Right, so it was just a normal Tuesday night. I’d poured myself a glass of Pinot Grigio, finally kicked off my heels after a day wrestling with spreadsheets – don’t even ask, accounting is thrilling, I know – and slumped onto the sofa. Phone in hand, naturally. Scrolling through Facebook, you know the drill, seeing what everyone’s been eating for dinner and admiring holiday snaps I’m secretly jealous of.
Then, a message pops up from Andrew. My Andrew. My 18-year-old, practically-a-man, Andrew. And the preview… well, it was just a bunch of emojis at first. The cheeky devil, always with the emojis. Thinking it was probably just some teenage nonsense, I tapped it open without really paying attention.
And then… boom. My eyes practically popped out of my head. Seriously? Did my eyes deceive me? Because smack-bang in the middle of my screen was… well, it looked like Andrew’s… manhood. And not just a picture of it, but a pretty damn close-up it was so BIG, detailed picture. And the message underneath? “Gonna ram it up her twat tonight 😉 You ready for this, baby?”
My wine nearly went down the wrong way. I coughed, spluttered, and stared at the screen like it was about to bite me. My twat? Was he… was he talking to me? No, no, no way. He must’ve sent it to the wrong person. Has to be. He’s got a girlfriend, Sarah. Sweet girl, if a little quiet. Definitely, definitely meant for Sarah. But still… seeing that word, ‘twat’, associated with… my son? It felt like a slap in the face and a bucket of ice water all at once.
My chest felt tight. I’m not some prude, you know? I’m 46, for goodness sake. Been around the block a few times. And let’s just say, I’m still… well, let’s just say I haven’t exactly withered on the vine. Busty? Yeah, I’ve always been busty. Even after two kids, I still fill out a bra nicely, thank you very much. I try to keep myself in shape, bit of yoga, watch what I eat… mostly. But still, seeing that from your son? It’s… jarring.
What do I even do? Ignore it? Pretend I didn’t see it? No, that’s ridiculous. I have to say something. But what? Go all Mum-zilla on him? “Andrew! How dare you send such filth to your MOTHER!” Nah, that’s not really my style. Plus, he’d just die of embarrassment. Wouldn’t he? Or would he? Teenage boys are weird creatures sometimes.
Taking a deep breath, I typed back, my fingers trembling just a tiny bit. Okay, play it cool, play it casual. “Andrew? Honey, I think you might have sent that to the wrong person. Unless… was that supposed to be for me? 😉” I even added a winky face. Playful, right? A little bit of mom-humor to diffuse the situation. Nailed it.
Sent it. Now, we wait. My heart was thumping in my chest. Seriously, for a middle-aged woman watching Netflix, I was way too wound up. I took another gulp of wine. Okay, maybe two gulps.
A few seconds later – which felt like hours – he replied. “OMG MOM SO SO SO SO SORRY!!! WRONG CHAT WRONG CHAT WRONG CHAT!!!” Caps lock and everything. Panic mode: activated.
“Haha, no worries, sweetie,” I typed back, trying to keep it light. “Just gave me a bit of a shock! Everything alright?” Smooth, right? Just checking in, being a concerned mother. Nothing to see here, folks, just a normal mom-son text exchange. Except, you know, for the dick pic incident we’re all trying to forget.
He replied almost instantly. “Yeah yeah all good. Just… yeah. So embarrassing.”
“Tell me about it!” I replied with another winky face. “Nearly choked on my wine! Who was it supposed to be for, then? Don’t tell me, Sarah?” A little fishing, maybe? Just a tiny, tiny bit curious. Okay, maybe more than a tiny bit.
“Uhhh yeah,” he typed back, after a slightly longer pause. “Yeah, Sarah. Definitely Sarah. Just… messing around.”
“Messing around, huh?” I typed back, raising an eyebrow even though he couldn’t see me. “Is that what you kids call it these days? Messing around? Sounds… intense.” I couldn’t help myself. A little playful teasing never hurt anyone, right? And honestly, part of me was still reeling from the shock, and the weirdness of it all. This was my son, talking about… that.
“Mommm,” he groaned. Classic teenage eye roll, even in text form. “Stop it. You’re being embarrassing now.”
“Me?!” I typed back, pretending to be offended. “Embarrassing? I’m just trying to understand the youth of today! It’s a foreign language to me sometimes. Remember when your dad and I were dating? The most scandalous thing we did was hold hands at the movies!” Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration, but you get the picture. Things were different back then. Weren’t they?
He replied with a laughing emoji. “Yeah right, Mom. Like you and Dad were saints.”
“Hey! We were pretty tame!” I typed back, chuckling to myself. “Although… I do remember one time your dad… well, never mind. Too much information for you, probably.” I was just teasing him now, seeing how far I could push it. Is that wrong? Probably. But it was… kind of interesting.
He replied with a thinking face emoji. “No, tell me. What about Dad?”
Huh. Is he actually… curious? Well, alright then. “Okay, okay, fine. But you asked for it. Remember that weekend getaway we had for our anniversary, like, ten years ago? We booked that fancy hotel, the one with the jacuzzi in the room. Well…” I paused for dramatic effect, even though it was just a text. “Let’s just say, your father had had a bit too much to drink at dinner, and… performance issues ensued. Jacuzzi plans were… postponed.” There, I said it. My husband’s erectile dysfunction, is out in the digital open with my teenage son. Should I be talking about this? Probably not. But… here we are.
He replied immediately. “OMG MOM! TMI! Seriously, that’s… wow.”
“See? Too much information!” I typed back, feigning mock horror. “I shouldn’t be talking about my sex life with my son! What’s wrong with me?” Rhetorical question, obviously. Or is it? What was wrong with me? Why was I even going down this road?
“No, it’s… interesting,” he typed back after a moment. “Like, even dads have… problems?”
“Andrew!” I typed back, with a shocked-face emoji this time. “Of course dads have problems! Everyone has problems! It’s called being human! And besides, it was one time, ten years ago! Your father is perfectly… functional. Still is.” Okay, maybe a little defensive there. But hey, my husband’s a good man. And he’s… capable. Still.
“Okay, okay, chill Mom,” he typed back with a peace sign emoji. “Just… never thought about it, you know? Like, parents just… do it. And it’s always perfect. Or something.”
“Ha!” I typed back, feeling a weird mix of amusement and… something else. Something I couldn’t quite name. “Andrew, honey, let me tell you something. Sex is… rarely perfect. Especially when you’ve been married for twenty years and have two teenagers driving you crazy. It’s… complicated. And sometimes messy. And sometimes, yeah, sometimes it doesn’t quite… work.”
He replied with a simple, “Wow.”
“Wow indeed,” I typed back, taking another sip of wine. This conversation was officially in uncharted territory. And honestly? A tiny, rebellious part of me was… kind of enjoying it. Was that so wrong? Probably. Definitely probably. But still… here we were, talking about sex. Me and my son. And somehow, it didn’t feel quite as horrifying as it should. Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe… maybe it was just the start of something really, really strange.
My phone went again, “So I am curious Mom, do you think it’s a good size, you know my dick. I want your opinion.”
The words swam on the screen. I blinked. I reread it. Nope, still there. He had actually, genuinely, asked me – his MOTHER – to rate his penis size. I suddenly began to feel the wetness between my legs.
My breath hitched. My fingers froze above the keyboard. “Andrew…” I typed, then deleted it. Too… parental. Too scolding. Again, I typed and deleted it. This was insane. Utterly, mind-bogglingly insane. What do you even say to that?
My heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The wine, which had been so soothing just moments ago, now felt like it was buzzing through my veins, amplifying the already chaotic signals my brain was sending. Rate his penis? My son. Rate. His. Penis.
A ridiculous, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat, but I swallowed it down. This was not funny. This was… well, I didn’t even have a word for it. Surreal? Mortifying? Intriguing, in a way I absolutely should not be feeling.
I took another huge gulp of wine, the Pinot Grigio doing absolutely nothing to calm my suddenly frantic nerves. In fact, it might be making things worse. Looser inhibitions, maybe? Definitely looser thoughts. Thoughts I shouldn’t be having. About my son’s… anatomy.
“Andrew…” I finally managed to type, my fingers trembling ever so slightly. “Are you… are you actually serious right now? You’re asking your mother to rate your… you know. My god. I… I don’t even know what to say.”
Sent. And then, I just stared at the screen, willing him to reply, dreading him to reply, all at the same time. My stomach was churning. My cheeks felt hot. And that persistent, unwelcome wetness… I shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, trying to ignore it, but it was there, a pulsing, undeniable sensation that was making everything even more intensely, horribly, fascinatingly wrong.
He replied almost instantly. “Yeah? I mean… yeah. You saw it, right? In the pic? Just… just be honest. Is it… you know… decent?”
Decent? Decent? He was asking if his dick was decent? To his mother?
The sheer audacity of it was almost… impressive. In a deeply disturbing, morally bankrupt kind of way. But still… impressive.
Part of me, the naughty, rebellious, wine-soaked part of me, wanted to play along. To see where this bizarre train was headed. To throw caution to the wind and just… answer.
But the sensible, responsible, motherly part of me was screaming. Stop! Shut it down! This is wrong! So incredibly wrong!
But then… wasn’t it already wrong? Wasn’t the line already crossed? We were already talking about his dick. To pretend it hadn’t happened, to suddenly become all prim and proper, felt… fake. And after the surprisingly honest conversation we’d just had about sex and my marriage, wouldn’t that be a massive backtrack? A hypocritical slamming shut of the door after I’d already opened it a crack?
And… a tiny, shameful voice whispered in the back of my mind… hadn’t I already looked? Hadn’t I already registered the… details? The size? The… prominence? Hadn’t a tiny, forbidden flicker of something… something other than disgust… sparked within me when I’d seen it?
No. Stop it. Focus, woman.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to channel my inner cool, collected accountant. Logical. Rational. Just analyze the data, and respond accordingly. Right. Data point: My son has just asked me to rate his penis size. Data point: I am feeling… strangely aroused by this conversation. Data point: This is completely and utterly insane.
Okay, logical response… “Andrew,” I typed, slowly, deliberately. “This is… incredibly inappropriate. And frankly, a bit shocking. Why… why would you even ask me that?” Safe. Reasonable. Motherly. Right?
Sent. Again, the waiting game. My heart was still pounding, but now there was a different kind of tension. Nervous anticipation. What would he say? Would he apologize again? Would he try to backtrack? Or… would he double down?
He replied faster than ever this time. “Because… because you saw it. And you… you didn’t seem totally freaked out. And… well, you were kinda… flirty? With the winky faces and stuff. And… and we were talking about sex. And Dad. And stuff. So I just… thought… maybe…”
He trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging, unfinished. But the implication was clear. He thought… maybe I wouldn’t be completely horrified. Maybe… maybe I’d actually… answer.
He thought I was being… flirty? Winky faces and talking about sex equals flirting? Oh, my god. Was I? Was I actually flirting with my son?
No. No, no, no. That’s ridiculous. I was just trying to… diffuse the situation with humor. Mom-humor. Awkward mom-humor. That’s all it was. Right?
But… the wetness between my legs was arguing a different case. And so was the strange, tingling sensation in my chest, a confusing mix of horror and… something else. Something I was desperately trying not to name, not to acknowledge, not to even think about.
“Andrew,” I typed again, my fingers still trembling, but now with a different kind of tremor. “Honey, you need to understand. Mothers and sons… we don’t talk about things like this. It’s… it’s just not done. It’s… inappropriate on so many levels.” Still playing it safe. Still trying to be the responsible adult. Still trying to shut it down.
But even as I typed the words, I knew they sounded hollow. Unconvincing. Especially after everything that had already transpired. The dick pic. The open conversation about sex. The erectile dysfunction confession. The… winky faces.
And the wetness. Oh god, the wetness. It was getting harder and harder to ignore. It was a blatant, physical rebellion against my attempts to be sensible, to be motherly, to be… normal.
He replied again, almost instantly, as if he was waiting, holding his breath. “But… but you saw it. And you’re… you’re not saying it was small. So… is that a yes? To… to it being decent? Just… just a yes or no is fine.”
A yes or no. He wanted a yes or no answer. To whether his penis was “decent.” From his mother.
The audacity. The sheer, unbelievable audacity. And yet… and yet…
My head was spinning. The wine was definitely not helping. But maybe… maybe a little more wine would help. Help me… what? Help me make a decision. Help me… cope with whatever decision I made? Help me… justify whatever I was about to do.
I reached for my glass, drained the last of the Pinot Grigio, and stood up unsteadily. My legs felt a little wobbly. The room seemed to be tilting slightly. Or maybe that was just me. Tilting off-center. Off-balance. Off-kilter.
I walked over to the fridge, fumbled for the bottle, and poured myself another glass. A large one. A very large one. Screw it. It was already a Tuesday night gone completely to hell in a handbasket. What did I have to lose? My sanity? Probably already lost that an hour ago. My respectability? Definitely circling the drain. My… my boundaries? Shattered into a million tiny pieces.
Glass refilled, I slumped back onto the sofa, the cool glass clutched tightly in my hand. I stared at my phone, at Andrew’s waiting message, at his absurd, impossible question.
Yes or no.
Decent?
And in that moment, fueled by wine, by shock, by a bizarre, intoxicating mix of horror and forbidden curiosity, by the undeniable physical sensation between my legs, and by a reckless, rebellious impulse I couldn’t quite name and couldn’t quite control… I made a decision.
My fingers, no longer trembling, began to type. Slowly at first, then with a strange, terrifying certainty.
“Andrew…” I typed. Then paused, took a deep breath, and added three words that would change everything. “Honey… it’s… big.”
The reply was instant, practically vibrating my phone off the coffee table. “Big? Really? Like… actually big? here is another pic mom just for you, look how hard your making me *Image of his hard dick*”
My breath hitched in my throat. The image seared itself onto my retinas even before I could consciously process what I was seeing. Hard. Unmistakably, aggressively hard. And… directed at me. The explicit nature of the image, coupled with the equally explicit text, was like a jolt of pure electricity, shocking me out of the hazy wine-induced stupor I’d been drifting into.
“Andrew!” I typed, my fingers flying across the keyboard now, adrenaline overriding the wine-induced wobble. “What the HELL?!”
Sent. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, icy cold spreading through my veins. The wetness was still there, stubbornly persistent, but now it felt tainted with a layer of icy dread. This wasn’t just inappropriate, it was… it was something else entirely. Something darker, more disturbing.
He replied almost instantly, again. He was glued to his phone, waiting, anticipating. “What? What’s wrong? You said it was big! That’s good, right? Guys want to be big. You always said Dad…” He trailed off again, but the implication hung heavy in the air. Dad. And size. Was he comparing himself to his father? In this context? It was all spiraling, twisting into something grotesque and distorted.
“Andrew, stop,” I pleaded, my fingers trembling again, but this time with genuine fear. “Just… stop. This is not okay. This is so, so not okay.”
I wanted to shut it down. I desperately wanted to rewind, to erase the last hour, to go back to a Tuesday night where the biggest drama was deciding what to have for dinner. But that wasn’t possible. The genie was out of the bottle. The dick pic genie. And it was hard. Literally. Oh god, I needed more wine.
I reached for my glass again, my hand shaking so badly I nearly knocked it over. I took a massive gulp, the Pinot Grigio suddenly tasting bitter, metallic. It wasn’t helping anymore. It was just fueling the fire, amplifying the chaos.
“Not okay? But Mom…” His reply popped up again, relentless. “You didn’t freak out. You said it was big. That’s… that’s like a compliment, right? From a woman? Especially… especially someone like you…”
“Someone like me?” I typed back, my fingers slowing, the panic beginning to morph into a strange, numb disbelief. “What is ‘someone like me’, Andrew?”
His reply took slightly longer this time. The ellipses hung on the screen, pulsing like a frantic heartbeat. Then: “Someone… experienced? Someone who… knows what’s good? You and Dad… you guys were… active, right? Before…?”
Before. Before the emptiness. Before the silence. Before the dead husk of my marriage. He was fishing again, probing, using the conversation we’d started earlier, twisting it into something… this.
“Andrew,” I typed, my voice – even just in my head – was strained, tight. “Your father and I… that’s… that’s not relevant. This has nothing to do with that. This is about you sending your mother explicit pictures of your penis and asking for her… her opinion.” The words felt grotesque even as I typed them. Opinion. Like I was some kind of… penis connoisseur? Judging his manhood? It was obscene.
“But… but you have an opinion, right?” He pressed, relentlessly. “You saw it. You said it was big. So… is it… good?”
Good. He wanted to know if his penis was “good.” My son. Asking me if his penis was “good.” The absurdity of it all threatened to overwhelm me, to send me spiraling into hysterical laughter. But the wetness, the insistent throbbing between my legs, was a grounding, terrifying counterpoint to the absurdity.
“Andrew,” I typed, trying to inject some steel, some motherly authority back into my voice, even though I felt like I was dissolving, fading away. “This is crossing a line. A very, very big line. We need to stop this conversation. Right now.”
Sent. Silence. A blessed, deafening silence. Had he finally listened? Had he finally understood? Was this nightmare finally… over?
No. Of course not. This was Andrew. And I was still holding a glass of wine. And my thighs were still clammily, undeniably wet.
The silence stretched, agonizingly long. I actually started to hope. To believe, against all logic, that maybe, just maybe, he’d finally heard me. Maybe the “stop” had actually worked.
Then my phone buzzed again. And the message that flashed on the screen was like a punch to the gut.
“Okay, Mom, okay, conversation stopped. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Just… one last thing? And then I’ll drop it. Promise. Just… was it… thicker than Dad’s?”
My breath caught in my throat again, a strangled gasp. Thicker than Dad’s? He was comparing himself to his father again, but this time, even more explicitly, more intimately. He was dragging my dead marriage, my dormant sexuality, into this bizarre, twisted game.
The wine sloshed over the rim of my glass as my hand spasmed. Thicker than Dad’s? The question hung in the air, heavy, suffocating, dripping with a kind of perverse curiosity that mirrored something… something shameful… stirring within me.
Dad’s. I hadn’t thought about Dad’s… anatomy… in years. Decades, really. Not consciously. Not with… interest. But now, suddenly, a faint, forgotten image flickered at the edge of my awareness. Dimly remembered shapes, textures, sizes… compared, contrasted… with the image that still burned behind my eyelids.
Thicker than Dad’s?
The question was a dare. A challenge. A disgusting, horrifying, utterly irresistible invitation to cross the final, uncrossable line.
And the wetness between my legs, that insistent, throbbing pulse, was screaming… yes.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard again. My brain screamed “NO!”, but my body… my treacherous, wine-soaked, boundary-less body… was whispering something else entirely. Something dark, something desperate, something… honest.
Taking another shaky gulp of wine, I closed my eyes for a moment, a swirling vortex of conflicting emotions raging inside me. Guilt, horror, disgust, curiosity, arousal… all colliding, coalescing into a single, terrifyingly potent cocktail.
And then, against every fiber of my sensible, motherly being, against every rule of decency and morality… I typed. Slowly, deliberately, with a horrifying, exhilarating sense of finality.
“Andrew,” I typed. Then paused, took another deep, ragged breath. And added the words that I knew, with chilling certainty, would change absolutely everything.
“Honey… yes,” I typed. And then, because I was already drowning, already lost, already… gone… I added one more word. One final, devastating, point of no return word. My heart was racing, my pussy was soaked, oh fuck I wanted that in my pussy, No no. Then I typed and hit send.
“Definitely.”
The word hung there, suspended in the digital ether between us, a single, devastating syllable. Definitely.
My stomach lurched. I squeezed my eyes shut, as if I could somehow retract the message, un-send it back into the void of unspoken things. But it was out there. A digital breadcrumb on a path I hadn’t intended to walk, a path that was twisting and darkening with every step.
My breath hitched in my chest, shallow and rapid. The wine had gone from a comforting haze to a nauseating swirl in my stomach. I felt hot, then cold, then hot again. My skin prickled with a mixture of shame and… something else. Something I didn’t want to name, didn’t dare to acknowledge.
The silence stretched again, this time laced with a thick, suffocating tension. I stared at my phone, willing it to stay silent, willing Andrew to suddenly develop a shred of sanity and log off, disappear, pretend this whole horrifying evening never happened.
But of course, it buzzed.
The message was shorter this time, almost clipped. “So… bigger and thicker? Than Dad?”
The repetition of “Dad” felt like a physical blow. He was pounding it in, driving it home, this grotesque comparison. And I, in my wine-addled, boundary-trampling state, had just fueled the fire, confirmed his twisted fantasy.
My fingers trembled as I typed, each keystroke feeling like a betrayal of everything I held sacred, everything I believed in. “Andrew, please,” I pleaded again, the word barely a whisper in the digital space. “Just… stop talking about your father. Stop talking about… this. Please.”
Sent. Another agonizing wait. This time, the silence felt heavier, charged with something new. Anticipation? Calculation? Or had I finally, finally broken through?
Then, the buzz. And the message that made my blood run cold.
“Okay, Mom, okay, no more Dad. Promise. But… you said definitely thicker. That means… you’re comparing them, right? You’re… remembering?”
Remembering. The word echoed in my mind, loaded with implications. Remembering. As if I spent my days cataloguing the penises of men I knew, ranking them in some perverse mental database. Remembering. As if I was actively, consciously recalling… Dad.
And the horrifying truth was… I was. Not consciously, not willingly. But the question had planted a seed, a dark, unwelcome seed of comparison. The image of Andrew’s… thing… was still vivid, seared onto my brain. And now, involuntarily, unwantedly, my mind was dredging up faded, fragmented memories of my husband. Blurry, indistinct images, tinged with the sepia tones of time and… well, and the dull ache of a marriage that had slowly, painfully died.
But even in the blur, even in the distance of years… there was a difference. A noticeable difference. And my treacherous body, my traitorous flesh that had betrayed me from the moment this whole nightmare began, remembered it too. Remembered it with a faint, unsettling flicker of… recognition.
“Andrew,” I typed, my voice shaking even in my head. “This is insane. You’re being insane. And I… I’m letting you. I’m going to bed. This conversation is over.”
I meant it. I really did. I was going to power off my phone, crawl under the duvet, and try to sleep, to forget, to somehow erase this whole thing. It was a futile fantasy, I knew, but it was all I had left.
I reached for the power button, my finger hovering over it. Just one press. One click. And it would all… not go away, not really, but at least it would be paused. Interrupted. I could escape, for a few hours at least, into the oblivion of sleep.
But then, another buzz. Relentless. Persistent. Like a mosquito buzzing around my head, refusing to be swatted away.
I sighed, a defeated, weary sound. Just one more message. Then I would shut it down. I owed myself that much. Just one more message, and then… escape.
I looked at the screen. And the words there made my escape impossible.
“Mom… are you… are you getting wet?”
The question was blunt, brutal, unbelievably direct. It stripped away any pretense, any illusion of innocence or misunderstanding. It cut straight to the heart of the matter, to the shameful, undeniable truth of my physical reaction.
Are you getting wet?
The wetness was still there, insistent, throbbing. A physical manifestation of my horror, my disgust, my forbidden… something. It was a betrayal, a humiliation, a terrible, undeniable answer to his question.
And somehow, in that moment of stark, brutal honesty, in the face of that utterly audacious question… something snapped. Something gave way. The last vestiges of resistance, of denial, of motherly propriety… crumbled.
The wine, the shock, the forbidden thrill, the relentless probing of my son… it had all worn me down, eroded my defenses, left me raw and exposed. And now, faced with this final, brazen question, a strange kind of surrender washed over me.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the sheer impossibility of the situation. Maybe it was a dark, long-buried part of myself finally clawing its way to the surface. Whatever it was, in that moment, resistance felt pointless. Denial felt like a lie. And the truth, however horrifying, however shameful, felt… inevitable.
My fingers moved again, no longer trembling, but with a strange, heavy certainty. This time, the words didn’t feel grotesque, didn’t feel like a betrayal. They felt… honest. Terrifyingly, disgustingly honest.
“Yes, Andrew,” I typed. And then, because I was already drowning, already lost, already in too deep to ever turn back… I added the words that sealed my fate, that finalized the descent into this unimaginable abyss.
“Yes,” I typed again, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, the wetness between my legs intensifying with every keystroke. “I am.”
Sent.
The phone vibrated in my hand, the sound echoing the frantic tremor in my core. And then, the reply. Quick. Eager. Predatory.
“Good, now I dare you to cum to mine while its hard, you know you want to, I am only asking you once, NOW GET HERE, ride it. Come to my dorm, everyone’s a sleep. I want your pussy, or lie on my bed ill do all the work,” he typed.
Dorm. The word hit me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. Dorm. He wasn’t just being provocative, wasn’t just testing boundaries in the digital void. He was talking about reality. Flesh and blood. He was talking about… there. His space. My son’s dorm room. A place I vaguely pictured as filled with posters of sports cars and video games, smelling faintly of unwashed laundry and something vaguely adolescent. And he wanted me there. With him. For that.
My mind reeled, trying to catch up, to process the sheer, unadulterated audacity of it all. “Dorm?” I typed, my fingers clumsy, refusing to fully obey my brain’s frantic commands. “Andrew, are you… are you actually serious?” The words felt weak, pathetic, utterly inadequate in the face of his brazen demand.
But even as I typed, a sickening, traitorous part of me was already picturing it. The walk across campus, a place I vaguely remembered from parents’ weekend years ago, now a foreign territory invaded by this impossible scenario. The hushed corridors, the furtive glances, the fear of being seen, of being recognized. And then… his room. Closed door. Alone.
The wetness between my legs pulsed again, mockingly echoing his crude question, a shameful rhythm against the frantic beat of my heart. It was a biological betrayal, pure and simple. My body was reacting, against my will, against my sanity, to the unthinkable.
“Serious as a heart attack, Mom,” his reply flashed back instantly. “You said you were wet. You felt it. Don’t try to pretend now. This isn’t a game anymore. I’m not playing. You coming or what?”
The pressure was relentless, suffocating. He gave no room to breathe, no space to reconsider, to retreat. “Not playing.” Those words resonated with a chilling certainty. He wasn’t teasing, wasn’t joking. This was real. He was serious. Deadly serious.
The wine swirled in my stomach, a queasy, disorienting warmth. The room seemed to tilt around me, the familiar comfort of my bedroom suddenly alien, unsafe. Escape felt impossible. Every avenue of retreat was blocked, slammed shut by his relentless pursuit, by my own horrifying, involuntary response.
“Andrew,” I began again, my fingers hovering over the keys, unsure of what to type, unsure of what I even wanted to say. “This is… this is wrong. So wrong.”
“Wrong how, Mom?” His reply was immediate, almost mocking. “Feels pretty right down there, doesn’t it? You’re wet. I’m hard. Seems pretty simple to me. Unless you’re going to lie to me again. Are you lying, Mom?”
The accusation hung heavy in the digital space. Lying. Was I? Was I lying to him? Or was I lying to myself? Because the truth was, deep down, beneath the layers of horror and disgust, beneath the crushing weight of taboo and morality, there was a flicker. A dark, shameful flicker of… something else. Curiosity? A perverse thrill? Or something even more disturbing, something buried deep within the wreckage of my marriage, the long years of quiet desperation, the unspoken loneliness?
The word “lie” echoed in my mind, bouncing off the walls of my crumbling defenses. And suddenly, the fight drained out of me. The resistance faltered, like a dying ember. Lying felt exhausting. Truth, however monstrous, however obscene, suddenly felt… easier. In a horrifying, self-destructive way, easier.
My fingers moved again, not trembling now, not hesitant, but with a strange, detached purpose. The words formed themselves on the screen, each keystroke a step further into the abyss.
“No,” I typed, the single word stark and damning in its simplicity. “No, I’m not lying.”
The admission hung there, suspended in the digital ether, a bridge burned, a point of no return. And then, before I could even fully grasp the weight of what I had just typed, his reply came, swift and decisive.
“Good girl. Now get dressed. I’m waiting, because I am going to shag your brains out hurry please.”
I got changed into something he could access me better, what am I even saying I can’t do this. But it looks like I was as I put on a short skirt leaving my knickers off and bra. Small skirt and a tight tank top. I grab the car keys and head out.
The cool night air against my bare legs was a stark contrast to the burning in my cheeks. What was I doing? This wasn’t me. This wasn’t even a nightmare I could have conceived of. Yet here I was, willingly, deliberately, dressing for… him. For my son. The words echoed in the hollow spaces of my mind, each syllable a hammer blow against the remnants of my sanity.
Tank top stretched tight across my suddenly sensitive nipples, the short skirt riding high on my thighs with every step I took towards the door. No bra, no knickers. Exposing myself to the night, to the potential glances, the sheer vulnerability of it all was dizzying, sickening. And yet, a tremor, a frighteningly familiar tremor, of something akin to excitement, ran beneath the revulsion.
The car keys felt cold and sharp against my clammy palm. My hands were shaking now, a physical manifestation of the war raging within me. This was wrong. So utterly, irrevocably wrong. But the wrongness wasn’t stopping me. It was fueling something else, something dark and compelling.
As I stepped outside, the familiar quiet of my suburban street felt alien, tainted. Each house a silent witness to my descent into madness. The gentle breeze, usually soothing, now felt like a mocking caress against my exposed skin. Every rustle of leaves, every distant car horn, amplified the sense of unreality, of stepping outside the bounds of everything I knew.
The drive to the university was a blur of streetlights and fractured thoughts. Each red light felt like a pause, a moment to turn back, to slam on the brakes and go home. But green followed red, inevitably, relentlessly pushing me forward. My foot pressed down on the accelerator, the engine’s hum a low, anxious thrumming that echoed the frantic rhythm of my heart.
The campus loomed ahead, a collection of dimly lit buildings against the inky sky. Familiar from parent’s weekend visits, but now transformed into a forbidden zone, a place of potential ruin. Parking the car felt surreal, like performing a mundane task in a dream. Each footstep on the deserted pathway felt heavy, leaden with the weight of my impending choice.
Dorm. The word repeated itself in my mind, a sickening mantra. Dorm. A place of youthful innocence, of late-night study sessions and shared pizzas. Now, it was the destination of my shame, the stage for this unimaginable act.
The dorm building was quiet, eerily so. The hushed corridors smelled faintly of floor cleaner and something vaguely stale, like unwashed laundry and instant noodles. Each footstep echoed too loudly in the silence, announcing my intrusive presence. I walked quickly, head down, trying to become invisible, to melt into the shadows.
Andrew’s room number. I found it, painted in faded numerals above a worn wooden door. My hand hovered over the handle, cold, metallic, a final barrier between the life I knew and the abyss I was about to step into. My breath caught in my throat. This was it. No turning back now. Not really. Not after coming this far.
With a trembling hand, I pushed down the handle. The door clicked open, and I stepped inside.
As I entered he was naked, omg sat on his bed wanking, he saw me and he got off the bed.
“Come on Mom get on the bed,” he said and I felt like a robot I did what he said. I laid down and he got on the bed and got on top of me, he rolled my skirt up and saw I had no panties on, his cock nudged my pussy slit.
His breath hitched, a sound close to a growl, as he looked at my exposed flesh. His eyes, dark and intense, seemed to devour me. Without a word, he pushed his knees between my legs, spreading them wider. My tank top rode up as he shifted, exposing more of my breasts. I could feel the cool air on my skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him.
He didn’t hesitate. With a thrust that was both brutal and desperate, he pushed his hard cock inside me. It was thick, stretching me open, filling me in a way that felt shockingly intimate and aggressively forceful. A gasp escaped my lips, not of pain exactly, but of shock and a strange, unwilling pleasure that sparked in the pit of my stomach.
“Uhnnn…” I moaned, the sound ripped from my throat before I could stop it, a raw, animal sound that was utterly mortifying and yet, strangely, liberating.
He started to move, his hips grinding against mine, each thrust deep and hard. My head lolled back against the headboard, my eyes fluttering shut. The sensations were overwhelming, a chaotic mix of shame, fear, and a forbidden thrill that pulsed through my veins. He wasn’t gentle, wasn’t tender. Each push was forceful, demanding, pushing further and further into me.
“Fuck, Mom,” he grunted, words hot against my ear as he leaned down. “You feel so fucking good.” His hand gripped my thigh, squeezing hard, his fingers digging into my flesh. I cried out again, a sharper sound this time, a mix of pain and something dangerously close to pleasure.
“Andrew… oh god…” I managed to gasp, my voice ragged and breathless.
He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. If anything, his pace quickened, his movements becoming more frantic, more insistent. My short skirt bunched higher around my waist, offering no pretense of modesty as he pounded into me. The rhythm was relentless, driving me closer and closer to the edge. My body, traitorously, started to respond, tightening around him, the muscles deep inside clenching with each thrust.
“Yes, Mom, that’s it,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. “Feel it. Feel me inside you.” He leaned further down, his mouth finding my neck, biting and sucking on my skin, leaving a trail of wet heat. My hands, which had been pushing weakly at his chest, now clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as I struggled to hold on.
The room seemed to spin, the sounds around me blurring into a rush of sensation. His breath, hot and heavy, filled my ears. My own moans echoed back at me, shameful and undeniable. I felt myself being pulled under, drowning in a sea of forbidden desire and monstrous transgression.
Then, it came. A tightening deep within me, a wave of heat that surged through my body. I cried out, louder this time, my back arching off the bed, my muscles spasming around him. He roared, a guttural sound of release, and drove into me one last time, shuddering violently.
I felt it then, the hot, thick spurt of his cum flooding inside me, filling me with his seed, with the ultimate act of violation. It was warm, slick, and shockingly intimate, coating the inside of my womb, a physical mark of this unspeakable act.
He collapsed on top of me, his weight heavy, his breathing ragged. I lay beneath him, stunned, breathless, utterly violated and, in some horrifying, twisted way, completely spent. The silence in the room was thick and heavy, broken only by our ragged breathing. The air hung thick with the scent of sex, shame, and something else… something disturbingly close to satisfaction.