The house felt heavy, thick with the silence that only comes after a fight. It was a Friday night, and I was sprawled on the couch, staring at the flashing colours on the TV screen. My short nightie felt flimsy, offering little comfort against the chill of my mood. Another argument with my husband, another evening swallowed by bitterness. I just sat there, nursing a glass of wine, letting whatever garbage was on mindlessly wash over me.
That’s when the front door creaked open. Footsteps echoed briefly in the hall, then my son, Alan, appeared. He walked straight into the kitchen, the jingle of his car keys as he tossed them onto the counter cutting through the quiet. I heard the fridge door open, then close. A moment later, he was back, two cans of beer in his hand, and he flopped down beside me on the couch.
“How was work, honey?” I asked, my voice a little rough. I watched him pop open a can. “I thought you were going to Julie’s tonight?”
He took a long sip, his eyes drifting, as they often did, down to my chest before finally settling on my face. It was an old habit, one that always made me feel a little awkward, but I tried to ignore it. He was 22, a grown man, and I supposed it was just… a guy thing. Still, it made my skin prickle sometimes.
“Long day,” he mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Had to work extra, cover for Dave. He had to bail early.” He paused, taking another gulp. “And Julie? Yeah, I wanted to, but she said she needed a break. Said we’d been ‘at it’ a bit too much lately, haha. She needed her rest.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Mom. Probably too much information.”
I waved a hand dismissively, trying to force a smile. “No, no, it’s fine. At least you’re, you know, getting some.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. I immediately regretted it, feeling a blush creep up my neck. “God, ignore me. My filter’s broken tonight.” I took a desperate gulp of wine. “It’s just… lately your dad and I… you know.” My voice trailed off, unable to articulate the mess our marriage had become. The lack of connection, the coldness, the way he seemed to barely see me anymore.
Alan shifted beside me, sudden discomfort radiating off him. He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I sort of figured. You guys have been… quiet.” He looked at his beer can, then back at me, his gaze softer now, less direct. “Is everything okay, Mom? Like, really okay?”
His question, so simple and direct, hit me harder than any of his father’s angry words. My eyes welled up without warning. “No, Alan. No, it’s not okay.” The dam broke. I hadn’t meant to unload on him, not like this, but the words were already tumbling out. “We barely talk anymore. And when we do, it’s just… bickering. Or silence. He comes home, eats, watches TV, goes to bed. It’s like we’re just roommates, except angry ones.”
He put his beer on the coffee table, turning his body fully towards me. His brow was furrowed, a look of genuine concern on his face. “Mom, I’m sorry. I really am.” He reached out, hesitantly patting my arm. “I know Dad can be… a lot. He’s always been a bit gruff, y’know?”
“Gruff is one thing, Alan. But this is… cold.” I sniffled, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “I just feel so alone. And he doesn’t seem to care. He just… shuts down.”
“Have you tried talking to him about it properly?” Alan asked, his voice low. “Like, not when you’re both mad, but just sitting down, really talking?”
I snorted. “Oh, honey, I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. He just says I’m being dramatic, or that I’m imagining things. Or he just walks away. He hates talking about feelings. You know that.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I know. I know it be weird talking about you know with me. But is it your sex life you want to work on. Like spice things up in the bed room with him.
I stared at him, my mouth probably hanging open. My own son, asking me about my sex life with his father. My face burned. I felt a wave of nausea, a mix of embarrassment and disbelief. This was a line that should never, ever be crossed between a mother and her child.
“Alan!” I practically yelped, pulling my hand away from his arm. “God, no! What? No! Why would you even… that’s not something you ask your mother!” I wanted to shrink into the cushions, to disappear.
He looked genuinely surprised by my reaction, almost hurt. “Whoa, Mom. Chill. I just… I mean, you said you weren’t ‘getting some’ and then you talked about how things were quiet between you and Dad. I just put two and two together, you know? Like, if you’re not connected, sometimes starting there can fix things.” He looked away, fiddling with the label on his beer can. “Sorry. I guess I just thought… you were being really open. And I was trying to help.”
His apology, and the earnestness in his voice, deflated my anger a bit. But the mortification still stung. “I know, honey, I know you were trying to help. And I appreciate it. But that’s… that’s private. And it’s not really… it’s not just that. Not at all. Well, ok maybe. God it is embarrassing, but I feel like a desert down there all dried up it isn’t fair.”
“Damn, Mom, we can’t be having you all dried up. Have you ever watched porn? Hear me out, hear me out, honest it can learn you new things. Me and Julie do roleplay. I can get my laptop and show you some if you are comfortable.” He said as he swigged his beer, completely oblivious to the sheer horror on my face. I was shocked but also a part of me intrigued.
“Alan!” I managed to choke out, my voice a strangled whisper. My face was surely crimson. “Are you out of your mind?!”
He nodded quickly, looking down at his hands. “Yeah, okay. Got it, Mom. Sorry. Really. I just… I don’t know. I’m an idiot.”
“No, honey,” I sighed, running a hand over my face. My voice was still a little shaky. “You’re not an idiot. You’re just… well, you’re 22 and male, and sometimes those two things combine to make for… interesting conversations.” I tried for a weak smile, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “It’s just… some things are off-limits. Even with me. Especially with me. Let’s just say you did show me videos, wouldn’t it be awkward.”
“Yeah, totally,” Alan mumbled, his ears probably as red as my face felt. He stared at his beer can, twisting it around in his hands. “I just… I wasn’t thinking. Like, at all. I just heard you say ‘dried up’ and my brain went to… solutions. Guy solutions, I guess. Rookie mistake.” He winced, looking up at me quickly, then away again. “But yeah, it would be super awkward. Like, mortifying. But if it helps you learn new things, it might help you and dad. Like he’s away on business for the weekend.”
“He’s away for the weekend?” I repeated, my voice barely a whisper. Not, “Alan, that’s insane!” or “Get out of here!” but just a simple, almost rhetorical question about his father’s absence.
Alan looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes that I hadn’t completely shot him down. “Yeah, Mom. Didn’t Dad tell you? He’s got that conference in Denver. Left this morning, back Sunday evening.” He gave a small, hesitant shrug. “So, yeah. Just me and you.”
Just me and you. The words echoed, oddly. Usually, when his dad was gone, the house felt even emptier. But tonight, with Alan here, with this bizarre, mortifying, yet oddly compelling conversation, it felt… different. Less empty, maybe. More charged, even if it was with a dreadful, squirming tension.
I closed my eyes, taking a slow, shaky breath. My wine glass felt heavy in my hand. What was happening? Was I really considering this? Was I that desperate? The thought alone made my stomach churn, but then, like a cruel counter-argument, came the familiar ache of loneliness, the dull throb of a marriage slowly dying.
“Alan,” I started, opening my eyes to look at him properly. He was still avoiding my gaze, picking at the beer can label. He looked like a little boy who’d just said a bad word, all contrite and fidgety. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”
He winced. “I know, Mom. I’m really sorry. I just… I didn’t think. It just came out. I’m a total screw-up sometimes.”
“No, you’re not a screw-up,” I said softly, running a hand through my hair. My voice still sounded a bit strangled. “You’re… you’re trying to help. In your own… unique way.” I managed a thin, brittle laugh that probably sounded more like a cough. “It’s just… it’s a lot, honey. It’s a lot for a mom to hear from her son.”
He nodded, still looking down. “Yeah. I get it. It’s completely inappropriate. I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget I even brought it up.”
But I couldn’t forget it. It was like a splinter in my mind, irritating and strangely insistent. “No,” I said, and even I was surprised by the word. “No, don’t forget it.”
He finally looked up, his eyes wide with a mix of confusion and hesitant hope. “Huh?”
I took another gulp of wine, needing the burn. “Look, Alan. What we’re talking about is… it’s insane. It’s beyond awkward. It’s probably the most awkward thing we’ve ever discussed, and that’s saying something, given my filter tonight.” I felt another blush creep up my neck, but I pushed through it. “But… you’re right about one thing. Things are… dead. With your father. Not just in the bedroom, but everywhere. And it’s… awful. I feel like I’m drowning.” My voice cracked on the last word.
He reached out, tentatively patting my arm again, his touch gentle this time. “I know, Mom. I can see it. You look… sad a lot. Also, don’t hate me but dad is mental because you look hot for a mom. Seriously, I used to get pissed at my friends growing up calling you a MILF.”
My cheeks flushed a deep crimson as I stammered, “I-I’m your mother! I’m not supposed to be… hot. And what’s a MILF? Is that some kind of insult?” I felt genuinely confused and slightly offended.
Alan chuckled, a bit of the old light heartedness returning to his voice. “Mom, it’s not an insult. It’s a… well, it’s a term. A bit crude, but it stands for ‘Mother I’d Like to Fuck.’ So, yeah. You’re hot for a mom.” He winced, probably realizing he was digging himself into a deeper hole. “But I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just… well, you are.” He looked away, his cheeks now matching mine in colour.
“Oh… your friends use to think that of me really,” I said, the words barely a whisper. My face was still burning, but it wasn’t just embarrassment now. It was a strange mix of fluster and a tiny, almost imperceptible spark of… something. Flattery? Recognition? It had been so long since anyone, let alone young men, had thought of me in that way. My husband certainly didn’t.
Alan cleared his throat, looking even more uncomfortable now. “Yeah, Mom. I mean, it was just… guy talk. Don’t read too much into it.” But he was still avoiding my gaze, picking at the beer can. “Honest, you don’t wanna know the things they used to say that they… would do to you.”
“What kinds of things, Alan?” I heard myself say, the question a whisper, barely audible over the thumping of my own heart. My cheeks were still hot, but the initial shock was giving way to a strange, almost dizzying curiosity. It was mortifying to even think it, let alone say it, but the words were out there, hanging in the air between us.
Alan’s eyes widened, and he looked even more uncomfortable, if that was possible. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a few strands. “Mom! Come on, you really don’t want to know. It’s… it’s locker room talk. Crude. Respectful, in a weird way, but still crude.” He shifted on the couch, pulling his knees up a bit. “Just stuff guys say when they think a woman is really, really attractive. Like, really attractive.”
A strange shiver, not entirely unpleasant, traced its way down my spine. Attractive. It had been so long since I’d felt attractive. My husband hadn’t looked at me that way in years, not really. Not with that glint in his eye, that spark of appreciation. I lived in a world where I was a wife, a mother, someone who managed a house and bills, but not someone who was desired. And here was my son, of all people, confirming that others had, at some point, seen me that way. It was a bizarre, unsettling, yet strangely intoxicating thought.
“But… they actually said things?” I pressed, my voice still hushed, almost conspiratorial. My wine glass was forgotten in my hand. I needed to know. I needed to pick at this scab, even if it hurt.
He groaned, burying his face in his hands for a second. “Mom, please. You’re making this so much worse. Yes, okay? Yes, they said things. Things about… well, about you. About how good you looked. About… what they’d like to do. That’s why I used to get so mad. Because you’re my mother. But it was because they thought you were beautiful and hot.” He lifted his head, his face still flushed. “Can we just… drop this part of the conversation now?”
I nodded, slowly. My mind, however, wasn’t ready to drop it. The revelation was like a tiny, illicit ember glowing in the dark, cold cavern of my self-perception. Beautiful. Hot. Words I hadn’t heard directed at me, with genuine conviction, in what felt like forever. It highlighted just how much I missed that feeling, that validation. It underscored the gaping void in my marriage.
“I… I just can’t believe it,” I said, not quite looking at him. My gaze drifted to the framed photo of my husband and me on our wedding day, young and full of hope, sitting on the mantelpiece. We looked so happy then. So connected. “He doesn’t even see me anymore, Alan. Not like that. He just… sees another chore, another obligation. I feel… invisible. Like I’m just part of the furniture.” My voice was barely above a whisper, laced with a raw vulnerability I hadn’t intended to show.
Alan was silent for a moment, his fidgeting stopped. He just watched me, his expression softening to that look of genuine concern again. “That’s… that’s really awful, Mom,” he said, his voice quiet. “I’m sorry. Seriously.”
I took a shaky breath, finally setting my wine glass down with a soft clink on the coffee table. The air was thick with unspoken things, with awkwardness, yes, but also with an unusual intimacy. My son, my grown son, was seeing me, truly seeing me, in a way his father hadn’t in years. And in some twisted, complicated way, it was refreshing, even if it was born from the most mortifying conversation of my life.
“It is awful,” I agreed, looking at him now, my eyes probably red-rimmed. “And you know what the worst part is? I don’t even know how to fix it. I’ve tried talking, I’ve tried hinting, I’ve tried… everything. And he just shuts down. Or gets angry. Or acts like I’m crazy.” I ran a hand over my face tiredly. “And you’re right. About… about me being dried up. About things being dead. Because they are. And it’s not fair. It’s not fair to me.”
I heard the slight tremor in my voice, the near sob that I quickly swallowed down. But the words were out, plain and unvarnished. I was admitting to my son the complete desolation of my intimate life, the deep, parched longing I carried. And a tiny, rebellious part of me, fueled by his earlier, crude compliments, felt a flicker of defiance. If my husband wouldn’t see me, wouldn’t want me, then maybe… maybe I needed to re-learn what it even meant to be seen, to be desired.
“So… so maybe you’re not an idiot, Alan,” I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze. My throat felt tight, and my heart was doing a frantic little dance in my chest. This was it. This was the moment. The point of no return. “Maybe… maybe there’s something to what you said.”
He just stared at me, his eyes wide, clearly not knowing what to make of my sudden shift. “Huh?”
“The… the porn,” I managed to choke out, the word feeling utterly foreign, illicit, and deeply shameful on my tongue. I could feel the heat returning to my cheeks, spreading down my neck. “About… about learning new things. About… about spicing things up.” I took another deep, shuddering breath. “Look, I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like I’m losing my mind. But if… if it can help… if it can just give me some… some idea of what I’m supposed to do to feel like a woman again, to feel… anything… then maybe.” My voice trailed off, but my gaze held his.
Alan swallowed hard, a visible bob in his throat. He looked utterly flummoxed, a mixture of shock, relief, and profound awkwardness warring on his face. “You… you mean it, Mom?” His voice was a bit rough, quiet.
I nodded, firmly this time, though my hands were clammy. “Yes, Alan. I mean it. I’m… I’m desperate. And utterly confused. And honestly… a little bit curious. But mostly desperate.” The last word was a plea, an admission of defeat and a desperate grab for any lifeline, no matter how unconventional or mortifying.
A slow, hesitant smile spread across his face, not a triumphant one, but a gentle, sympathetic one. “Okay, Mom. Okay.” He reached out again, patting my arm, this time with a clear sense of purpose. “No judgment. I promise. Just… learning. And if it’s too weird, or too much, we stop, okay? Instantly.”
I let out a shaky breath, a tiny, almost imperceptible knot of tension easing in my shoulders. “Okay,” I whispered back. “Instantly.”
Alan nodded, his expression a mix of concern and determination. “Okay, Mom.” He hesitated for a moment, then stood up and walked over to his laptop on the desk in the corner. I watched him, my heart pounding in my chest, as he brought it back and sat down next to me on the couch.
Alan opened the laptop and started typing, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Okay, Mom, I’m going to pull up a few videos..” He glanced at me sideways, his cheeks flushed. “You can tell me to stop at any time, okay?”
I nodded as the first video started to play, as the video started to play I felt my stomach drop. The scene was… intense. A woman, her body glistening with sweat, moaned as a man thrust into her from behind, his hips slapping against her ass.
I had to admit, the raw, primal energy of it was captivating, even if the explicitness made me squirm. Alan’s voice cut through the noise, soft and hesitant. “This is… um, a pretty vanilla example, I guess. Just two people having sex. Wait… what is he… wow, what’s that position,” I nodded, my mouth dry. It was… a lot to take in.
“haha, it’s the piledriver position. I have done it with Julie before it actually feels good,” he said to me as I started to feel tingles between my legs. I grabbed a cushion and put it over my crotch and placed my hand under as I slowly rubbed between my legs.
“It… it looks intense,” I managed, my voice a little reedy. The woman on the screen let out a guttural moan, her head thrown back. My own breath hitched. I rubbed harder and fast and accidentally moaned, “ahh fuck.”
The sound ripped through me, raw and uncontrolled, shocking even myself. My hand froze under the cushion, fingers still pressed hard against the suddenly throbbing knot between my legs. The heat that had been building there, a slow simmer, now flared into an inferno. My face, I knew, was scarlet. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow me whole. Oh god, oh fucking god, I actually moaned. Out loud. In front of my son.
“Mom?”
Alan’s voice was a low murmur, laced with a mixture of surprise and something else… something I couldn’t quite place. I risked a peek. His eyes, wide and dark, weren’t on the screen anymore. They were locked on my face, then slowly, deliberately, they dropped to the cushion clutched to my lap. He didn’t need to see my hand rubbing to know what was happening. My body was betraying me, broadcasting every shameful, desperate tremor.
The woman on the screen continued her guttural cries, oblivious to my mortification. But suddenly, the sounds from the laptop seemed to fade into the background. All I could hear was the frantic thrum of my own pulse in my ears, the ragged inhale of my breath, and the deafening silence from Alan. The air in the room was thick, charged with an unspoken, electrifying tension.
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry as dust. “I… I’m sorry,” I stammered, pulling my hand away from my crotch as if burned, letting the cushion fall to my side. My legs were shaking, a deep, unsettling tremor that went right through my bones. My clitoris felt swollen, exquisitely sensitive, practically screaming for more attention. The dampness between my legs was undeniable, a slick, warm slide that made my thighs want to clench together.
Alan didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just kept looking at me, his gaze intense, probing. The initial shock on his face had morphed into something else entirely. Something… knowing. Something that made my stomach clench and my nipples harden into tiny, aching points under my sweater. My breasts felt heavier, fuller, a strange pressure building behind them.
Then, slowly, he reached out. His fingers, warm and calloused, grazed my arm, just above the elbow. It was a light, hesitant touch, but it sent a shockwave through me, rattling every nerve ending. My breath hitched again. I couldn’t look away from his eyes. They were no longer the eyes of my son, not entirely. There was an unfamiliar fire in them, a raw, undeniable desire that mirrored my own.
“Mom,” he whispered, his voice rougher now, a little strained. “It’s… it’s okay.” His thumb, still resting on my arm, started to stroke, a feather-light touch against my skin. “It’s… natural. You’re human.”
The words, simple as they were, were a revelation. He wasn’t judging me. He wasn’t recoiling in disgust. He was… understanding. And in that understanding, something snapped inside me. The dam of shame, that had held me captive for so long, cracked. A tidal wave of longing, of unfulfilled desire, rushed through the opening.
My hand, of its own volition, lifted and found his. My fingers laced through his, tight, desperate. His grip instantly tightened in return, a silent acknowledgment. The video on the laptop continued to play, the moans and grunts of the couple on screen now a distant, blurring soundtrack to the real, visceral drama unfolding between us.
“I… I just… I don’t know what came over me,” I mumbled, but it was a half-hearted attempt at an excuse. The truth was, I knew exactly what came over me. It was years of neglect. Years of feeling dead inside. Years of wanting, aching, for this very sensation, this raw, animalistic need that was now consuming me. My hips stirred, a tiny, involuntary twitch, wanting to grind against something, anything, to alleviate the pressure.
He shifted closer on the couch, his knee bumping mine. The contact was electric. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned in, his gaze dropping to my lips. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. My mouth was parted slightly, unconsciously inviting.
“Mom,” he breathed again, the word a soft exhalation against my ear as he leaned closer still. His free hand, the one not holding mine, moved to my hip, a gentle, exploratory touch. My skin prickled where he touched me, alive in a way it hadn’t been in so long. “You’re… you’re so wet.”
My breath caught in my throat. He knew. He could probably smell it, or feel the heat radiating from me. The frankness of his words, the sheer audacity, should have offended me, but instead, it ignited something deeper, something primal. It was unapologetic, and in that moment, so was I.
“Oh god,” I whimpered, a new kind of moan, one of pure, unadulterated need. My hips pushed forward slightly, a silent plea. My mind was reeling, screaming for me to stop, for us to stop, but my body had taken over. My body, starved and desperate, was in control now.
His fingers tightened on my hip, then slid lower, tracing the curve of my thigh, ever so slowly. My whole body tensed under his touch, every muscle strung tight. He leaned in closer, his lips practically grazing my ear. “Let me… let me help you, Mom.” His voice was a husky whisper, raw with his own burgeoning desire.
My eyes fluttered shut. Help me. The words resonated deep within my starved soul. It wasn’t about the porn anymore. It was about this. About being seen, desired, touched. About feeling alive.
“Yes,” I breathed, the word a desperate plea, a surrender. “Please.”
His hand moved faster then, sliding up my leg, under the hem of my sweater, until his fingertips brushed the soft skin of my inner thigh. My entire body jolted, a gasp tearing from my throat. My legs parted slightly, instinctively, inviting him deeper. He was so close. So incredibly close to the source of all my aching, all my longing.
His fingers slowly, tentatively, brushed against the lace of my panties. The thin fabric was already damp, clinging to my labia, which felt swollen and engorged. My clitoris was a hard, pulsating knot, desperate for release. He grazed it, once, lightly, and I arched against his touch, a low moan rumbling from my chest.
“Oh… fuck,” I groaned, my voice barely audible. The sensation was exquisite, a sweet torture that made my entire core clench. “Alan… please.”
He didn’t need any more encouragement. His fingers slipped under the elastic lace, his thumb finding the wet, slick folds of my labia. He parted them gently, revealing my engorged clitoris, and then his thumb pressed directly onto it.
A sharp, shocked gasp tore from my lips. My back arched violently, my head thrown back against the cushion, a primal sound ripping from my throat. “A-Alan! Oh god!”
He moved his thumb in a slow, deliberate circle, then added a finger, pressing down, teasing my core. “So wet, Mom,” he murmured, his voice thick with arousal. “So, so hot.”
My entire body was trembling now, a delicious tremor that started deep in my core and spread outwards. I could feel the blood rushing to my pussy, making it throb with an almost painful intensity. My channel was slick, so slick, the walls clenching and unclenching in anticipation.
He kept stroking, his touch firm yet incredibly sensitive, hitting just the right spot. My hips began to buck, an unconscious rhythm taking over. My other hand, still intertwined with his, squeezed hard, my fingernails digging into his palm. “More… oh god, more,” I begged, my voice hoarse.
He lifted his hand, pulling back slightly, and then I felt him fumble with the buckle of his belt. My eyes snapped open, wide with a potent mix of shock and anticipation. He looked at me, his eyes dark with desire, a bead of sweat tracing a line down his temple.
“I… I can’t just stop there, Mom,” he said, his voice rough, almost ragged. “Not now. You’re… you’re driving me insane.”
My gaze dropped, following his movements. He unzipped his jeans, and then, slowly, pulled out his erection. My breath caught in my throat. It was magnificent. Thick and long, standing proud and veined, a deep purplish red against his pale skin. It pulsed slightly, twitching with a life of its own.
His balls, heavy and full, hung low beneath it, swinging slightly as he adjusted himself. I could feel the heat radiating from him, the sheer, potent masculinity of him. My own pussy gave an involuntary twitch, a deep throb of welcome.
“Oh… my god,” I whispered, mesmerized. My eyes traced every inch, from the swollen crown of his head, slick with pre-cum, down to the thick shaft. It was bigger than I remembered, bigger than I had ever truly focused on before.
He kicked off his shoes, then shucked his jeans and boxers in one swift movement, revealing his fully aroused body. His chest was broad, lightly muscled, with a smattering of dark hair. His cock stood out, a beacon of desire, beckoning to me.
He hovered over me, his hands on either side of my head, looking down into my eyes. His breathing was heavy, ragged, mirroring my own. “Are you sure, Mom?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, a last, fleeting check.
My response was a primal sound, a guttural moan that was half-gasp, half-plea. My hips lifted, urging him closer. “Yes! Oh god, yes! Please, Alan! Don’t stop!”
He didn’t hesitate. He leaned down, his lips finding mine in a brutal, hungry kiss. His tongue plunged into my mouth, mimicking the act we were about to perform, tasting of wine and desperate desire. I met him with equal fervor, my tongue tangling with his, a fiery dance.
As we kissed, his hand went between my legs, finding my soaking wet channel. He pushed aside my panties, which were already shoved to the side, and his fingers brushed against the swollen lips of my cunt. My clitoris, hard and throbbing, was ready to explode. He slicked his fingers around my opening, spreading my wetness, preparing me.
Then, slowly, carefully, he guided the head of his cock to the entrance of my twat. I felt the hot, slick tip press against my burning folds. A jolt went through me, right down to my toes. It was so big. So full.
He pushed, just a little, and I felt the thick ridge of his cockhead press past my outer labia, then stretch my inner lips. I gasped into the kiss, my body tensing. My fingers, still gripping his, tightened into white-knuckled claws.
“Relax, Mom,” he murmured against my lips, pulling back slightly from the kiss to whisper the command. “Just… breathe. Let me in.”
I tried to follow his instruction, tried to loosen the muscles that wanted to clench around him. It was hard. So hard. The anticipation was agonizing, exhilarating.
He pressed again, slowly, deliberately. I felt the full force of his throbbing cock pushing against my opening, stretching me wider than I’d been in years. The slickness of my channel helped, but it was still a tight, fulfilling squeeze.
“Nngh… Ahh!” A guttural groan tore from my throat as the thick head breached my entrance, stretching me, filling me inch by agonizing inch. My hips lifted instinctively, meeting his thrust, eager for more.
He pushed deeper, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps. I could feel his heavy balls slapping against my ass as he drove into me. The sensation was overwhelming, a glorious invasion that filled me completely. My channel welcomed him, stretching, sucking him in.
“Oh! Oh my god!” I cried out, my voice raw with pleasure and shock. He was in. Fully in. From the base of his thick cock, pressed against my quivering mound, to the tip, buried deep within me. He filled every inch of my empty, yearning channel.
He pulled back slightly, then plunged again, deeper this time. “Fuck, Mom, you feel so good,” he groaned, his voice rough with passion. “So tight… so hot.”
“Ahhh… yes! Alan! God, yes!” I arched my back, my fingers finding purchase on his shoulders, digging into the warm, firm flesh. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him even closer, wanting to be utterly impaled by him.
He began to thrust, a slow, deliberate rhythm that quickly picked up pace. Each withdrawal pulled at my deepest parts, each thrust buried him to the hilt, hitting something profound inside me. My whole body vibrated with the impact, with the sheer, unadulterated pleasure.
The sounds in the room were no longer the porn video. They were ours. The wet slap of skin on skin, the ragged gasps escaping my throat, the deep, guttural moans that tore from Alan’s chest, the slight creak of the couch under our combined weight.
“Oh! Oh, Alan… harder! Please, harder!” I begged, my mind spiraling into a haze of sensation. My clitoris, still incredibly sensitive, was being indirectly stimulated with every deep thrust. I could feel the friction, the delicious pressure, building and building. My breasts bounced with each thrust, my nipples hard and aching for attention.
He responded instantly, picking up the pace, driving into me with a relentless, primal rhythm. His hips slammed against mine, a steady, powerful beat. “You like that, Mom? You like it hard?” he grunted, his voice ragged with effort and pleasure.
“Yes! God, yes! Fuck, it feels… it feels so good! Ahhh! Don’t stop! Don’t you dare stop!” I cried, my voice barely recognizable. My nails dug deeper into his shoulders, my legs squeezed tighter around his waist. I wanted to absorb him, to fuse with him.
Each thrust was deeper, more potent, pushing me closer and closer to the edge. My cunt was flooded, overflowing with wetness, making his entry and exit even slicker, more satisfying. The feeling of his heavy balls slapping against my bottom was incredibly arousing, a constant reminder of his potent masculinity.
My orgasm was a wave, building from deep within my core, radiating outwards. The contractions started subtle, then grew, gripping his cock, milking him. “Ahhh! Oh god! I’m… I’m coming! Oh, Alan! Ohhh!” I screamed, my body convulsing around him.
He moaned loudly, his thrusts becoming even more frantic, faster, driving deeper, pushing me over the precipice. “Mom! Yes! God, yes! I’m almost there!”
The pleasure was overwhelming, a white-hot explosion that consumed me. My body arched higher, my back bowing, every muscle tensing in a glorious, shuddering climax. My channel squeezed him so tight, I could feel every vein, every inch of his throbbing cock as I milked him.
Minutes later, still trembling, he let out a guttural roar, burying his face in my neck as he emptied himself deep inside my convulsing twat. His body went rigid, then collapsed onto me, heavy and slick with sweat. He was still fully, deeply embedded inside me, his cock still throbbing, spent but full.
We lay there, tangled together, our breaths ragged, our hearts hammering against each other. The world outside the confines of the couch, and our shared, raw experience, simply ceased to exist. All that mattered was the weight of his body on mine, the glorious fullness within me, and the aftermath of a desperate, unashamed release. The silence, broken only by our laboured breathing, was a comfortable, knowing one.
“You should pull it out honey, I… I should go to bed,” I was ashamed I couldn’t believe I did this.
Alan slowly pulled out, his softening cock slipping from my well-used pussy with a wet sound. Ifelt empty, hollow, as he withdrew. Atrickle of his cum leaked out, running down the crack of my ass.I shuddered at the sensation.
He stood up, his naked body glistening with sweat in the dim light. I could see his cum dripping from the tip of his spent cock. He looked down at me, a mix of satisfaction and something else in his eyes. Regret? Guilt? Or perhaps just the realization of what we had done.
A few days later.
The days that followed were a blur of awkwardness and unspoken tension. Alan avoided me, spending most of his time locked in his room. I tried to act normal, to pretend that nothing had happened, but the memory of our encounter lingered, a constant presence that I couldn’t shake off. One evening, as I was preparing dinner in the kitchen, Alan stood there, looking hesitant and unsure in the door way.
“Mom,” he started, his voice barely audible, “can we talk?” I nodded silently, my heart pounding in my chest. He entered the kitchen and sat down at the table, his eyes fixed on his hands. “About what happened… I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice thick with emotion. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that.”
I sighed softly and sat down across from him. “Alan,” I began gently, “you didn’t take advantage of me. Let’s just forget it happened, I was slightly drunk and… well let us just leave it at that.”
Alan looked up at me, his eyes filled with a mix of relief and lingering guilt. “Are you sure, Mom? I mean, I know what we did was… inappropriate. I don’t want things to be weird between us.”
I reached across the table and placed my hand over his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay, sweetheart. We’re both adults, and sometimes things happen that we might not expect or plan for. But we can move past this.”
He nodded slowly, seeming to accept my words.”Thanks, Mom. I just… Icare about you too much to let this come between us.”
As the days went by, the tension slowly dissipated. Alan started coming out of his room more often, and our conversations gradually returned to normal. But there were moments when I would catch him looking at me. Like the way he did that night.