At 47, freshly divorced and with a kid to wrangle, my life had become a monotonous cycle of starched whites and hushed corridors. Night shifts as a nurse meant my days off were spent catching up on sleep, a zombie mom shuffling through the mundane. But there was one glorious escape: bowling. Strikes and spares, the satisfying thunk of the ball… it was my little slice of freedom.
Last year, a tournament beckoned, a siren call of polished lanes and competitive spirits. Fifth place wasn’t too shabby if I do say so myself. The only snag? It was a three-hour drive. A hotel room was the obvious answer, but that meant figuring out what to do with my teenage son, bless his chaotic heart. Leaving him home alone was a hard no after the “truck-meets-garage-door” incident. His dad was MIA on guard duty, so my partner-in-crime (and sometimes partner-in-mild-destruction) was coming with me.
I envisioned the hotel as his personal playground – indoor pool, endless TV, room service pizza. He’d be thrilled. The first night of the tournament went off without a hitch, and surprisingly, I was on fire on the lanes. A 520 series? Damn, I still had it. Back in the hotel room, exhaustion hit me like a wave. Three hours of sleep, a long drive, and then bowling all night… my head barely touched the pillow before I was swallowed by sleep.
The next morning, we surfaced around eleven, grabbing a late breakfast. I asked my son if there was anywhere he wanted to hit up before my second round that evening. Mall, GameStop, the usual teenage haunts. He found some vintage game he was obsessed with… sixty bucks for something practically ancient! But hey, the kid doesn’t ask for much. My wallet may have whimpered, but my heart melted a little.
That night, I felt electric. That deep sleep had done wonders. Strangely, my bowling suffered. Slipped from second to fifth. Whatever. One of my bowling buddies actually snagged the gold, and the celebration crew was assembling. Drinks were calling my name, and the bar was conveniently across the street from the hotel. Fate, right?
Wine flowed freely, as did the laughter and chatter. Let’s just say Momma likes her Pinot Grigio a little too much sometimes. It was around 1 AM when I finally swayed back to the hotel room. My son was sprawled in his bed, TV flickering, already asleep. Double queen room – thank God. I peeled off my clothes, slipped into something slinkier than pyjamas – a silky cami and shorts – and crawled into bed.
The room wasn’t spinning, exactly, but the edges were definitely blurry. I lay there, half-watching some late-night movie, drifting in that delicious space between awake and asleep. Then, around 3 AM, a soft rustling pulled me back to semi-consciousness. My son was stirring in the bed next to mine. The only light was the muted glow of the TV, but in the shadows, I could see the subtle rise and fall of his blanket. And then I realized it wasn’t just rising and falling… it was moving with a rhythm that was anything but innocent.
My breath hitched. Is he…? The thought landed in my mind, both shocking and strangely… electrifying. He was being slow, careful, clearly trying to be quiet, assuming I was dead to the world. But the silence of the room amplified every small sound, every slight movement. And the longer it went on, the more a curious heat simmered within me.
A different kind of heat began to bloom in my belly, a forbidden flush creeping up my neck. This is wrong, so wrong, my mind screamed, but my body was betraying me. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion, knowing you should look away, but utterly unable to. A pulse throbbed between my legs, an insistent, demanding rhythm mirroring the one coming from the next bed over.
Ten minutes crawled by, each rustle of the blanket, each soft gasp, fueling the fire within me. By the time ten minutes had ticked by, a humid ache had settled between my legs, and I was undeniably wet. Was he ever going to… finish? The wine had loosened my inhibitions, and blurred the lines of right and wrong. Something inside me snapped.
Before I could fully censor myself, the words tumbled out, laced with a mixture of boldness and sheer disbelief: “Need a hand with that?”
The room went utterly still. The rhythmic movements under the blanket ceased. Then, a low, breathy “Yes” was his only reply.
Panic jolted through me. Oh, shit. What have I done? For a dizzying moment, I felt detached, like an observer in my own body. I watched as “I” stood up, the silky fabric of my cami sliding against my skin as I moved towards his bed.
Kneeling beside him, I was caught in the crosscurrent of shock and a dizzying surge of lust. I pulled the covers back slowly, my gaze tracing the outline beneath. And then I saw it, his hand wrapped around the burgeoning shape, pulsing with youthful urgency.
“Here,” I whispered, my voice husky in the quiet room. “Let Momma help you with that.” I gently took his hand away, my fingers brushing his skin, still warm from his own touch. My own hand, suddenly trembling slightly, traced the length of him, slow and deliberate. He was velvet soft and rock-hard, all at once. Anticipation clawed at me.
Then, I saw it – the glistening bead of pre-cum, pearly and tempting. The sight of it, the raw, youthful beauty of it, sent a jolt through me. My tongue, on autopilot now, darted out to taste the slick droplet, tracing a path beneath him.
A shudder ripped through him. He gasped, his body arching against the mattress. He was no longer shy, no longer hesitant. “Please,” he breathed against my hair, his voice thick with need, “Please, Momma.”
My lips closed around the head of his cock, slow and reverent at first. As I tasted him, and felt the velvety texture against my tongue, his hands moved to my hair, gently threading through the strands.
“Pull it,” I managed to whisper, the words muffled against his flesh. “Pull my hair.” It was a primal instinct, a hidden pleasure I hadn’t dared to explore in years.
He hesitated, unsure. “Harder,” I urged, a moan escaping my lips as he tugged a little harder. As his grip tightened in my hair, I squeezed him firmly in my hand, a silent command for him to push back. And he did.
The gentle, tentative rhythm dissolved into something raw and urgent. He became bolder, his hand now gripping my hair, guiding my mouth, his hips bucking against my face, turning passive pleasure into a raw, urgent demand. I could feel him building, hear his breath quickening, sense the imminent release.
“Are you ready?” he gasped, his whole body rigid.
My mouth was full, my senses overloaded, but I managed a muffled “Mmm-hmm,” a nod against his hot skin.
And then it happened. The first pulse shot into my mouth, hot and thick, followed by wave after wave, each spasm sending shivers through both of us. I swallowed him whole, relishing the primal taste of him, the forbidden pleasure of it all.
The aftermath hung in the air, thick with unspoken words and a potent mix of shame and exhilaration. Finally, I broke the silence, stumbling through the “talk,” the cliché pronouncements about this being a one-time thing, a mistake… even as I knew, deep down, that wasn’t the end of it.
Guilt only lasts for as long as you’re not horny, right? And for me, that’s usually not very long at all. Because as we tried to dissect what had just happened, the air in the room crackled with a different kind of tension, a new kind of desire.
“Would you… would you do that again?” he murmured, his voice still shaky.
I glanced down and saw the unmistakable rise in the blanket. He was hard again. Already? My mind reeled, but a secret smile touched my lips. He’d barely even come, and he was ready for round two?
Maybe, just maybe, this “mistake” was the start of something… deliciously, dangerously naughty. And suddenly, my mind was flooded with a whole host of very, very tempting ideas. My fanny was soaking in my panties tempted to not suck him again but let him mount his mommy and go wild.
“What would you say if I said you can fuck mommy,” I said nervously while rubbing my crotch.
I froze for a split second, my son’s soft-spoken question still echoing in my ears as I knelt there beside his bed, the taste of him lingering on my tongue. The air in the hotel room felt thick, and electric, like the calm before a storm. The TV flickered silently in the background, casting fleeting shadows across the walls, and the faint hum of the air conditioner was the only sound breaking the stillness. My heart pounded in my chest, a wild, unsteady rhythm, as I glanced down at the blanket tenting over his lap again. Already? The sight of it—his youthful stamina, that unrelenting need—sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through me, pooling low in my belly.
His eyes, wide and dark in the dim light, locked onto mine, searching, waiting. There was no judgment there, no hesitation now—just raw, unguarded want. My fingers twitched, still tingling from where they’d gripped him moments ago, and I could feel the dampness soaking through my shorts, the silky fabric clinging to my thighs. I swallowed hard, my throat tight, and then I heard my own voice, low and husky, slipping out before I could stop it. “You really want that, huh? You want to fuck Mommy?”
He nodded, quick and eager, his breath hitching audibly. His hands fidgeted at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them yet, but his gaze never wavered. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice cracking slightly. “Please. I… I need it.”
I stood up slowly, my legs shaky beneath me, and peeled the cami off over my head, letting it drop to the floor with a soft rustle. The cool air hit my bare skin, making my nipples tighten instantly, and I could feel his eyes on me, drinking me in. My shorts followed, sliding down my hips and pooling around my ankles, leaving me stark naked in front of him. My body wasn’t what it used to be—years of nursing shifts and raising a kid had softened me around the edges—but the way he looked at me made me feel like a goddess, all curves and heat and power.
“Get up,” I said, my voice firmer now, edged with something commanding. He scrambled to obey, kicking the blanket aside and standing in front of me, his cock jutting out proudly, still slick from my mouth. I stepped closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, and ran my hands down his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under my palms. “You’re gonna do exactly what I say, okay?”
“Yes, Momma,” he breathed, his hands hovering near my hips like he was dying to touch me but waiting for permission. I smirked, a thrill shooting through me at how pliant he was, how desperate.
I turned and climbed onto his bed, settling on my knees, then leaned forward onto my hands, arching my back just enough to give him a full view. The mattress dipped as he followed, his breath ragged behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, catching the way his eyes widened, fixed on the glistening wetness between my thighs. “Go on,” I murmured, spreading my legs a little wider. “Mount me. Show me what you’ve got.”
He didn’t need any more encouragement. His hands gripped my hips, firm but trembling, and I felt the blunt head of his cock nudge against me, sliding through the slickness there. A low moan escaped me as he pressed forward, slow at first, stretching me open inch by inch. He was thick, harder than I’d expected, and the sensation of him filling me sent a shudder rippling up my spine. “Fuck,” I gasped, my fingers curling into the sheets. “That’s it, baby, just like that.”
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, and started to move, his thrusts tentative at first, like he was testing the waters. I rocked back against him, urging him deeper, and his grip tightened, nails digging into my skin. “Harder,” I panted, my voice breaking. “Don’t hold back.”
That flipped a switch in him. His hips snapped forward, driving into me with a force that made my whole body jolt, and I cried out, the sound muffled against the pillow as I buried my face in it. The bed creaked beneath us, a steady rhythm building as he fucked me, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure spiking through me. My pussy clenched around him, dripping wet now, the slick sound of our bodies colliding filling the room.
“God, Momma, you feel so good,” he rasped, his voice shaky but laced with awe. His hands slid up my sides, then around to cup my breasts, squeezing them roughly as he pounded into me. My nipples ached under his touch, sensitive and throbbing, and I arched into his hands, chasing every sensation.
“Keep going,” I managed, my breath coming in sharp gasps. “Don’t stop—fuck me like you mean it.” I could feel the tension coiling tight inside me, that delicious pressure building, and I knew I was close. His pace quickened, sloppy and frantic now, and I could hear the wet slap of his skin against mine, feel the sweat beading on his chest as it pressed against my back.
“I’m gonna—” he started, his voice cutting off in a choked groan, and I felt him twitch inside me, the first hot spurt of his cum hitting deep. That was all it took. My own orgasm crashed over me, a white-hot wave that left me trembling, my pussy pulsing around him as I moaned his name into the sheets. He kept moving, riding it out, pumping every last drop into me until we were both spent, collapsing together in a sweaty, tangled heap.
For a moment, we just lay there, breathing hard, the air thick with the musky scent of sex and the faint tang of sweat. I could feel his cum trickling down my thigh, warm and sticky, and a lazy, satisfied smile curved my lips. “Well,” I murmured, turning my head to look at him, “that was one hell of a way to end the night.”
He grinned, sheepish but proud, his cheeks flushed. “Yeah. Can we… do it again sometime?”
I laughed, low and throaty, and reached over to ruffle his hair. “Oh, honey, we’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us. Let’s see how much trouble we can get into.” The guilt was still there, lurking in the back of my mind, but right now? Right now, it was drowned out by the hum of pleasure still buzzing through me—and the promise of more to come.