Friday night and I got undressed in the bathroom as I stepped into the shower. I turned it on as the water sprinkled down on my face and down my neck and breasts as I closed my eyes. It had been a long day after I had a huge argument with my husband David.
I soaped up my body and washed, feeling the smooth lather against my skin. The scent of lavender filled the small space, usually a comfort, but tonight it just felt… there. My hands moved over my stomach, my legs. Each motion was slow, deliberate. I rinsed the soap away, the warm water sluicing down my back, taking the suds with it. I wished it could take the tightness in my chest too.
I leaned my head against the cool tiles for a moment, letting the water hit my face directly. My eyes were still closed. All I could see was David’s face, tight with anger. His words echoed in my head, sharp and cutting. “You always do this!” he’d shouted. And I’d yelled back, “No, David, you’re the one who never listens. You also never want to have sex with me any more.”
A sigh escaped my lips, lost in the sound of the falling water. It felt heavy, that sigh. Like a weight. I just wanted to feel clean, inside and out. But the argument clung to me like a stubborn film, no matter how much water poured over me. I needed to get out. I needed to think. Or maybe, I just needed to not think.
I turned the faucet off. The sudden silence was almost deafening after the rush of the water. I grabbed my towel, the thick terry cloth rough against my wet skin, and wrapped it around myself, pulling it tight. The bathroom was steamy, warm. I looked at my reflection in the mirror, watery and indistinct. My face looked tired. So tired.
I went to go put my night gown on after drying myself off in my room. I grabbed a short red nightie, I couldn’t be arsed to put my bra or panties on. I just put the nightie on and went to the kitchen grabbed a bottle of strong whisky and a glass. I sat on the couch and poured a drink, I downed it and poured another. My nightie rode up a little and my neckline hung nearly showing my tits. Then I heard the front door go, “Mum I am home from work.”
It was my son Gavin.
“In here, Gav,” I mumbled, trying to pull the red fabric down over my thighs. The glass felt cold in my hand.
He walked into the living room. His eyes, usually so bright, looked straight at me. He saw the bottle. He saw the glass. He saw me, sitting there, looking like a mess. His brow furrowed. He stared a little to long on my neckline.
His gaze lingered. Not in a bad way, not really. More like… surprise. And a little bit of worry. My cheeks felt warm. Even is dad didn’t check me out like that so I wasn’t even angry. He had not long turned 18 and yes his hormones were all over so it probably didn’t help me dressed like this and getting very tipsy.
“Mum?” he asked, his voice soft, almost a whisper. He looked at the bottle again, then back at me. “Are you… okay?”
I tried to straighten up, but the couch felt like it was pulling me down. “Fine, Gav. Just… a long day.” I gestured vaguely with the glass. The ice clinked. Or was it just the glass? My head felt a bit fuzzy already.
He walked closer, slowly, like he was approaching a skittish animal. He dropped his backpack by the door. “Dad home yet?”
“No,” I scoffed, taking another sip. It burned, but it felt good. “He’s probably working late. Or avoiding me.” The words slipped out, bitter. I hadn’t meant to say that last part.
Gavin frowned. He knew we argued sometimes. He always did. “Argument again?” he asked, his eyes full of sympathy. He sat down on the armchair opposite me, leaning forward.
I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat. “A big one.” My voice was thick. “He just… he doesn’t see me anymore, Gav.” I lifted the glass and poured more whisky. My hand trembled a little.
He watched me, his gaze serious. “Mum, maybe you shouldn’t drink so much.” His voice was gentle, but firm. “You’re already…” He trailed off, looking at my nightie, then quickly away.
“I’m fine!” I snapped, a little too loud. The whisky was making me prickly. “I just need to forget for a bit.” My eyes started to sting. I blinked hard. “I would say get a glass and have a drink with me, but you don’t wanna spend Friday night with your ugly mum.”
Gavin’s eyes widened slightly. “Mum, don’t say that.” He sounded genuinely hurt. He shifted in his seat. “I will get a glass and join you. And you’re not ugly. If anything I always thought of you as a Mi…” He suddenly stopped himself and went red with embarrassment. What was he going to say?
She stared at him, her own cheeks flushing, though it might have been the whisky. “A… a what, Gav?” Her voice was a little slurred, but curiosity cut through the haze. “Honest I won’t be mad, tell me.”
What was he going to say? I squinted at him, trying to form the word in my fuzzy mind. He was so red.
“Just… go get a glass, Gav,” I mumbled, waving my hand slightly. The air felt thick.
He stood up quickly, almost jogging to the kitchen. I watched him go. He was so tall now. And so… grown up.
He came back a moment later, holding a tumbler. He didn’t even look at me as he poured a small amount of whisky into his glass. Just a finger’s worth. He sat back down, fidgeting with the rim of his glass.
“I was going to say MILF before mum,” he said still embarrassed as I poured him a drink.
I laughed, “And what the fuck is a MILF honey,” I said sipping my drink as my neckline sunk a bit.
“It’s…it’s a thing, Mum,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. He cleared his throat. “It means… Mother I’d Like to…” He stopped again, his eyes darting to my chest, then away. He stammered, “You know… it’s a compliment. Like, attractive. Mature but hot.”
I stared at him, the whisky haze slowly starting to lift, just a little. The words floated in the air between us, hanging heavy. Mother I’d Like to… “Like to what? come on tell me.”
He practically choked on his own words. “Mother I’d Like to… F-fuck. It’s just… it’s a term for an attractive older woman, Mum. That’s all.” He looked anywhere but at me, his face a furious shade of crimson.
I blinked. “Fuck?” The word echoed in my ears, cutting through the whisky haze. My mouth felt dry.
My son thought I was attractive. Attractive enough to… to… The rest of it, the “fuck” part, landed with a thud in my stomach. It was wildly inappropriate. But also…
A strange heat bloomed in my chest. It wasn’t just embarrassment. It was something else. David hadn’t looked at me like that in years. Not really looked at me.
“Gav,” I started, my voice hoarse. I swallowed hard. But also my heart raced. “You shouldn’t say things like that to your mum. Not if you are not going to back it up that I am one.”
Gavin froze. His mouth opened, then closed. He was so red, his ears looked like they were on fire. He quickly looked down at his lap, fidgeting with his glass. The silence hung heavy, broken only by the hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
I watched him, my breath catching in my throat. The whisky churned in my stomach, making me bold. Or maybe just stupid. David never looked at me like that, never said anything like that. Never even noticed if my nightie was riding up.
“Mum,” Gavin whispered, his voice strained. He still wouldn’t look at me. “That’s… that’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” I challenged, my voice a little louder than I intended. I took another gulp of whisky, feeling the burn all the way down. “You said Mother I’d Like to… fuck. To fuck, Gav. You said it.” My eyes were locked on him, daring him to deny it. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against my ribs.
He finally lifted his head, his eyes wide and panicked. “I just… it’s a phrase, Mum. It doesn’t mean… I didn’t mean me. It’s just, like, a general term for an attractive woman who’s a mum.” He was tripping over his words, desperate to backtrack.
“But you said it about me,” I insisted, leaning forward slightly. The red nightie gaped open a little more. I felt the cool air on my chest, but I didn’t care. His eyes flicked down again, then quickly back to mine, guilt warring with something else in their depths. “So now your saying you wouldn’t like to fuck. So I am ugly.”
He looked puzzled but stared at my chest, “is this a trick question, you honestly want the truth.”
“Yes,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. My heart was thumping. The whisky felt like fire in my veins, making me reckless. “I want the truth, Gavin.”
He took a deep, shaky breath. His eyes, fixed on my chest for a second too long, snapped up to meet mine. They were still wide, reflecting the living room lights.
“Mum,” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. He looked down at his glass, swirling the small amount of liquid. “You’re… you’re really beautiful.”
My breath hitched. It was so quiet in the room, I could hear the faint hum of the fridge again. He just said I was beautiful. My son.
“You always have been,” he added, his voice a little stronger now, though still quiet. He finally looked up at my face. “It’s just… with dad, you know, he doesn’t… he doesn’t see it anymore. But you are. You’re… hot. You really are. And yes if I had my way I would bang the fuck out of you on that couch right now. But I know that will never happen.” I saw his jeans tenting, I remembered I had no panties on I could easily just lay down now and let him.
So I took off my shirt and laid down, I was totally naked, “come on then.” He looked shocked as he rushed to get his jeans off. I have never seen him to do something so fast and eager to fuck me.
He fumbled with the button, his hands shaking. His eyes were wide, a mixture of fear and raw, unadulterated lust. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild drum in the suddenly quiet room. I was naked on the couch, my legs slightly parted, the red nightie a forgotten heap on the floor beside me. The whisky burned pleasantly in my stomach, numbing the initial shock of my own actions, replacing it with a strange, intoxicating courage.
“Mum,” he croaked, finally getting his jeans down. His boxers were already bulging. He kicked off his shoes, never breaking eye contact. “Are… are you sure?”
“Yes, Gav,” I whispered, my voice thick with a desire I hadn’t known existed. “Come here.”
He scrambled onto the couch, practically falling over me. His hands, hot and trembling, landed on my bare thighs. A shiver ran through me, not from cold, but from the forbidden contact. He leaned over me, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of his young skin, fresh and clean unlike David’s stale work smell.
“You’re… you’re so beautiful, Mum,” he murmured, his voice cracking. His eyes were glued to my breasts, then they lifted to my face, full of a desperate adoration. He cupped my face, his thumbs gently stroking my cheeks. His lips, soft and tentative at first, brushed against mine.
I kissed him back, letting my mouth open slightly. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, and deepened the kiss. His tongue, surprisingly confident, met mine. It was a hungry, fumbling kiss at first, then it grew more urgent, more demanding. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling his young, hard body press against mine. His chest was firm against my breasts.
“Oh, Mum,” he breathed against my lips, pulling away just enough to speak. “I’ve… I’ve wanted you for so long.”
My own voice was a strangled sound. “I know, baby. I know.” The words felt strange, yet right. I pulled his head down again, craving the feel of his mouth on mine. His hands slid down my body, over my hips, then lower, between my legs. His fingers brushed against my soaking wet slit.
I gasped, arching my back into his touch. “Gavin,” I moaned, my voice barely audible. The desire was a burning wildfire in my core.
He pulled back from the kiss, his eyes dark with lust. “You’re so wet, Mum.” He slid a finger inside me, and I whimpered. “God, you feel so good.” He pushed another finger in, stretching me.
“Please, Gav,” I pleaded, my hips instinctively rising. “Please.”
He pulled his boxers down, and his cock, thick and throbbing, sprung free. It seemed huge, almost intimidating, but my body craved it. He positioned himself between my legs, his hips pressing against mine. The tip of his cock brushed against my clit, sending an electric shock through me.
“Ready, Mum?” he whispered, his voice hoarse with urgency.
“Yes,” I gasped, my voice barely a breath.
He pushed, slowly at first, then harder. I cried out as he filled me, a sharp jolt of pain quickly replaced by an intense, overwhelming pleasure. He groaned, burying his face in my neck. His large cock slid deep inside me, filling every inch.
“Oh, fuck, Mum,” he grunted, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re so tight.”
I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, clinging to him. He started to move, slowly at first, then building a rhythm. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure through me, making my toes curl and my back arch. The couch creaked beneath us, a rhythmic protest to our movements.
“Faster, Gav,” I begged, my breath coming in ragged gasps. “Faster.”
He obeyed, his thrusts becoming more powerful, more urgent. His hips slammed against mine, a primal rhythm taking over. My body was singing, every nerve ending alive and tingling. I could hear his heavy breathing, my own whimpers and moans filling the room. He was a powerhouse, relentless and strong.
“You feel incredible, Mum,” he panted, his voice strained. He pulled back almost entirely, then drove back in, pushing the air out of my lungs.
“Oh, God,” I cried out, my voice raw. “Gav, yes! Don’t stop!”
He kept going, his movements precise and powerful. His hand found my breast, cupping it, his thumb teasing my nipple. The sensation was almost too much. My climax was building, a tight knot in my lower belly, tightening with each thrust.
“Look at me, Mum,” he whispered, pulling his head back slightly, his eyes burning into mine. “Look at me.”
I met his gaze, my eyes glazed over with pleasure. There was no shame, only pure, unadulterated desire reflected in his.
“I’m going to come, Mum,” he grunted, his body tensing above me. “I’m going to come!”
“Me too, baby,” I gasped, my whole body shaking. “Oh, God, yes!”
He pushed in one last, powerful thrust, and I screamed, my body convulsing around him. White-hot pleasure exploded through me, radiating outwards from my core. My muscles clenched around him, squeezing him tight. He cried out, a loud, ragged groan, and pumped a few more times before collapsing on top of me, his body heavy and slick with sweat.
His breath was hot on my neck, his heart hammering against my chest. My own breath hitched in my throat as I slowly came back to myself. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air, mingling with the last traces of whisky.
We lay there for a long moment, tangled together, just breathing. The silence that followed the storm was profound, broken only by our labored breaths. His cock was still buried deep inside me, warm and pulsing.
“Mum,” he whispered, his voice muffled against my hair. He shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to look at me. His eyes were still glazed, but a hint of fear was creeping back into them. “What… what have we done?”
I closed my eyes, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. The whisky haze was finally lifting, leaving a terrifying clarity in its wake. My body still thrummed with the aftershocks of orgasm, but my mind was racing.
“I don’t know, Gav,” I murmured, my voice barely a whisper. I opened my eyes and looked at him. He was still beautiful, his face flushed, his lips swollen from our kisses. He was my son. And we had just…
He slowly pulled out of me, the sensation of his withdrawal leaving an aching emptiness. A shiver ran through me as the cool air hit my wet skin. He rolled off me, lying beside me on the couch, facing me. He pulled the blanket from the back of the couch, covering us both.
“I… I should go,” he said, his voice flat. He made to sit up.
“No,” I said, reaching out and grabbing his arm. My fingers curled around his bicep. “Stay. Just for a bit.”
He hesitated, then slowly lay back down. He didn’t look at me. The reality of what had just happened was setting in, thick and suffocating. The burning pleasure was replaced by a cold dread.
“Mum,” he started again, his voice barely audible. “Dad… what if he comes home?”
“He won’t,” I said, though my voice lacked conviction. “He’s probably at work, or with… someone else.” The words tasted like ash. I knew that was why I did it, in part. To feel something. To feel desired. But with my son?
He shifted again, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “I… I’m sorry, Mum.”
“Don’t be,” I whispered, turning my head to look at him. His eyes were closed. “Don’t be sorry, Gav.”
A single tear escaped my eye, tracing a path down my temple, disappearing into my hair. The whisky bottle sat on the coffee table, a silent witness to our illicit act. The silence in the room stretched, heavy with unspoken consequences. I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. I didn’t know what we had just done to our lives. But in that moment, tangled in the blanket with my son, I knew one thing: I felt alive. And terrified.