The weight on my chest felt heavier than usual this morning. It wasn’t just the metaphorical weight of bills, the endless laundry pile, and the knowledge that my fridge contained more condiments than actual food. It was a real, physical ache, a hollow space carved out by loneliness and the monotonous grey of my days. Five years. Five years since Mark left, leaving me with a house too big, a heart too empty, and Ethan.
Ethan. My son. He was eighteen now, legally an adult, practically still a boy in so many ways, but… not in others. Lately, there was a shift. A subtle change in the way he looked at me, a lingering gaze that used to be filled with childish adoration now held something… different. Something that made a flutter of unease, and something else, that I tried to ignore, settle in my stomach.
He was always home. Fresh out of school, “finding himself,” as he put it, which translated to video games, late nights, and leaving cereal bowls perpetually glued to the coffee table. I loved him, of course, but his constant presence amplified the feeling of being trapped, and suffocated. His youth, his energy, it bounced off me, highlighting my own weariness.
“Morning, Mum.” He’d stroll into the kitchen, all limbs and sleepy smiles, in clothes that hung just so, intentionally dishevelled. “Coffee’s brewing, right?”
“Just about.” I’d manage a smile, pouring myself a cup, stronger and blacker than I probably should have. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah, good. You?” He leaned against the counter, watching me. His eyes, those bright, green eyes that were so much like his father’s, seemed to take me in, piece by piece.
“Same as usual.” I shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “Insomnia’s a bitch.”
“Maybe you need something to help you sleep.” He smirked, a playful glint in his eyes. “Like, a really good workout. Tire yourself out properly.”
Workout. He was probably thinking of the gym. My workouts lately consisted of chasing dust bunnies and lifting laundry baskets. But the way he said it, the slight emphasis… it felt suggestive. Was it just me? Was I imagining things?
“Ha. Maybe you should be my trainer then.” I tried to keep it light, and playful, but my voice felt a little breathier than normal.
“Maybe I should.” He pushed himself off the counter, taking a step closer. “I could motivate you. We could wrestle. See who’s stronger.” He grinned, a flash of teeth, and suddenly, the air in the kitchen felt thick, charged.
“You’d win, hands down. I’m practically ancient compared to you.” I backed away slightly, needing space. Needing air.
“Ancient? Mum, come on.” He closed the gap again, too close now. His hand brushed my arm, a casual touch, but it lingered a fraction too long. “You’re still… you’re still really pretty, you know?”
Pretty. Had he ever called me pretty before? Not since he was a little boy, drawing crayon pictures and declaring me a princess.
“Ethan…” I started, unsure what to say. Unsure how to navigate this new, unsettling terrain.
He just kept smiling, that same playful, knowing smile. He knew. He knew he was making me uncomfortable, and… and maybe something else too. Something that sparked a flicker of forbidden curiosity deep within the weariness.
Later that evening, after another dinner of reheated leftovers and strained small talk, we ended up in the living room. I’d opened a bottle of wine, something I rarely did alone, but tonight, the grey was pressing down harder, and I needed… something. Ethan joined me, grabbing a beer from the fridge. We talked, or rather, he talked, mostly about video games and friends I didn’t know. I listened, nodding, swirling the wine in my glass, the alcohol starting to loosen the knot in my chest.
It started innocently enough. He was demonstrating some move from his game, getting animated, gesturing wildly. He lunged playfully, and I laughed, dodging him. He grabbed me, and suddenly we were wrestling, laughing, falling onto the rug.
“Stop it, that tickles, haha,” I laughed as he had me pinned on the floor from the wrestling as my night shirt rode a little showing my knickers. I was all sweaty laughing, not had this much fun in ages. The alcohol had loosened me up and well, my inhibitions too. We were drunk, very drunk indeed.
He stopped and laid on top of me and just looked at me smiling, “Not seen you laugh in ages, mum.”
This was awkward, how we were lying. He was laid between my legs with them slightly parted. I felt his hand in between us shift.
“Sweetie, w-what you doing,” I froze. I felt my knickers get moved to the side and pushed nearer to my thigh as he fiddled about. “What the fuck you doing with my knickers, you can’t do t-”
I was cut off when he jolted hard forward with a grunt as he rammed his cock into me. He pressed his body down tightly onto me kissing my neck and heavy breathing. His ass went up and down as his cock slid in and out of my pussy.
“Ah fuck, you can’t… you… you shouldn’t be… in… inside Mommy, oh fuck it feels good,” I moaned, I was disgusted and yet I wasn’t stopping him.
His mouth moved from my neck, up to my jaw, then my lips, taking them in a hot, sloppy kiss. His tongue pushed past my teeth, and I found myself kissing him back, a tangled mess of confusion and something… else. His hand, now free from holding my hips, reached down, tugging at the hem of my nightshirt. He pulled it up, bunching it around my chest, exposing my breasts. No bra. I hadn’t worn one in days, the comfort of restriction feeling… pointless lately.
He groaned again, low in his throat, and his lips moved to my breast, sucking hard, pulling and tugging at my nipple. Sharp jolts of sensation shot through me, unexpected, unwelcome, and yet… there was a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in years. A pulse of arousal buried deep beneath the layers of depression and exhaustion.
“Fuck, Mum…” he mumbled against my skin, his voice thick with lust. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”
He lifted his head, his green eyes dark and hungry. “Your tits,” he breathed, “fuck, they’re amazing.” He took my nipple between his teeth again, and this time I gasped, a sound that was part shock, part something else entirely.
He was still inside me, still pumping slowly, deliberately, his gaze locked on mine. “Tight,” he grunted, “so fucking tight. Haven’t had any dick in years, have you, Mum? Five years, right? Your pussy is screaming for it.” He pushed deeper, harder, and I cried out, my hands clutching at his shoulders.
“Ethan… ah baby… we shouldn’t be fucking, I… I am your m-mom oh god. Should we… s-stop.” The words were weak, breathless, lost in the rising tide of sensation. My body was betraying me, responding to him, to the raw, forbidden pleasure of his cock inside me. My own son.
“Don’t stop please Mom ah fuck I won’t last much longer your pussy feels good,” he growled, ignoring my feeble protests. “I don’t want us to stop. Feels too good. You feel too good.” He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, driving deeper with each stroke. My head was spinning, the alcohol, the shock, the sheer wrongness of it all, mixed with the undeniable, pulsing rhythm of his cock filling me.
“Fuck, your pussy is so wet,” he panted, “so fucking wet for me.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of my head, his face inches from mine. “You like this, don’t you? Deep down, you want this. You want me.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. My body was answering for me, arching into his thrusts, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Pleasure, sharp and forbidden, was blooming in my core, a toxic flower in the barren landscape of my life. His big cock pounded into my needy cunt, each thrust a hammer blow against the fragile walls of my sanity. And somewhere, deep inside, a part of me, a broken, lonely, desperate part of me, was welcoming it. Craving it.
He kept going, faster and faster, until the world narrowed down to the feel of him inside me, the sound of his ragged breathing, the taste of his sweat on my lips as he kissed me again, deeper this time. Then, with a final, guttural groan, he went rigid, shuddering against me, his seed spilling deep inside.
He collapsed on top of me, heavy, spent, the weight of him pressing down harder now, not just physically, but emotionally, morally. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, broken only by our ragged breaths.
The laughter from moments before felt like a lifetime ago. The fun, the playful wrestling, now tainted, twisted into something grotesque, unforgivable. The concerning connection, the deep unease I had felt brewing, had just exploded into something real, something devastating. And as I lay there, trapped beneath him, the hollow ache in my chest felt less lonely but infinitely more broken. This wasn’t a connection. This was a catastrophe. And I had let it happen. Had even, in some horrifying, shameful way, encouraged it.