered something forbidden and perfect.
I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve pushed him away, reminded him who I was, who he was. But his fingers moved with agonizing precision, parting my labia, the pads of his fingertips grazing the swollen bud of my clit. It throbbed under his touch, sending a jolt of pleasure through me that made my toes curl inside my socks. “Oh God,” I whimpered, my head falling back against the couch, the navy throw slipping to the floor in a crumpled heap. My knickers were still on, stretched to the side as he explored me, the cotton damp against my thigh.
Jamie’s other hand moved to my jumper, pushing it up to expose my stomach, then higher, until my bra—a simple beige thing, nothing like the lacy fantasies of younger women—came into view. He didn’t care. His eyes devoured me, hungry and unashamed, as he tugged the bra down, freeing one breast. My nipple, already hard, puckered further in the cool air. He leaned down, his tongue flicking over it, hot and wet, before he sucked it into his mouth. I moaned, my hands instinctively grabbing his hair, pulling him closer even as my mind screamed at me to stop.
His fingers didn’t falter, circling my clit with a rhythm that made my hips buck. My pussy was soaking now, the slickness coating his fingers, dripping down to the couch beneath me. I could feel it, the way my juices made everything slippery, the faint scent of my arousal mingling with the wine and the lingering crisp crumbs on the coffee table. He slid one finger inside me, then another, stretching my tight walls. My pussy clenched around him, the texture of his knuckles dragging against me, igniting every nerve. “Fuck, Jamie,” I gasped, my voice breaking. “You’re… oh God, you’re gonna make me cum.”
He pulled back from my breast, his lips glistening, eyes locked on mine. “I want you to,” he said, his voice low, commanding. “I want to feel you cum all over my fingers, Mum.” The words were filthy, and wrong, but they sent a fresh wave of heat through me. His thumb pressed harder against my clit, rubbing tight circles, while his fingers curled inside me, hitting that spot that made my vision blur. My labia were swollen, and flushed a deep pink, and I could feel the way they parted around his hand, slick and needy.
I was close, so close, my breath coming in short, desperate pants. My thighs trembled, my calves tightening as I pressed my feet against the couch for leverage. The fairy lights blurred in my peripheral vision, the TV’s soft hum fading into nothing. It was just him, his touch, his voice, his heat. “Jamie, I’m—” I couldn’t finish. My orgasm hit like a tidal wave, my pussy pulsing around his fingers, gushing wet heat that soaked his hand, my knickers, and the couch. I cried out, a raw, broken sound, my hips grinding against him as I rode the pleasure, my clit throbbing under his thumb.
He didn’t stop, not until I was shaking, oversensitive, my hands weakly pushing at his wrist. “Fuck,” I whispered, chest heaving, my nipple still wet from his mouth, my knickers twisted and drenched. Jamie pulled his fingers free, slick with my cum, and brought them to his lips, sucking them clean with a groan that made my stomach flip. “You taste so fucking good,” he said, his voice rough, eyes burning with something I hadn’t seen in him before—something that scared and thrilled me.
He leaned in, kissing me, his tongue slipping into my mouth, tasting of wine and my own arousal. I moaned into him, my hands gripping his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. His cock strained against his jeans, pressing into my thigh, and I could feel how thick, and hard he was. Part of me wanted to rip his clothes off, to feel him inside me, fucking me deep and relentless. But another part—a quieter, fading part—still clung to the wrongness of it all.
“Jamie,” I murmured against his lips, my voice trembling. “We… we need to slow down.” My body screamed at me to keep going, to let him take me right there on the couch, but my mind was catching up, guilt creeping in like a cold draft.
He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against mine, breath ragged. “You sure?” he asked, voice soft but heavy with want. His hand still rested on my thigh, fingers wet with my juices, and I could feel the heat of his cock through his jeans, so close to where I ached for him. “I can take my dick out right now and give you a damn good fucking.”
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding so loud I swore it echoed in the dim living room. The fairy lights flickered, casting soft shadows over Jamie’s face, his eyes dark with hunger, lips still glistening from our kiss. My body was screaming for him—my pussy still throbbed from the orgasm he’d wrung out of me, my knickers soaked and clinging to my swollen labia. But his words, “I can take my dick out right now and give you a damn good fucking,” hung heavy in the air, raw and filthy, stoking a fire I wasn’t sure I could control.
“Jamie,” I whispered, my voice shaky, barely holding it together. “This is… it’s too much. You’re my son.” The words felt hollow like they were trying to convince me more than him. My nipple, still exposed, ached where his mouth had been, and the damp heat between my thighs begged for more, betraying every ounce of sense I had left.
He didn’t move away. His hand stayed on my thigh, fingers tracing lazy circles, slick with my cum. “Mum,” he said, voice low, almost a growl, “you can’t tell me you don’t want this. I felt you. Fuck, I tasted you.” He leaned closer, his breath hot against my cheek, lips brushing my skin. “Your pussy was dripping for me. You came so hard you soaked the couch. Don’t pretend you don’t need this.”
I shivered, my resolve crumbling under the weight of his words. He was right—my body was screaming for him, my clit pulsing again just from the way he spoke. The guilt was there, sharp and cold, but it was drowning in the heat of my arousal, in the way his cock pressed against my thigh, thick and hard through his jeans. I could feel it, the outline of his shaft, the bulge that promised to stretch me, and fill me in ways I hadn’t felt in years.
“Fuck,” I muttered, my hands trembling as they gripped his shoulders. “This is so wrong, Jamie.” But even as I said it, my hips shifted, pressing closer, my soaked knickers rubbing against his fingers still lingering near my pussy.
He smirked, that cheeky grin I knew so well, but now it was laced with something darker, hungrier. “Wrong feels pretty fucking good, doesn’t it?” His hand slid back to my knickers, tugging them down my thighs, the damp cotton peeling away from my slick folds. I lifted my hips without thinking, letting him strip them off, leaving my pussy bare and glistening in the soft light. My joggers were already a crumpled heap on the floor, and my jumper was bunched up above my bra, the beige fabric still pushed down to expose one breast.
Jamie’s eyes raked over me, devouring every inch. “Fuck, Mum, look at you,” he groaned, his voice thick with lust. His fingers traced my pussy again, parting my labia, exposing the flushed pink of my inner folds. My clit was swollen, peeking out, begging for attention, and he didn’t hesitate. His thumb brushed over it, slow and deliberate, sending a shock of pleasure through me that made my toes curl inside my thick socks. “Your pussy’s so pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So wet, so fucking tight.”
I moaned, my head falling back against the couch, my thighs spreading wider despite myself. His fingers explored every inch—sliding along the slick outer lips, dipping into the wet heat of my entrance, then back to my clit, circling it with a pressure that made my hips buck. My pussy juices dripped down, coating his hand, pooling on the couch beneath me. The scent of my arousal filled the air, musky and intoxicating, mingling with the faint tang of wine and the crisp crumbs scattered on the coffee table.
“Jamie, please,” I gasped, not even sure what I was begging for—stop, or keep going, or something more. My hands fumbled to his jeans, fingers clumsy as I tugged at the button, the zipper. I needed to feel him, to know what I was doing to him. He groaned as I freed his cock, the thick length springing free, hot and heavy in my hand. It was bigger than I’d imagined—veined, the head flushed a deep red, already slick with precum. I stroked him, my fingers barely wrapping around his girth, and he hissed, his hips jerking forward.
“Fuck, Mum,” he growled, his voice breaking. “You’re gonna kill me.” He shifted, kicking his jeans and boxers off, leaving him in just his shirt, his cock standing proud between us. My eyes were glued to it, to the way it twitched when I touched him, the way his balls hung heavy beneath, tight and full.
He didn’t give me time to think. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me to the edge of the couch, my bare ass sliding against the fabric. My pussy was fully exposed now, my labia parted, my clit throbbing under his gaze. He knelt between my thighs, his breath hot against my folds, and before I could protest, his tongue was on me. He licked a slow, deliberate stripe from my entrance to my clit, groaning at the taste. “So fucking sweet,” he muttered, his beard scraping my sensitive skin as he dove in.
I cried out, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. His tongue was relentless, lapping at my pussy, circling my clit, then dipping inside me, fucking me with shallow thrusts. My juices coated his face, dripping down his chin, and he didn’t care—he devoured me like a man starved. My clit swelled under his attention, the tiny bud pulsing as he sucked it into his mouth, his lips closing around it, tongue flicking fast and hard. My thighs trembled, my calves tightening as I pressed my feet against his shoulders, my socks catching on his skin.
“Oh God, Jamie,” I moaned, my voice raw, hips grinding against his face. “I’m gonna cum again.” The pleasure was building too fast, a tight coil in my belly, my pussy clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled. He didn’t let up, his hands gripping my thighs to keep me spread wide, his tongue working my clit with ruthless precision. My orgasm hit like a freight train, my pussy gushing, soaking his face as I screamed his name. My body shook, my vision blurring, the fairy lights smearing into streaks of gold.
He pulled back, his face slick with my cum, eyes wild. “Fuck, you’re so hot when you cum,” he said, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. He stood, his cock bobbing, precum dripping from the tip, and I couldn’t look away. My pussy was still twitching, my labia swollen and glistening, and I wanted him—needed him—inside me.
“Jamie,” I whispered, voice hoarse. “Fuck me. Please.”
He didn’t hesitate. He positioned himself between my thighs, the head of his cock nudging my entrance, slick with my juices. He pushed in slowly, stretching me, the thick length filling me inch by inch. I gasped, my pussy clenching around him, the texture of his cock dragging against my walls, igniting every nerve. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping my hips as he sank deeper until he was buried to the hilt, his balls pressed against my ass.
He paused, letting me adjust, his eyes locked on mine. “You okay?” he asked, voice strained like it was taking everything not to move.
I nodded, my breath hitching. “Yeah. Just… fuck me, Jamie.”
He didn’t need more. He pulled back, almost all the way out, then thrust back in, hard and deep, his cock hitting that spot inside me that made my toes curl. I moaned, my hands clutching the couch, my breasts bouncing with each thrust. He set a relentless pace, fucking me with long, powerful strokes, his cock stretching me, filling me completely. My pussy was soaked, the wet sounds of our bodies slapping together filling the room, mingling with our moans and the faint hum of the TV.
“Fuck, Mum, your pussy’s so good,” he growled, his hands sliding under my ass, lifting me to meet his thrusts. My clit rubbed against his pelvis with every stroke, sending sparks of pleasure through me. My labia were stretched tight around his cock, the slick friction driving me wild. I could feel every vein, every ridge, the way his cock throbbed inside me, so hard it felt like steel wrapped in silk.
“Harder,” I begged, my voice breaking. “Fuck me harder, Jamie.”
He obliged, slamming into me, his balls slapping my ass, his cock hitting my cervix with a delicious ache. My pussy clenched around him, milking him, and I could feel another orgasm building, tighter, deeper than before. “I’m gonna cum,” I gasped, my thighs shaking, my socks slipping off my feet from the force of his thrusts.
“Cum for me,” he growled, his thumb finding my clit, rubbing it in tight circles. “Cum all over my cock, Mum.”
That was it. My orgasm exploded, my pussy spasming around him, gushing wet heat that coated his cock, dripping down to his balls. I screamed, my body arching off the couch, my nails digging into his arms. He didn’t stop, fucking me through it, his thrusts relentless, prolonging the pleasure until I was sobbing, oversensitive and shaking.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering. “Where do you want it?”
“Inside,” I gasped, too far gone to care. “Cum inside me, Jamie.”
He growled, his thrusts turning erratic, then buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he came. Hot spurts of cum filled me, thick and sticky, coating my walls, mixing with my own juices. I moaned, my pussy clenching around him, milking every drop. He collapsed against me, both of us panting, his cock still twitching inside me, our bodies slick with sweat and cum.
We stayed like that, tangled together, the couch a mess of wine stains and bodily fluids. The fairy lights glowed softly, the TV looping the Love Actually credits. My pussy was still full of him, his cum leaking out, pooling beneath me, and I didn’t care. The guilt would come later, I knew, but for now, all I could feel was the heat of him, the weight of his body, the way he’d made me feel alive again.