It was a Friday night and I was home alone, my husband Tom working late at the office as usual. I decided to treat myself to a glass of red wine, pouring it deep as I settled onto the living room couch. The first sip burned going down but felt good spreading warmth through my chest. I kicked off my shoes and wiggled my toes, sighing.
The wine kept flowing as I flipped through Netflix, nothing holding my interest. By the time the bottle was half empty, my head was swimming pleasantly, my body relaxed and heavy. I didn’t hear the front door open until my son’s voice startled me.
“Hey Mom, you home?” Jake called.
“Living room!” I replied, my words a bit slurred.
He padded in barefoot, grinning when he saw the wine bottle. “Getting lit, huh?”
I shrugged. “Just unwinding. Want some?”
“Maybe later,” Jake said, plopping down next to me. His long legs splayed open and I tried not to stare at the sizable bulge in his jeans. Dear God, when had my baby boy gotten so big?
We chatted and watched TV but I couldn’t focus, the room spinning slightly. Jake draped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his firm chest. I inhaled his clean, masculine scent and smiled woozily up at him.
“Mom, you’re really relaxed,” he remarked, fingers lightly massaging my shoulder. “You need to loosen up more often.”
“Mmm, feels good,” I purred, eyes fluttering shut. His hand slid to the nape of my neck, kneading the stiff muscles there. “Keep going…”
Jake shifted behind me and I felt his strong hands on my shoulders, thumbs digging into my skin. “You’re really tight. I could give you an actual massage if you want.”
My wine-addled brain thought that was a great idea. “Yes, please,” I breathed.
He had me sit up so he could push me flat onto my stomach. I yawned as he straddled my hips, the heat of his body soaking into me. Jake squirted some of the massage oil I kept on the coffee table into his palms.
When his slick hands made contact with my back, I moaned, arching up into his touch. They glided over my shoulders and down my spine, powerful yet incredibly gentle. I turned my face to the side, cheek pressed to the cushion, letting myself melt under his ministrations.
“That’s it, Mom. Just relax,” Jake murmured, fingers delving into the valley right above my jeans. I squirmed a little as a jolt of electricity zinged through my body. His hands continued their sensual caress, drifting lower and lower until they were rubbing right above the waistband of my pants.
I knew I should stop him, tell him to move back up to my back. But the feel of his strong hands on my lower back sent heat pulsing between my thighs. I was too far gone to resist. “Feels so good,” I mumbled, eyes slipping shut.
Jake’s fingers crept under my waistband, calluses dragging over the bare skin of my hips. I shivered, clenching my thighs together as slickness gathered there. He kept going, thumbs dipping under my jeans to press against my mound through my panties.
A low whine built in my throat but I couldn’t bring myself to push him away. His touch felt too good, stoking the embers of arousal his massage had ignited in my core. Jake’s lips brushed my ear as he rubbed me through the cotton.
“You’re so wet, Mom,” he whispered, fingertips grazing my clothed sex. “You want me to make you feel good?”
“Yes,” I gasped, hips rolling back against his hand. The last of my inhibitions evaporated, my body crying out for more of his touch. “Please Jake…”
He tugged my jeans down, baring my ass and dripping cunt to the cool air. I lifted my hips to help him, too drunk and desperate to care how wrong this was. Jake pushed my legs apart, kneeling between my thighs.
I felt his breath hot on my sex before he buried his face between my cheeks with a groan. His tongue swiped up my slit, teasing over my swollen clit. I keened, fisting my hands in his hair, holding him to me.
Jake ate me with wild abandon, licking and sucking as I rode his face. The coil of pleasure wound tighter and tighter in my belly until I was coming with a cry, grinding against his lips. He lapped up my release, then kissed his way up my back.
I rolled over beneath him, pulling Jake down on top of me. Our mouths crashed together, all teeth and tongue, his chin slick with my juices. He rocked into me and I felt how hard he was, the thick ridge of his erection sliding against my sensitive folds.
“Inside,” I panted, reaching down to undo his jeans. “I need you inside me.”
Jake shoved his pants down and kicked them off, then settled between my splayed thighs again. He notched the swollen head of his cock at my entrance. I felt huge and hard against my tender flesh, promising to fill me up so perfectly.
“Mom,” he groaned, brown eyes dark with lust as he looked down at me. “I want to fuck you so bad. Wanna be in your tight little pussy.”
“Yes,” I hissed, nails raking down his muscular back. “Do it, baby. Fuck Mommy’s cunt.”
With a low growl, Jake surged forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in my welcoming heat. I nearly sobbed at the feel of him stretching me, thick and hard and so incredibly deep. He started to move, powerful hips snapping against mine as he drove into me again and again.
The room filled with the obscene slap of flesh on flesh and my wanton moans as he fucked me into the couch. I’d never felt so full, stuffed to the brim with my own son’s cock. Jake pounded me relentlessly, sweat gleaming on his chest as he took his pleasure from my willing body.
“Yes… ummm… Harder… harder.” I moaned as he grunted and started to fuck my pussy harder.
“Mmmh don’t stop! Gonna cum on your big cock! Ngh!”
Jake shifted his angle slightly and I saw stars, keening as he nailed my g-spot dead on. “Fuck yes, right there! Pound Mommy’s cunt! Oh god, Jake!”
The obscene slap of his heavy balls against my ass filled the room along with the creaking of the abused furniture. He was fucking me like he owned me, like I was his personal sex toy. And god help me, I loved every second of it.
“Gonna cum,” Jake growled, fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise. “Gonna pump you full. You want it Mom? Want my cum in this hot little cunt?”
“Yes, yes, yesss!” I wailed mindlessly, my pussy clenching down on him. “Cum in Mommy! Fill me up! Oh fuck, fuck I’m cumming!”
My orgasm crashed through me like a tidal wave, vision whiting out as I convulsed beneath him. Jake let out a guttural moan, slamming into me one last time before he still. I felt his cock jerk inside me as he shot spurt after spurt of hot seed directly into my fluttering womb.
I shuddered and mewled, milking him for every last drop as we rode out our highs together. Finally, Jake collapsed on top of me, both of us panting like we’d just run a marathon.
“We shouldn’t have had sex. Omg, we had sex,” I felt ashamed of myself.
The air still hung heavy with the scent of sex and wine, thick and humid around us. My body was a trembling jelly beneath his, still pulsing with the echoes of my climax. Jake’s weight pressed me deep into the couch cushions, his face buried in the crook of my neck, breath hot and ragged against my skin. The rapid-fire drumming of his heart against my ribs gradually slowed, syncing with the unsteady thump of my own. His cock, still buried inside me, throbbed lazily, a heavy, satisfying weight anchoring me to the reality of what had just happened.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The silence was immense, broken only by our ragged breathing and, faintly, the drone of the TV still playing some forgotten show. It wasn’t an awkward silence, not immediately. It was a charged, saturated silence, brimming with the recent violence of our pleasure, the raw, undeniable intimacy of the act. My fingers were still tangled in the damp hair at the back of his head, my nails leaving faint trails on his scalp. His arms were wrapped loosely around my waist, holding me close even as the urgent need that had driven us subsided.
He finally stirred, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he shifted his weight and slowly, reluctantly, began to pull out. The sensation of him withdrawing, the slow, slick slide of his cock from my body, was almost as intense as his entry. I felt a strange sense of loss, a sudden emptiness where he had been so thrillingly full. A faint, slick trail of our mingled fluids followed his withdrawal, glistening on my thigh before disappearing into the upholstery.
Jake rolled off me and onto his back beside me on the couch, chest heaving. The space between us suddenly felt vast, cold even, though only seconds before we had been intimately, impossibly connected. My legs felt weak, splayed open on the cushions, leaving me feeling vulnerable and exposed. I pulled my knees together instinctively, a faint blush heating my cheeks as I glanced down at myself – naked from the waist down, my jeans tangled around my feet, my panties nowhere in sight.
He was looking up at the ceiling, his eyes wide open, chest still rising and falling erratically. His face was flushed, skin slick with sweat, muscles still trembling. He looked… stunned. Like a boxer who had just walked through a knockout punch.
I pushed myself up onto my elbows, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The pleasant haze of the wine was rapidly dissipating, replaced by a cold, sharp jolt of adrenaline and something else… something heavy and terrifying.
“Jake,” I whispered, my voice raspy. It sounded alien in the sudden quiet.
He didn’t turn his head, just exhaled sharply. “Mom,” he replied, his voice equally strained.
What was there to say? How did you begin to articulate that? That you had just had mind-blowing, unprotected sex with your son on the living room couch? That every taboo, every boundary, every rule you had ever known had just been shattered into a million irreparable pieces?
I looked at the mess – the overturned wine glass on the coffee table, thankfully empty, the still-damp patch on the couch where he had eaten me out, the undeniable evidence of our shared climax slick between my legs and smeared on my thighs. Panic began to bubble in my chest, hot and suffocating.
“We… we need to clean up,” I stammered, scrambling to sit up properly. My legs were still shaky, and I felt ridiculously exposed. I fumbled with my jeans, attempting to tug them back on over my damp skin. They were twisted and awkward.
Jake finally turned his head, his brown eyes meeting mine. The raw lust was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but mixed now with a confusion, a vulnerability I hadn’t seen in him since he was a little boy. His gaze drifted down my body, lingering on my bare legs before rising back to my face. He didn’t look away.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, his voice low and thick. He sat up too, pulling his own pants back on with jerky movements. His erection was gone, replaced by a heavy, post-coital slump, but the memory of it, the incredible fullness, was still vivid in my body.
We worked in near silence, a frantic, awkward pantomime of people trying to erase a crime scene. I grabbed paper towels from the kitchen, wiping down the couch cushions with shaking hands, trying to absorb the moisture, the scent. Jake righted the wine glass, picked up my discarded panties from the floor – a small, damp triangle of cotton that felt impossibly significant in his hand – and tossed them onto the coffee table as if they were a forgotten wrapper.
The silence was different now. It was tense, charged not with lust, but with the weight of consequence. We avoided looking directly at each other, our movements hurried, furtive.
“What… what was that, Mom?” Jake finally asked, his voice barely a whisper as he knelt beside the couch, scrubbing a smudge from the floor.
I stopped wiping, my hand hovering over a damp spot. I didn’t know how to answer. Was it a mistake? A release? A consequence of too much wine and too many lonely nights? All of it? None of it?
“I… I don’t know, Jake,” I said, my voice equally quiet, equally lost. “The wine… I wasn’t thinking…”
He flinched slightly at the mention of the wine, as if it were an excuse that minimized the intensity of what had happened. Or perhaps it was a reminder of the blurred lines, the impaired judgment that had led us here.
“It wasn’t just the wine,” he said, his voice firmer now, though still laced with uncertainty. He finally looked up at me, his gaze searching. “I… I wanted to. When you were… just now. I wanted to.”
His confession hung in the air between us, heavy and undeniable. He wasn’t just drunk. He had wanted this. And God help me, sober or not, I had wanted it too, in that moment. More than wanted it. I had begged for it.
My stomach twisted. The initial rush was completely gone, replaced by a creeping dread. What had we done? How could we ever come back from this? Our entire relationship, our family, was irrevocably altered.
“We can’t… we can’t ever speak of this,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “Ever. This never happened.”
Jake stood up slowly, running a hand through his damp hair. He looked younger now, less like the powerful man who had just claimed me so completely, more like the boy who sometimes still needed a hug.
“How can it not have happened, Mom?” he asked, his voice tinged with a strange mix of bewilderment and something that sounded almost like… hope? Or was it just the lingering charge between us distorting my perception?
“Because it can’t have,” I insisted, pushing myself fully off the couch, needing space, needing to put distance between us and the scene of our transgression. My legs felt weak, my body still humming with phantom sensations. I needed a shower, desperately, to wash away the evidence, to try and rinse away the reality.
“What about Dad?” Jake asked, his voice dropping again. The mention of Tom brought another wave of nausea. My husband, working late, oblivious. The sheer depth of the betrayal, not just of him, but of the fundamental structure of our family, hit me with full force.
“He’s working late,” I said, stating the obvious, my eyes darting towards the front door as if expecting him to walk through it any second. “He won’t know. We clean up, we put things back. It was just… a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.”
Another flinch from Jake. He didn’t seem to want it to be just a mistake. That unnerved me more than anything else. What did he want it to be?
He walked over to the coffee table, picked up my discarded panties, and held them for a moment, turning them over in his fingers. His gaze was distant.
“Mom,” he said, his voice soft, almost hesitant. “It felt… real.”
The word landed between us like a stone, shattering the fragile facade of denial I was trying to construct. Real. Yes, it had felt incredibly, undeniably real. More real, perhaps, than anything I had felt in a long time. The raw passion, the complete surrender, the earth-shattering climax… it had been terrifyingly, intoxicatingly real.
But it was also fundamentally, foundationally wrong. It was a violation of the deepest trust, a breaking of the oldest taboos.
“It was wrong, Jake,” I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. I needed him to understand that, to accept it. “It was so, so wrong.”
He didn’t argue, but he didn’t agree either. He just looked at the panties in his hand, his brow furrowed in thought.
The awkward silence returned, pregnant with unspoken words and the heavy weight of our shared secret. We stood there, in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the mundane objects of our ordinary life, while the air still thrummed with the echo of the extraordinary, forbidden act we had just committed.
Jake dropped the panties back onto the table as if they suddenly burned his hand. He looked around the room, his gaze settling on the couch, the scene of our passion and now, our shame.
“I should go to my room,” he mumbled, not meeting my eyes.
“Yes,” I said, relieved at the prospect of some space, some time to process this alone. “Yes, go. I’ll… I’ll finish cleaning up.”
He nodded, a brief, jerky motion, and then turned and padded silently out of the room, his bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floor. I watched him go, a knot tightening in my stomach. He didn’t look back.
Left alone in the wreckage of my Friday night unwind, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. The pleasant buzz of the wine was long gone, replaced by a crushing sense of dread and disbelief. Had that really just happened? With my son? On that couch?
I sank back down onto the cushion, my side still damp from where he had pounded into me. I picked up my crumpled jeans, hesitant to put them back on. They felt like a costume, something I needed to wear to pretend I was the woman I had been before tonight.
The room was silent again, but it was different now. It wasn’t the humming silence after pleasure, nor the tense silence of attempted erasure. It was a hollow, echoing silence, filled with the ghosts of screams and moans and the undeniable, terrifying fact that my life, and my son’s life, had just changed forever. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, marking the seconds, bringing me closer to the inevitable return of my husband, the man who knew nothing of the seismic shift that had just occurred in his own home. I closed my eyes, a single tear trailing down my temple and into my hair. I didn’t know how I was going to face him. I didn’t know how I was ever going to face Jake again. And worst of all, I didn’t know if I regretted it as much as I knew I should.