I stood in front of my mirror, adjusting the last clasp of my necklace, though my eyes weren’t really on the jewellery. They were locked on the woman staring back at me.
There was something about the morning light—it softened the edges, warmed my skin, and highlighted the curve of my cheekbone and the hollow just below my collarbone where the blush-coloured silk of my blouse dipped a little lower than maybe it should have. The fabric was delicate, sheer if the light hit just right, and the lace of my bra underneath ghosted through faintly like a whisper. But it wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t meant to be provocative.
It was just… me. This was my body, my shape. My softness. My strength. A long stretch of curves that wrapped around hips that didn’t lie and a chest I’d stopped trying to hide years ago. My jeans were snug, hugging tight where I still carried womanhood the way age gifts it—full and unapologetic. My hair was down, loose and wild, thick waves falling past my shoulders, the ends still damp from the shower and curling slightly at the tips.
Maybe I should’ve worn something different.
Something more “motherly.” A thick sweater. Something beige.
But then again… why should I?
I wasn’t the one causing the problem.
The thought tightened something in my chest as I grabbed the keys off the dresser and headed toward the hall. Upstairs, I heard him moving—drawers shutting, footsteps creaking overhead. He was always last-minute, always casual about things like packing or planning. Never seemed rushed. Never seemed too worried.
He was only eighteen, but that age came with something dangerous. That unearned confidence. That magnetic pull he didn’t fully understand. The neighbourhood girls certainly did. Or thought they did.
Too many whispers lately. Too many moms texting me with “concerns” that weren’t really concerns—they were thinly veiled gossip. The way their daughters looked at him. The way he looked back. I knew the signs.
I wasn’t naïve. And neither was he.
This trip wasn’t just a weekend away. It was a reset. A confrontation. He might not know it yet, but I was going to lay everything on the table. Before things got worse.
His bag hit the hardwood with a thud behind me. I turned just as he came down the stairs, taking two at a time, easy and unbothered.
“Lake District or bust,” he said with a crooked grin, the one he always used when he thought he could charm his way out of something.
He was tall now—taller than me by a good few inches—and he’d grown into his frame faster than I’d expected. His shirt was a simple dark tee, tight across the chest, sleeves snug around his biceps. And those damn grey joggers he wore like a second skin. His hair was a tousled mess, damp like mine, and he smelled faintly of his body wash—something musky, cedar and spice. He looked too good for his own good.
And he knew it.
I didn’t return the grin. Just opened the door. “Let’s go.”
“You’re no fun today,” he said, brushing past me with that lazy confidence.
I locked the door behind us. “This isn’t a fun trip.”
“Right. Because I’ve been such a scandal,” he teased, slinging his bag into the trunk of the car.
I slid into the driver’s seat, adjusting my seatbelt. He took his place beside me and leaned back like we were headed to a beach resort.
“You have,” I said plainly, turning the key in the ignition.
He looked over at me, not smug anymore—curious. Eyes tracing the line of my jaw, down my neck, and lingering just a second too long on the neckline of my blouse at my cleavage.
I noticed. I felt the heat crawl up my chest, right under that silk. And for the briefest second, I regretted not changing into something else. Something that didn’t show quite so much. But then I blinked and reminded myself: No. I’m his mother. And I don’t need to shrink myself just because my son forgot where the line is.
Still, his gaze hung heavy.
“You’re not even going to let me plead my case?” he asked, tone lighter now, teasing again as he folded his arms behind his head, stretching to pull his shirt even tighter. “You could at least pretend this is a courtroom and not a prison transport.”
I gave him a look, all arching brow and no-nonsense. “You don’t need to plead anything. You need to listen.”
“Listening’s easier when the judge isn’t so distractingly dressed.”
That did it.
My eyes snapped toward him, and he smirked like a boy who knew exactly what he’d said—and exactly what it would do.
I exhaled through my nose, keeping my voice steady. “Watch it.”
“What?” he asked, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying. You’re kind of dressed like you’re about to walk into a candlelit date, not drag your poor son into exile.”
“I packed snacks,” I said coolly.
“Romantic.”
I glanced at him, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him feel it.
“This is serious,” I said softly.
He didn’t answer right away. He just shifted, looking out the window, the edge of his smirk fading.
“I know,” he said eventually. “I just like getting under your skin a little.”
I focused on the road, hands steady on the wheel, but inside… something fluttered, sharp and uneasy. I wasn’t sure if it was anger. Or something else I didn’t want to name.
“I know you do,” I murmured.
We drove in silence for a moment, the trees lining the road like quiet watchers, the sun filtering through in golden streaks. The air between us felt thick—not hostile, but full of unspoken things.
Then, from the passenger seat, his voice broke the quiet again, light and casual.
“Still think I should be worried about the girls in the neighbourhood… when the only one who really rattles me is the one driving?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean,” I said as I quickly glanced at him, he’s always been a player.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I snapped, flicking my eyes toward him like a whipcrack before yanking them back to the road.
He didn’t flinch. If anything, he smiled wider.
“Exactly what it sounded like,” he said, drumming his fingers lightly on his thigh, rhythm casual, eyes anything but. “You’re intense today. Like… fire and storm rolled into one. Kind of hot, actually.”
I let out a dry laugh, one that didn’t quite reach my chest. “You think this is a game.”
He tilted his head, considering me for a second too long. “No. I think you think you’re still in control.”
That stopped me.
The silence in the car grew heavier like the air itself had thickened between us. Trees blurred past on either side of the road, but my focus tunnelled down to the rhythm of my own heartbeat — fast, tight. I gripped the wheel a little harder, not liking the way his words made something inside me twist. Not like the way he was watching me now — not like a boy looks at his mom, but like a man studies a woman.
I kept my eyes forward.
“I’m your mother,” I said, each word clipped, deliberate. “Don’t forget that.”
He leaned closer, arm now resting on the centre console, voice a low murmur that made my skin prickle. “Then maybe you should start acting like it.”
I turned my head, just enough to look at him out of the corner of my eye.
“I am,” I said. “I’m the one driving you away from the girls you’ve been toying with. I’m the one trying to clean up your mess before it becomes something bigger. And I’m the one who still remembers changing your nappies, so don’t push me.”
That earned me a laugh. He leaned back again, stretching, one hand behind his head.
“There she is,” he said, grinning. “The fierce version. I missed her.”
I blinked, then scoffed, “Missed her? You live with her.”
“Not lately,” he said, glancing out the window. “Lately you’ve been distracted. Work, phone calls, zoning out at dinner. I’ve barely seen the version of you that used to chew me out for putting an empty milk carton back in the fridge.”
I glanced at him, jaw tight.
“And you think flirting is the best way to get my attention?”
His eyes flicked to mine. “Worked, didn’t it?”
I didn’t answer.
Mostly because he was right.
I hated that he was right.
Another long stretch of silence passed. The sun was higher now, glittering through the canopy of trees, painting streaks of gold across my lap, the silk of my blouse catching the light. I saw his eyes move toward it again — subtle, but not subtle enough. And I felt that heat again, rising up my chest and spreading across my skin like an unwanted flush.
Damn, this top. Damn, these jeans. Damn me for even caring what he was looking at.
He shifted in his seat again, sighing like he was settling in for the long haul.
“You always this uptight before a road trip?” he teased, that cocky tone curling around the edges of his words.
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Only when my passenger thinks he’s starring in some twisted coming-of-age comedy.”
He smirked. “You say ‘twisted,’ I say ‘character-building.’”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re a handful, you know that?”
He grinned, tossing me a sideways look. “Yeah, but I’m your handful.”
I turned to him sharply, my brow arched, mouth open — halfway to another warning.
But he just laughed, leaning his head back against the seat.
“Relax, Mum. I’m just playing. You said it yourself. This trip’s supposed to be serious, right? So let’s get real serious. Like… monopoly and passive-aggressive silences serious.”
I shook my head, finally letting a breath of laughter escape before I caught myself.
“You’re infuriating,” I muttered.
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
“You love it.”
“Say that one more time and I’m turning this car around.”
He grinned wider, eyes twinkling.
“See? Now it’s a proper family trip.”
The last bend of the road opened up to a quiet clearing, and there it was — the cabin.
It sat at the edge of a slope, hugged by tall trees on three sides, the lake stretching out just beyond the back deck. The water glimmered in the late afternoon light, that sort of pale silver-blue you only ever get in spring, like it hadn’t quite decided if it was warm yet. A rowboat bobbed lazily by the little jetty, and the only sound was birdsong and wind through the leaves.
I parked the car and let the silence settle for a moment before I spoke.
“We’re here,” I said quietly, cutting the engine.
He looked out the window, then at the cabin. “Kinda remote, don’t you think?” he said, raising an eyebrow like I’d dragged him to the middle of nowhere to teach him a lesson.
Which, to be fair… wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Exactly the point,” I said, already unbuckling.
He stretched with a low groan, arms high, shirt riding up just a bit — always performing, even if he didn’t realize it.
“Hope there’s at least Wi-Fi,” he said as he popped open the passenger door.
“There’s not,” I said, grabbing my overnight bag from the back seat.
He stopped mid-step and turned to me, brows lifting. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“That’s… tragic,” he deadpanned, slamming the trunk shut.
I led the way up the front steps, keys already in hand. The cabin door creaked open and the familiar scent hit me immediately — cedarwood, a bit of dust, and clean air. My uncle used to let me and my sister stay here every summer growing up. I hadn’t been back in years, but it still felt the same. Still safe. Still quiet.
“You’ll take the room at the end of the hall,” I said, stepping inside and setting my bag on the bench by the entryway.
“Got it,” he replied, already looking around like he was sizing up how bored he was going to be.
“It has a view of the lake,” I added.
He nodded as he passed me, eyes trailing along the wood-paneled walls. “At least that’s something. Looks like the kind of place where old people come to write novels and talk to squirrels.”
I gave him a look. “Would you like to be sent back home early?”
He held up both hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I didn’t say it was a bad vibe. Just… rustic.”
“Rustic builds character,” I said, walking toward the small kitchen.
He followed after me and leaned against the counter. “That why you brought me? To build my character?”
“No,” I said simply, reaching into the cupboard for two glasses. “I brought you here because we needed to talk.”
He sighed, like he’d been expecting it, but hoping maybe I’d let it go.
“Look,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “If this is about that whole thing with Maya—”
“It’s not just about Maya,” I interrupted, setting the glasses down harder than I meant to. “It’s about a pattern.”
He went quiet.
I looked at him then, really looked at him. He wasn’t a kid anymore, not physically. He had that look — confident posture, that spark behind his eyes, the casual way he carried himself like the world had already said yes. And the truth was, girls his age — even some older — saw it. I wasn’t blind.
But he didn’t see what it could do. Or maybe he did, and didn’t care.
“You’ve been making a name for yourself back home,” I said carefully. “And not the kind you want following you around.”
He smirked faintly. “I didn’t realize I was getting that much attention.”
“You know exactly how much attention you’re getting,” I said, crossing my arms. “And the problem is, you’re starting to like it too much.”
He met my eyes then — steady, but not smug this time. “Is that really what you think?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
He scratched at his jaw, clearly turning something over in his head. “So what, I’m not allowed to talk to girls now?”
“Of course you can talk to girls,” I said, softening just a bit. “But you can’t act like they’re disposable. Or like it’s all a joke. These girls aren’t just… practice.”
He leaned his elbows on the counter and exhaled, letting the weight of it settle. “It’s not like that.”
“Then help me understand,” I said gently, my voice quieter now. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re walking into situations you’re not ready for. And pulling other people in with you.”
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Just stared at the kitchen tile.
Then, finally, he glanced up at me, a small lopsided grin tugging at his mouth.
“You always talk like a therapist when you’re mad,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes. “That’s because if I talked like your mother right now, I’d be yelling.”
That made him smile — really smile — and he shook his head as he stood up straight again.
“I get it, Mum. I do. I just…” he paused, then added with a wry smirk, “I didn’t think you noticed all that stuff.”
“Oh, I notice everything,” I said, shooting him a sharp look. “Including the way you’ve been looking at me today.”
That wiped the grin off his face. Just for a second.
“I wasn’t—” he started.
I raised a hand. “Don’t finish that sentence unless you want to sleep on the porch.”
He laughed, holding up his hands again. “Alright, alright. Message received.”
“Good,” I said, though my face softened a bit. “Now go put your bag down. We’re walking the lake trail before it gets dark.”
“You’re dragging me into the woods after lecturing me?” he asked with mock offense. “That’s how horror movies start.”
I turned and headed down the hallway without looking back. “Keep talking and you’ll be in one.”
His voice followed me, light and teasing. “See? There’s the fun version of you. Almost makes me glad I got in trouble.”
I didn’t answer that.
But I didn’t stop the smile pulling at the corner of my mouth, either.
By the time we made it back to the cabin, the sun had completely disappeared behind the treeline, leaving behind that cool blue haze that settles just before full dark. My legs ached, my back was stiff, and my boots felt like they were glued to my feet — but the trail had done what I hoped it would.
It had quieted him. And me, too.
We hadn’t talked much on the way back. A few comments here and there, mostly about the view, the sound of the birds, how he nearly slipped on that moss-covered rock and tried to play it off like it hadn’t happened. But the silence hadn’t felt heavy. Just… spent. Like we’d both needed the walk more than we realized.
I dropped my keys on the table by the door, kicked off my boots with a groan, and immediately reached for the bottle of whisky tucked away on the high shelf in the corner of the kitchen.
“Alright,” I muttered, more to myself than him as I grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. “We earned this.”
He was stretched out across the little two-seater couch, legs open, one arm slung lazily over the back. He still had that faint flush from the trail, cheeks pink from the cold air, hair slightly damp at the temples. His joggers were flecked with dirt and his tee clung to his chest, dark with sweat down the center.
“You sure I get one?” he asked, watching me with a lift of his brow.
I turned, holding up both glasses. “One. You don’t get to drink like a grown man and act like a teenage boy in the same weekend.”
He grinned, sitting up as I poured the amber liquid into each glass. “I’ll take what I can get.”
I handed him his and sat beside him, tucking one leg under me with a sigh as I leaned into the cushions. The warmth of the fire — now burning low in the old stone fireplace — glowed softly across the floor, casting flickering shadows up the walls.
We sat in silence for a beat, glasses in hand, both staring into the flames.
Then he lifted his drink.
“To awkward road trips and uncomfortable life talks,” he said, smirking.
I clinked my glass against his with a small shake of my head. “To being too tired to argue anymore.”
We both took a sip. The burn hit instantly, warm and sharp on my tongue before it settled deep in my chest.
He exhaled slowly. “That’s good stuff.”
“I know,” I said, swirling mine gently in my glass. “Don’t get used to it.”
He glanced at me from the side. “So, what now? You going to pull out a notebook and make me list my sins in order of severity?”
I snorted. “No. I think you got the message.”
“Pretty loud and clear,” he said, taking another sip.
The fire popped and cracked. I let the silence settle again, stretching between us like a soft blanket, comfortable but full of unspoken things.
Then he shifted, resting his glass on his thigh. “You really think I’m messing around with people?”
I looked at him, then set my drink down on the table in front of me.
“I think you’re figuring things out,” I said slowly, “and sometimes you’re careless in the process. You don’t think about how your words land. How your attention feels to someone who doesn’t know better.”
He sat with that for a while.
“I’m not trying to hurt anyone,” he said, quieter now. “I just… I don’t always know what I’m doing.”
I nodded. “I know. That’s the part that worries me.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, brow furrowing as he reached for the bottle again, the amber liquid glinting in the firelight as he poured himself a second glass.
I didn’t hesitate when he tipped the bottle my way. I nodded once, and he poured a little into mine, too. His hand was steady, but his eyes flicked to my face like he was bracing for something heavier. Smart boy.
I cradled the glass between both hands, the heat from it warming my fingers.
“I mean,” I said, pausing just long enough to choose the words carefully, “the way you’re going right now… this isn’t a video game. It’s not the Sims. You don’t get to flirt, charm, sleep your way around and then hit reset when things get messy.”
He chuckled, but it was quiet. Nervous. “Okay, that’s fair.”
I turned to look at him, really look at him — and this time, I didn’t hold back the weight in my voice.
“I don’t want angry mums knocking on my door,” I said, my tone low but firm. “I don’t want a girl showing up crying on our porch. And I sure as hell don’t want you knocking someone up just because you got bored or didn’t know when to stop.”
His smirk faded. He looked at me for a long second, his jaw shifting slightly like he was biting back whatever sarcastic reply he’d normally throw out.
“I’m being serious,” I added, softer now, but not letting up. “You need to hear this.”
He leaned back slowly, glass in one hand, staring into the fire.
“I have been careful,” he said after a pause. “Like… physically. I’m not reckless.”
“Good,” I said, nodding. “That’s something. But emotional recklessness is just as dangerous. You can’t go around lighting little fires in people and then act surprised when something burns down.”
He glanced sideways at me, the flames flickering in his eyes. “That supposed to be a metaphor?”
I lifted my glass and took another sip. “Everything’s a metaphor if you’ve had enough whisky.”
He laughed under his breath, a short huff through his nose, and nodded slowly.
For a moment, it was quiet again. Just the fire. The creak of the cabin’s old wood shifting in the cool evening air.
Then he looked over at me again, his expression more thoughtful than before.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
I turned to him, curious. “Of course.”
“Do you think I’m… a bad person?”
The question caught me off guard — not because of what he asked, but because of how he asked it. There was no sarcasm. No grin. Just this quiet, open vulnerability I hadn’t seen in him in a long time.
“No,” I said immediately. “God, no. You’re not a bad person.”
He looked down at his drink.
“You’re still learning,” I added. “And sometimes you learn by screwing up. I just… I want you to see the screw-ups. Not ignore them. Not blame someone else. Just take responsibility when things go sideways.”
He nodded again, slowly.
“You really think I’ve been looking at you weird lately?” he asked, glancing at me sidelong, that grin starting to return — half deflection, half something else.
I gave him a warning look. “Don’t.”
“I mean, it’s just… that top’s not exactly helping the situation,” he said, eyes flicking down again, quick but not accidental.
I sighed, reaching for my glass and taking the last sip before setting it down with a gentle clink.
“I wore it because it’s comfortable,” I said, calm and measured my heart started to race. “Not because I expected my son to suddenly forget I’m his mother.”
“But…” he started, then stopped, hesitating like even he didn’t know if the next words should leave his mouth.
I turned my head toward him, brow lifting just slightly. “But what?”
He looked down into his glass, then back at me, his expression unreadable. “Aren’t you even a little bit flattered?”
He said it too quickly, like ripping off a bandage, and then immediately downed the last of his drink like he needed the burn to chase away what he’d just admitted.
For a moment, I didn’t say anything.
My chest tightened. Not with anger. Not even with shock.
But something much more dangerous — recognition.
He wasn’t coming to me. Not really. It wasn’t about that. It was about the mess of feelings that happen when closeness gets confused with comfort. When attention starts to feel like affection. And when affection gets too hungry, it looks for validation in places it shouldn’t.
I stood up quietly, taking a deep breath, my glass still warm in my hand.
“I get it,” I said softly, not looking at him just yet.
He glanced up at me, his brows pinched.
“I do,” I added, moving toward the kitchen slowly, needing space — not far, just enough to breathe. “You’re a guy. Eighteen. All hormones and heat and trying to figure out what all of that means when you’re around someone who cares about you. Someone who doesn’t judge you, who listens, who sees you.”
I paused as I set my glass in the sink.
“And yeah,” I admitted, voice quieter now, “maybe a part of me was flattered. I haven’t felt that kind of attention in… God, a long time.”
I turned back to him then, crossing my arms over my chest as I leaned against the counter.
“The last guy I was with was your father,” I said honestly. “And that was over a decade ago. So yeah… being looked at like I’m still something? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel it.”
His face flushed, and he looked down again, as if ashamed. But he didn’t interrupt.
“But that doesn’t make it okay,” I continued, gently. “Not because you’re disgusting. Or wrong. But because it’s not the attention either of us really want.”
He stayed quiet, his fingers tapping the side of his glass.
“What we both want,” I said, softer now, “is to be seen. To be understood. Not just… noticed.”
He nodded slowly, eyes still on the floor.
“I didn’t mean to make things weird,” he said, voice low.
“I know,” I replied.
He looked up finally, meeting my gaze. “It just… you’ve been distant. And then suddenly we’re here, and you’re… you. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”
I smiled, faintly. “I don’t always know what to do with it either.”
He grabbed the whisky, pouring the last splash with a grin that bordered on sheepish. “Another. Let’s call it a nightcap.”
I arched an eyebrow, reaching for the glass as he slid it my way. “Are you trying to get me bloody drunk, Mr.?”
He shrugged, that same lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Only a little. You’re way more fun after two drinks.”
I sighed as I took the glass, letting the warmth of it rest in my palm for a second before sipping. “Okay. One more. And that is it.”
But one turned into many more.
An hour later, I was giddy and laughing, half-curled into the arm of the couch while he sprawled on the other side, both of us flushed and loose-limbed with whisky. The firelight danced on the walls, flickering gold and amber, and the room spun just slightly when I turned my head too fast.
“You know,” I said, my words just a little too round at the edges, “this is the most you’ve talked to me in weeks.”
“You kind of kidnapped me.”
“It doesn’t count as kidnapping if your phone still works,” I said, smirking and pointing my empty glass at him.
He held his up in salute. “Touché.”
We drank, and the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Just ours.
He looked over at me, and his voice softened. “I missed this, you know. Not the lecture part. But… you.”
I didn’t answer right away. I just looked at him, then raised my glass.
“Me too.”
He grinned. “Does this mean I’m off the hook?”
I narrowed my eyes, tilting my glass toward him. “Temporarily. Until the hangover.”
“Ah, so I have until morning to misbehave. Got it.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Too late,” he said, and before I could react, his fingers darted toward my side, wiggling just enough to make me squeal and squirm. I swatted at his hands, laughing despite myself, the whisky making everything looser, warmer, and a little more ridiculous.
“And stop that,” I added, swatting gently at his leg. “I’m ticklish.”
But he started tickling me again and I couldn’t stop laughing. I squirmed on the couch giggling loudly.
“Stop it haha,” eventually he stopped he had my arms pinned above my head, I stared up at him and said softly, “Ok let me go now… y-your drunk.”
He leaned down and started kissing my neck, “Ahh sweetie what are you doing.”
He ignored my protests, his lips trailing up to my ear as he whispered, “I’m not drunk enough to stop.” His grip tightened on my wrists, pinning them to the couch cushions as he pressed his body against mine. I could feel the heat of him, the hardness growing in his pants as he ground against me.
His lips found mine, kissing me deeply and passionately. I could taste the whiskey on his breath as his tongue explored my mouth. His hands roamed my body, squeezing my breasts through my shirt. I gasped as he pinched my nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through me.
“This is so wrong, I… I should slap you,” I moaned as he groped me.
His hands slid under my shirt, pushing it up to expose my breasts. He broke the kiss to look down at them, his eyes dark with desire. “Fuck, your tits are perfect,” he murmured, squeezing them gently.
“Honey you shouldn’t be doing this to me, I am your Mum,” I said lying there, it felt good to be wanted but this was wrong.
“Well, why are you not stopping me,” he smirked as he undid my jeans.
He pulled down my jeans and panties in one swift motion, exposing my pussy to the cool air. I gasped, my hips lifting slightly off the couch. He looked down at my bare slit, his eyes widening with hunger.
“Jesus, Mum,” he breathed, his fingers tracing the folds of my pussy. “You’re so wet already.”
I bit my lip, trying to suppress a moan as his touch sent shivers through me.”That’s because you’re being a bad boy,” I whispered, my voice trembling slightly.
He smirked, his fingers parting my lips to reveal my clit. “And you love it, don’t you?” he said, circling the sensitive nub with his thumb.
I arched my back, a soft cry escaping my lips. “Ahh, fuck… yes.”
He leaned down, his breath hot against my pussy. “I’m going to eat this pretty cunt.”
Omg hearing him talk like this was weird, talking about my… cunt.
He didn’t wait for a response, his mouth descending on my pussy with a hunger that stole my breath. His tongue parted my folds, licking up my slit and circling my clit. I cried out, my hands fisting in his hair as he ate me out like a starving man.
His tongue was relentless, flicking and sucking at my clit, plunging into my hole. The pleasure was overwhelming, my hips bucking against his face as he feasted on me.
“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered against my pussy, the vibrations of his voice sending shockwaves through me. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading them wider as he buried his face deeper. I could feel his nose pressing against my clit, his tongue fucking me hard and fast.
“Oh god, baby,” I moaned, my voice shaking. “Just like that…don’t stop…”
“I can’t wait to stick my hard dick in there am…” I cut him off.
“No… just this and… maybe ill suck you off after. You are my son you can’t be inside me like that.” Even though deep I could do with a good hard dick.
He groaned against my pussy, the sound muffled but still audible. He continued to eat me out, his tongue never stopping its relentless assault on my clit and hole. I could feel the tension building inside me, my orgasm approaching quickly.
Then… he stopped.
He made his way up my body and kissed my neck. He was doing something between us with his dick, not sure what. And then…
He rammed his dick inside my cunt and started to fuck me really hard.
“AHHHH honey, ahh… I… said no sex,” I panted as I wrapped my legs around his waist as he really went for it.
His hips slammed against mine, his thick cock stretching me open as he fucked me with a ferocity I hadn’t felt in years. Each thrust hit deep, filling me completely as he claimed my pussy with a possessiveness that stole my breath.
“Fuck, Mum,” he groaned, his face buried in my neck. “Your cunt is so tight. It’s like it was made for my dick.”
His words sent a shiver down my spine, his dirty talk igniting a fire in my belly. I clung to him, my nails digging into his back as he pounded into me. The couch creaked beneath us, the sound mixing with our moans and the slick slap of skin on skin.
“I told you… no,” I gasped, even as I lifted my hips to meet his thrusts. “No fucking… just your mouth…”He ignored me, his pace never faltering.
My hands on his ass I held on for life as he pumped my neglected motherly pussy. I turned my head to the side as he continued to shag me into the couch. I see my panties on the floor with my jeans, this is real.
His face was buried in my neck, his hot breath fanning across my skin as he grunted and groaned with each thrust. “Fuck, Mum,” he groaned, his voice strained. “I.. will stop… ahh if you want.”
“Mmmm… no…don’t stop… fuck me… fuck your mum… ahhh… fuck me hard,” I moaned loudly as he slammed his dick into my pussy, the pleasure was too much I couldn’t stop him. He felt so good inside me, filling me up. I wrapped my legs around him tighter and pulled him deeper into me.
He continued to fuck me hard and fast, his hips slamming against mine with a force that made the couch shake. I could feel every inch of his thick cock stretching me open, hitting depths that I hadn’t felt in years. My hands gripped his ass, pulling him deeper with each thrust as I moaned and gasped beneath him.
“Yes, fuck me harder,” I panted, my voice dripping with need. “Use your mum’s cunt, baby.”
The sounds of our heavy breathing and the slap of his balls as they hit me hard on every deep hard thrust. He was banging me harder, yes me. His mother.
His response was guttural, a raw sound ripped from his throat. “Yes, Mum,” he growled, his voice thick with lust and triumph. “I’m gonna use your cunt good and proper.”
He lifted slightly, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back into me with renewed force. Each thrust was harder, deeper, more insistent. My head thrashed against the back of the couch, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The firelight seemed to spin faster, mirroring the dizzying rush of sensation consuming me.
“Oh, god, yes,” I choked out, my body arching off the couch to meet each powerful stroke. I could feel myself losing control, the line between right and wrong blurring with every moan and shudder that wracked my frame. His hands moved to cup my breasts again, kneading and squeezing them as he fucked me. The pain was almost exquisite, a sharp counterpoint to the throbbing pleasure between my legs.
He started to pick up the pace, the rhythm building, driving me higher and higher. I could feel my muscles clenching, tightening around his cock, pulling him deeper inside. The pressure was becoming immense, concentrated right at my core.
“Come for me, Mum,” he panted against my ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Come on my dick. Show me how good it feels.”
My vision tunnelled, the room fading to the edges as waves of pleasure crashed over me. I was teetering on the brink, every nerve ending screaming for release. My fingernails dug deeper into his back, leaving trails of scratches I wouldn’t care about later. It was too much, too intense, too forbidden and yet… irresistible.
“Ahhh!” I cried out, my body convulsing around him as an orgasm ripped through me. It was explosive, overwhelming, shattering every last vestige of control. My pussy clenched and pulsed around his cock in a frantic rhythm, milking him dry.
His movements became more frantic, his breathing ragged as he chased his release. “Fuck, Mum, I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, his voice strained with pleasure. “I’m gonna fill your cunt with cum.”
“Yes, baby,” I moaned my own orgasm building rapidly. “Cum inside me.”
With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside me, his cock pulsing as he spilt his hot load into my waiting womb. I cried out, my own climax crashing over me like a tidal wave, my pussy clamping down around his spurting dick as I came harder than I ever had before.
He collapsed on top of me, his face buried in my neck as we both gasped for breath. His cock remained buried inside me, twitching occasionally as the last of his cum dripped into my well-fucked cunt.
He slowly pulls out of me, his softening cock slipping from my used hole with a wet sound. I can feel his cum starting to leak out, trickling down my inner thighs. He looks down at me, his eyes filled with a mix of satisfaction and guilt.
“Fuck, Mum,” he says, his voice hoarse. “That was… I didn’t mean for it to go that far.” I reach up and cup his cheek, my thumb brushing over his lips.
“Shh, it’s okay,” I whisper. “Felt weird but, I needed that. You’re actually bigger than your fathers.”
He smirked at your comment, his ego clearly pleased. “Really? I’m bigger than Dad?”
I nodded, biting my lip. “Much bigger. He was average, but you…” I trailed off, letting my eyes drift down to his still semi-hard cock. “You’re impressive. You better put it away, it’s late.”
I stood up slowly, my legs feeling like jelly as I grabbed my clothes and started to dress. I glanced over at him, still lying on the couch with a satisfied smirk on his face.
“You’re not going to regret this, are you?” he asked, sitting up and pulling his pants back on. I shook my head, forcing a smile.
“No, of course not. It was just… a moment of weakness.” He nodded, but I could see the doubt in his eyes.
“Right. A moment of weakness.” He stood up and walked over to me, placing a hand on my shoulder, his other hand gave my twat a quick rub.
He leans in close, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispers, “I’ll never forget this, Mum. Never.” His hand slides down to squeeze my ass before he steps back, a smirk playing on his lips. “Goodnight. Sleep tight.” With that, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving me standing there, my heart racing and my body aching with a mix of satisfaction and guilt.