The soft creak of the floorboards under my feet echoed as I padded down the hallway. The scent of vanilla body lotion and something warm—maybe cookies?—drifted through the air. Mom was home, like always, probably curled up on the couch again.
I paused in the doorway, watching her. She was stretched out, her bare feet tucked under her, the hem of her floral nightie riding up just enough to show the soft curve of her thigh. At 200 pounds, she was undeniably heavy, but there was something about her—something that made it hard to look away.
Her dark auburn hair spilled over her shoulders in loose waves, catching the dim light from the TV. The fabric of her nightie clung to her full chest, the neckline dipping just enough to reveal the faintest hint of cleavage. Her arms were plush, the kind you could sink into, and her stomach pressed gently against the fabric when she shifted.
She glanced up, her green eyes warm but tired. “Andy? You just gonna stand there staring?” Her voice was soft, a little husky.
I swallowed. “Just… making sure you’re okay.”
She sighed, patting the couch beside her. “Come sit with me. I’m putting on a movie.”
I dropped onto the cushion, the old leather groaning under us. The warmth of her body radiated against my side, and the faint scent of her shampoo—something sweet, like coconut—mixed with the buttery smell of microwave popcorn from the bowl in her lap.
The movie played, but I kept stealing glances at her. The way her fingers absentmindedly traced circles on her own knee. The way her nightie slipped off one shoulder, revealing the delicate strap of her bra underneath. The way her lips pursed when a sad scene came on.
Then, out of nowhere, a quiet sniffle.
I turned. Her eyes were glistening.
“Mom?”
She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, laughing weakly. “Oh, ignore me. Stupid movie.”
But it wasn’t the movie. I knew it.
I hesitated, then reached out, pulling her into a hug. She stiffened for a second before melting against me, her body warm and soft, her breath shaky against my shoulder.
“I just…” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know how I got like this.”
I held her tighter, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers clutched at my shirt. “You’re beautiful, Mom,” I murmured.
She let out a watery laugh. “You’re sweet.”
As I pulled away a little her big breasts jiggled, I started to get an hard on.
I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the growing bulge in my pants. “You really are, Mom. You’re strong and caring, and you’ve always been there for me.”
She smiled, but her eyes were still glassy with tears. “Thank you, Andy. You have no idea how much that means to me.” She paused, then added, “But I can’t help feeling like I’ve let you down. I should be taking better care of myself, for you and for myself. I can’t even get a man, I miss sex… Sorry didn’t mean for that to come out like that. It’s just been 7 years since I you know. Nobody would want it with me anyway. Don’t mean to sound rude here but they would have to lift my belly to even see my pussy.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, a hot flush spreading up my neck. The admission, raw and unexpected, hit me like a physical blow. I felt his face prickle, the sudden confession amplifying the already uncomfortable bulge in my jeans. I was so hard.
She saw me gazing at her tits and then she saw my bulge, she laughed, “glad I can at least turn someone on still even though it is my own son.”
“Mom…” I started, but my voice was a reedy whisper, barely audible. I couldn’t look at her, couldn’t meet that knowing, weary gaze. The embarrassment was excruciating, but underneath it, a different kind of heat, a forbidden thrumming, resonated through my veins. My body felt like it was betraying me, undeniably, irrevocably.
She sighed, a sound that was less a laugh now and more an exhale of resignation. Her hand, soft and warm, briefly touched my arm. “It’s okay, Andy,” she said, her voice gentler now. “Don’t look so mortified. I just… I forget sometimes that you’re not a little kid anymore. And I forget you’re a boy.” She paused, withdrawing her hand. “A young man.”
The correction, subtle as it was, sharpened the edge of the moment. I could feel her watching me, could feel the pressure of her gaze though I still couldn’t bring myself to look up. The movie played on, its background noise suddenly intrusive, meaningless.
“It’s just… you’re my mom,” I finally managed, the words a desperate plea, a futile attempt to push things back to where they were supposed to be. To rebuild the wall of normalcy that had just been so casually, so completely, shattered.
“I know, honey,” she said, her voice dropping to a softer, almost fragile tone. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was unfair of me and…”
I quickly jumped in as I stroked her chubby thigh, “No no I don’t mind honest.”
Her green eyes, still a little red-rimmed, widened marginally. My hand, still resting on her thigh, felt dangerously warm, almost like it was radiating its own heat into her soft skin. The gentle pressure of my fingers, the curve of her flesh beneath them, was all too much, too intimate. The casual stroke, meant as reassurance, had instead ignited a new, unsettling current between us.
She didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, her breath hitched, a soft, almost inaudible sound that nonetheless vibrated through the couch cushions and directly into my chest. Her gaze flickered from my eyes to my hand, then down to the prominent bulge in my jeans that I was desperately trying to ignore. A faint flush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks a delicate rose. It wasn’t the easy, playful blush from before; this was something deeper, fraught with a different kind of awareness.
“Andy…” Her voice was barely a whisper, thin and strained. She didn’t finish the sentence. The unspoken question, the tangled implications of my words, hung heavy in the air, thick enough to suffocate us both. The movie on the TV, which had been a backdrop to our private drama, now seemed to scream its mundane dialogue into the sudden, profound silence.
I wanted to pull my hand back, but it felt glued to her. My mind raced, a chaotic jumble of guilt, confusion, and something else – a fleeting, undeniable curiosity that shamed me to my core. What had I done? My attempt to comfort her had spiraled into something I couldn’t articulate, couldn’t even name. It was like we were teetering on the edge of a precipice, and I was the one who had accidentally nudged us closer.
Her gaze, when it finally met mine, was unreadable – a mix of surprise, a profound vulnerability, and perhaps, a flicker of something akin to wonder. The tears were gone, replaced by an intensity that made my own breath catch. My hand, still on her thigh, felt like a live wire, and I could feel the subtle shift of her muscles beneath my palm. It wasn’t a rejection, but it wasn’t an embrace either. It was a suspended moment, fragile and dangerous.
“You… you really don’t mind?” she asked, her voice still thin, barely audible above the movie’s soundtrack. Her eyes searched mine, seeking an answer I didn’t fully comprehend myself. She wasn’t asking about my initial reaction to her confession; she was asking about this. About my touch, about the undeniable tension between us.
My throat felt dry, constricted. “No, Mom,” I managed, the answer catching in my throat, tangled with a truth I couldn’t face. Because a part of me did mind, mind that my mom was the source of this confusing, intense feeling. But another, darker part of me, the part that had been stirring restlessly ever since I saw her on the couch tonight, didn’t mind at all. This wasn’t about missing sex for her; it was about her, about us, in a way that twisted my gut and made my ears burn.
She slowly, gently, placed her hand over mine where it rested on her thigh. She moved my hand under her nightie and placed it between her legs. Her panties were damp over her fat pussy as I rubbed it.
“Ahhh honey,” she moaned as I couldn’t believe I was rubbing her minge through her panties. I really wanted to jump into the action and fuck her. So I did, as I took off my jeans and boxers.
Her eyes widened, but she didn’t stop me as I slid her panties to the side, revealing her glistening folds. She was already so wet, and the scent of her arousal filled the air, mingling with the smell of popcorn and vanilla. I hesitated for a moment, the reality of what I was about to do hitting me like a physical blow. This was my mom, for God’s sake. But the need pulsing through me was too strong to ignore, and before I could second-guess myself, I pressed the head of my cock against her entrance.
She let out a soft gasp, her body tensing under mine. I paused, looking into her eyes for any sign of hesitation or regret. But all I saw was a raw, unguarded desire that mirrored my own. “It’s okay, Andy,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the pounding of my heart. “I want this too.”
With that, I pushed into her, my cock sliding into her warm, wet depths. She moaned, her back arching as she took me in. I felt her stretch around me, her body adjusting to my size. It was a tight fit, but the feeling was incredible, like nothing I’d ever experienced before.
I began to move, slowly at first, then faster as I found a rhythm that worked for both of us. She clung to me, her nails digging into my back as I thrust into her. The sound of our bodies slapping together filled the room, punctuated by her breathy moans and my low grunts of pleasure.
She tastes sweet, like the vanilla lotion and something else, something hidden, something forbidden. My stroke is hard and powerful, pushing deep into her, demanding release. I love the way she arches up, trying to meet me, a desperate hunger mirroring my own. Her moan rips through the air, a strangled cry of pleasure that makes me tighten my grip on her.
“Andy,” she gasps, her voice thick with lust. “Harder.”
Her words are a push, a dare, a key to unlocking the animal inside me. I heed her command, slamming deeper into her, my hips grinding against hers. I can feel her stretching, her body straining, on the brink.
“You’re so tight,” I growl, my voice hoarse with need. “But I’m gonna fill you.”
She arches even further, meeting my every thrust with a fierce hunger. The scent of her sweat mingles with the vanilla, a heady mix that sends shivers down my spine. I push harder, faster, relentless in my pursuit, the warmth of her spreading beneath me. My pleasure builds, a rolling wave threatening to crash over me.
“Andy, closer,” she whispers, her body trembling. Her voice is a plea, a beacon guiding me toward her. My eyes lock with hers, intense and dark, reflecting the same primal desire I feel. I want her. All of her. Body and soul. And her, my momma, she wants me too.
Our breaths mingle in the hot air, a symphony of desire. It’s a chaotic dance, a tangle of limbs and desperate moans, a raw and primal connection that defies all boundaries. The walls of decency, morality, sanity, crumble around us, leaving only the raw, animalistic need.
With a final, guttural cry, I lose control. I explode into her, spilling my seed deep inside her. She gasps my name, her face buried in my shoulder, her entire body racked with spasms of pleasure. Her hips buck against mine, a trembling echo of my own climax. As the last vestiges of my release trickle away, I collapse against her, panting and spent.
“Oh God, Andy,” she gasps, her voice thick with a mix of relief and lust. “That felt… amazing.”
She rolls against me, her body still warm and shaking from the aftershocks of our encounter, her breath warm against my neck. I wrap my arms around her, pulling her closer, wanting to savor this forbidden moment, this violation of every rule we ever held dear.
“Mom?” I rasp, my voice hoarse from the effort. “Is everything … okay?”
“More than okay,” she whispers, tracing a finger along my jaw. Her eyes, still glistening, catch the light from the TV, reflecting a mixture of shame and something else…something that looks startlingly like triumph. “Never better,” she murmurs.
“But…” I hesitate, the words caught in my throat. The guilt and confusion are still there, a heavy weight pressing down on me. It’s wrong, what we’ve done. But right now, all I can feel is the raw, undeniable rush of something that feels both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Don’t,” she says, her voice firm, silencing my unspoken plea for reason. She presses her lips against my forehead, a feather-light kiss that sends shivers down my spine. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
I close my eyes, letting her words wash over me. I try to push aside the guilt, the doubt, the sheer impossibility of it all. I just want to feel this, to be lost in this moment, in this taboo pleasure that feels so right, so wrong, so terrifyingly addictive.
“I…” I try to speak, but she cuts me off with a sigh.
“Let’s sleep,” she whispers, her voice soft and husky. “We can talk about everything tomorrow.”
She pulls me closer, her body warm and heavy against mine. I feel her chest rise and fall against my side, the comforting rhythm a strange reassurance in this chaotic, confusing world we’ve stumbled into. I don’t fight it. I don’t want to.
Maybe tomorrow she will be ashamed. Maybe I will be too. But right now, all I can feel is the throbbing heat of our shared transgression, the sweet, forbidden taste of her on my lips, and the intoxicating whisper of something dangerous and exciting just beyond the edge of my control.