The rejection still stung, a raw, throbbing ache right in my ego. “Alan, you’re…insatiable. It’s too much. I can’t keep up.” Chloe’s words echoed in my head, laced with a mix of exasperation and—was it pity? Insatiable. Like it was a disease. Sex was as essential to me as breathing, as eating, as the damn air I needed to survive. And now, thanks to my ex’s delicate sensibilities, I was starved.
A week. Seven goddamn days since I’d felt the slick heat of a woman’s body, the friction, the release. Seven days of blue balls and a gnawing, persistent ache between my legs that felt like it was burrowing its way through the bone. I’d tried everything. Cold showers, brutal workouts, distracting myself with work. Nothing worked. The hunger was a living thing, coiling in my gut, tightening with each passing hour.
Tonight had been particularly brutal. I’d gone to a bar, hoping, praying for even a hint of interest from a woman. Nada. Just a sea of indifferent faces and forced smiles, none of them remotely interested in the desperation radiating off me in waves, I was sure.
Dragging myself home after midnight, the house was dark and quiet. Good. Less chance of running into Dad and having to explain my pathetic, celibate state. I crept up the stairs, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, and headed for my room, ready to collapse into bed and maybe, just maybe, finally get some sleep.
But then I heard it. A soft, muffled sob came from Mom’s room, the door slightly ajar. My steps faltered. Mom? Crying? That wasn’t…normal. Mom was the rock of our family, always strong, always composed. I hesitated, then gently knocked on her door. “Mom? You okay?”
Silence for a moment, then a choked, “Come in, Alan.”
I pushed the door open slowly and stepped into the dimly lit room. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of the wine, and Mom was sitting on the edge of her bed, her shoulders shaking, a half-empty bottle of Merlot and a wine glass on the nightstand beside her.
And then I saw her.
She was wearing a nightie, a pale blue silk thing that barely grazed mid-thigh. It was the kind of nightie you saw in catalogues, designed to be alluring, not practical. And on Mom, it was devastating. The low-cut neckline plunged deep, revealing the swell of her breasts, a generous cleavage I’d never, ever consciously registered before. Her skin, usually hidden under sensible blouses and cardigans, looked soft and luminous in the soft lamplight. Even slumped over and crying, she was…beautiful. A mature beauty, yes, but undeniably, breathtakingly so.
My breath hitched in my throat. It was the wine, the late hour, the vulnerability in her posture, but something shifted in the air, a current of something charged, forbidden, humming between us.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” I asked, my voice a little rougher than I intended.
She looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, her cheeks flushed. “Oh, Alan,” she hiccuped, swiping at her tears with the back of her hand. “Just…everything. Just…life.”
She looked so lost, so utterly heartbroken. Instinct took over. I went to her, kneeling beside her bed and taking her hand. It was surprisingly soft, her fingers delicate and trembling.
“Tell me,” I urged gently. “What’s going on?”
She started to talk, her words slurred slightly by the wine. Work stress, she said, feeling invisible, unappreciated. And then, it came out, the real heart of it, the raw, aching loneliness. “It’s been…a long time, Alan,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “A long time since…since anyone looked at me. Really looked at me.”
My heart thumped in my chest, understanding dawning like a slow, sickening sunrise. Dad had been gone for five years. Five years of Mom being alone. Five years…without touch, without intimacy. My gaze drifted down again, involuntarily, to the revealed curve of her breasts. The silk of her nightie clung to her curves, hinting at the fullness beneath. And then I saw it. Just a flash, a glimpse of scarlet red at the hem of her nightie as she shifted, a tiny sliver of lace. Red panties. Underneath that demure blue silk, she was wearing red lace panties.
My groin tightened instantly, painfully. The air in the room felt thick, and heavy with unspoken tension. This wasn’t right. This was so, so wrong. My mother. But the hunger, the desperate, clawing need for release, was screaming in my veins, drowning out the voice of reason, of morality.
She was still talking, her voice thick with tears, but I wasn’t listening to the words anymore. My focus was fixed on the rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin silk, on the way the fabric strained against her curves. Her breasts were full, and rounded, pushing against the neckline, the nipples clearly defined beneath the delicate material. They were…perfect. Mature, yes, but still firm, still incredibly desirable.
The wine had loosened her inhibitions, and her usual guarded composure completely shattered. She was vulnerable, and exposed, both emotionally and physically. And God help me, in that moment, the line blurred. The line between son and…something else.
“Mom,” I said, my voice hoarse, almost unrecognizable. I reached out, hesitantly, and touched her shoulder, the bare skin surprisingly warm under my fingertips. She flinched slightly, then leaned into my touch, her tears flowing again.
“Oh, Alan,” she sobbed. “I’m so…lonely.”
She wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a hug. It was meant to be a motherly embrace, a gesture of comfort. But pressed against her like this, I could feel the soft fullness of her breasts against my chest, the subtle curve of her hips against my thigh. The scent of her perfume, mixed with the wine, filled my senses, intoxicating, overwhelming.
My cock, already half-hard from the earlier frustration and the forbidden glimpses of her body, surged against my jeans, pressing insistently against her. She shifted slightly, oblivious, or maybe feigning obliviousness, to the growing bulge between my legs.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I murmured, my voice low and thick. “It’s going to be okay.” Lies. It wasn’t okay. Nothing about this was okay. But the words were empty, just sounds, hollow pronouncements against the roaring storm inside me.
I pulled back slightly from the hug, just enough to look at her face. Her eyes were still wet, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly parted. And God, those lips. Full, soft, inviting. The wine had painted them a deeper shade of red. I wanted to kiss them. I wanted to taste her. The thought jolted through me, electric, shocking, forbidden, but undeniably, overwhelmingly…desirable.
My hand, as if with a mind of its own, drifted down from her shoulder, tracing the curve of her arm, down to her wrist. Her skin was so smooth, so soft. I could feel the pulse beating faintly beneath my fingertips. I moved closer, my face just inches from hers, my breath mingling with hers.
“Mom,” I whispered again, my voice barely audible.
She looked at me, her eyes unfocused, glazed with wine and tears. At that moment, I saw a flicker of something in her gaze, a spark of…awareness. Or maybe it was just my desperate projection.
My hand moved again, lower this time, settling on her thigh, just above the hem of her nightie. The silk was cool and smooth under my palm. I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin beneath.
“Alan…” she breathed, her voice a soft question.
And then, the dam broke. The months of denial, the weeks of frustration, and the sheer, raw hunger, exploded. I couldn’t think, couldn’t reason, couldn’t resist. The devil on my shoulder had won. I was lost, drowning in a sea of forbidden desire.
My hand slipped higher, under the hem of her nightie, my fingers brushing against the soft, yielding flesh of her inner thigh. She stiffened, a tremor running through her body. “Alan, no…” she whispered, her voice laced with shock and a hint of something else, something…confused, maybe even…curious?
But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. My fingers moved higher, parting her thighs slightly until I felt the edge of the red lace, cool and delicate against my fingertips. And then, just beneath it, the unmistakable dampness, the slick heat of her pussy.
Her breath hitched again, a sharp, audible gasp. “Oh God, Alan…”
My fingers slipped under the lace, parting the wet folds, finding the swollen nub of her clit. I stroked it gently, and rhythmically, and a low moan escaped her lips, a sound that sent a jolt of pure, raw lust through me. Her head fell back against the headboard, her eyes fluttering closed. The fight was gone. The alcohol, the loneliness, and the years of pent-up desire, had finally created the perfect storm.
“Mom,” I murmured against her neck, my lips nuzzling the soft skin, tasting the salt of her tears and the sweet scent of her perfume. “Please, Mom.” I didn’t know what I was asking for or begging for, but the words were ripped from me, fueled by a desperate, primal need.
She didn’t answer, but her body was softening, yielding. She was letting me. A dizzying mix of guilt and triumph surged through me. This was insane. This was wrong. This was my mother. But…God, it felt so good.
I stood up, pulling her with me, gently guiding her back onto the bed. She lay back, her eyes still closed, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her nightie had ridden up slightly, exposing more of her thighs, the red lace panties clinging to her hips. Her breasts were full and high, the nipples hard and erect, straining against the silk.
I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I bent down, my lips brushing against her nipple through the fabric, sucking gently. She moaned again, louder this time, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
“Oh, Alan,” she breathed, her voice thick with emotion. “What are you doing?”
“Just…let me,” I mumbled, my mouth now latching onto her nipple, sucking harder, pulling the silk taut against her burning skin. My hand moved lower, reaching between her legs, my fingers sliding under the lace again, finding her wetness, teasing her clit, pushing deeper into her slick folds.
She gasped, her body arching off the bed. “Ahhh…Alan! No…but…oh God…” Her words were fragmented, lost in a haze of pleasure and confusion.
I straddled her legs, kneeling between them, my hard cock pressing against her thigh. I reached down and pulled her nightie up, bunching it around her waist, exposing her completely from the waist up. Her breasts were even more magnificent in the lamplight, full, ripe, begging to be touched. Her nipples were dark and erect, beckoning my mouth.
I lowered myself onto her, my chest pressing against her soft breasts, my mouth claiming one nipple, sucking, teasing, while my hand continued to work magic between her legs. She was so wet, so ready. Her legs parted wider, instinctively, invitingly.
I reached down and tugged at the elastic of her red panties, stretching the lace to the side, exposing her swollen vulva, her glistening pussy. It was ripe, mature, and incredibly inviting. My cock throbbed against my jeans, aching to be inside her.
“Oh baby, what are you… to hell with it,” she moaned and lay there looking hot and bothered.
“Are you sure, Mom?” I whispered, even as I knew I was beyond the point of no return. The question was a formality, a pathetic attempt to cling to some semblance of morality.
She moaned again, her head thrashing against the pillow. “Just…do it, Alan. Please…just…fuck me.” The words were slurred, desperate, raw with need.
That was all the permission I needed. I ripped open my jeans, freeing my throbbing cock. It sprang out, thick and hard, straining for release. I positioned myself between her legs, nudging her thighs wider, my cock hovering at the entrance to her wet pussy.
“Oh God,” she breathed, her eyes flying open, staring up at me, wide and unfocused. “Alan…your…your cock…”
I pushed forward, slowly, deliberately, sliding my tip into her slick entrance. It was hot, tight, unbelievably wet. She gasped again, her body tensing.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I murmured, kissing her lips, tasting the wine and her arousal. “Just relax.”
I pushed deeper, inch by agonizing inch, feeling her tightness stretching around me, gripping me, pulling me in. It was incredible, a feeling unlike anything I’d ever experienced. The forbidden nature of it, the sheer taboo, amplified the pleasure to an almost unbearable intensity.
And then, I was in, buried deep in her hot, wet pussy. She gasped, a sharp, pain-filled cry that quickly morphed into a moan of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
“Oh…fuck,” she breathed, her eyes wide, staring at me, disbelief and something else, something akin to awe, in their depths. “You’re…inside me. Alan, your…your dick is…inside me.”
“It is, relax ahh fuck you feel good Mom,” I started to slowly fuck her.
I started to move, slowly at first, just rocking back and forth, letting her adjust to my size, letting myself revel in the sensation of being inside her, so deep, so tight, so unbelievably hot. Her breasts jiggled against my chest with each movement, the nipples brushing against me, sending sparks of electricity through my body.
“Fuck, Mom,” I groaned, the words ripped from my throat. “You feel so good.”
I started to thrust harder, deeper, my rhythm building, my cock slamming into her depths with each stroke. She moaned louder now, her hands gripping my hips, guiding me, urging me on. Her voice, laced with pleasure and disbelief, filled the room.
“Oh God…yes…Alan…harder…fuck me harder.” She moaned and moaned as I went faster and harder.
Her words were like gasoline on a fire, igniting the inferno within me. “Harder,” she begged, and I was more than willing to oblige. My rhythm intensified, each thrust deeper, more forceful than the last. Her moans escalated, a symphony of pleasure and shock echoing in the room.
“Ahhh… Alan… fuck… yes…” she gasped, her body bucking beneath me, meeting each of my thrusts with a fervent desperation. Her nails dug into my back, pulling me closer, as if she wanted to absorb me into herself, to erase the distance between us.
The sweat-slicked our bodies, making our skin slide against each other with each powerful movement. The scent of her perfume, once delicate and floral, was now mingled with the musky aroma of sex, a heady, intoxicating mix that further fueled my frenzy.
“Mom… oh God…” I couldn’t form coherent sentences, just guttural sounds of pure sensation. Her name was a plea, a confession, a transgression, all rolled into one.
I watched her face, her eyes squeezed shut, her lips parted, and a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Her cheeks were flushed a vibrant red, and her neck arched, exposing the delicate curve where it met her shoulder. I kissed her there, tasting the salt and sweat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath my lips.
“Faster… Alan… faster…” she urged, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper, tighter as if trying to fuse us.
I obliged, my pace accelerating, my breath catching in my throat. The friction was exquisite, searing, drawing me closer and closer to the edge. Each thrust sent a shockwave of pleasure through my body, centred in my core, radiating outwards, consuming me.
“You feel so good, Mom,” I grunted, my voice thick with exertion. “So fucking good.” The words were crude and raw, but they were honest, ripped from the depths of my desire.
“Oh, Alan… please… don’t stop… please…” Her pleas were disjointed, fragmented, and lost in the escalating tide of sensation. But I understood. She didn’t want me to stop. Not now. Not ever.
My hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as I drove into her again and again, each thrust carrying me closer to the precipice. I could feel her muscles clenching around me, milking me, intensifying the pleasure to an almost unbearable level.
“Mom… I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. The wave was cresting, building, about to break.
“Yes… Alan… come… come inside me…” Her voice was a breathy whisper, laced with a desperate urgency.
And then, it happened. The world exploded. A wave of pure, molten pleasure erupted within me, starting in my groin and spreading outwards, engulfing my entire body. I groaned, a long, shuddering sound ripped from my depths, as I emptied myself into her, my orgasm raw, primal, earth-shattering.
I collapsed against her, my weight heavy on her chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps. She held me tight, her arms wrapped around my back, her body trembling beneath me. We were both gasping, panting, lost in the aftermath of the storm.
Slowly, gradually, the intensity subsided, leaving behind a lingering warmth, a profound exhaustion, and a dizzying sense of unreality. I lifted my head, looking down at her. Her eyes were still closed, her face flushed, a faint smile playing on her lips.
“Mom…” I whispered again, my voice hoarse.
She opened her eyes slowly, her gaze unfocused, still glazed with the remnants of passion. She looked at me, and for a moment, there was only a silent, charged connection, a shared secret hung heavy in the air.
Then, a flicker of something else crossed her face – confusion, realization, maybe even regret. The perfect storm had passed, and the wreckage was beginning to surface.