It was Friday morning. In bed, I stretched my body long. It felt good.
I got up. I only had my bra and small panties on. Most of my skin was showing. You could see my shape – hips, legs, belly. My bra held my breasts.
I got my soft robe. I put it on but left it wide open. The front of my body was still uncovered. My breasts were right there, mostly in the open. The soft cloth hung open so you could see them clearly.
I walked downstairs. My legs carried me down.
I went into the kitchen. I smelled toast. My 18 year old son, Robbie, was already there just in his boxers.
The sun was just starting to properly filter through the kitchen window, painting stripes of gold across the worn wooden floorboards. It was early spring, the air outside still held a crisp bite, making the warmth inside the house feel extra cozy. But right now, the air inside felt thick with something else.
He looked up from the toaster as I walked in, a piece of half-burned toast in his hand. His hair was still rumpled from sleep, dark curls messy on his forehead. He was lean, not bulky, but with a surprising definition for someone who spent half his life glued to a screen. His shoulders were broad for his age, and his chest, visible above the waistband of his faded grey boxеrs, had a light dusting of dark hair that trailed down towards… well. My eyes flicked away, then back. The boxеrs weren’t exactly baggy.
“Morning, Mom,” he mumbled around the toast. His voice was still froggy with sleep, deeper than it had been just a year ago.
“Morning, Rob,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, normal. But my robe was open, and his eyes had definitely lingered for just a second too long, right on my chest. My boobs felt suddenly heavier, more noticeable.
He swallowed the toast messily. “Sleep okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. You?”
“Alright. Bit restless.” He scratched his side, and the motion pulled the thin fabric of his boxеrs tighter against his hipbone. He didn’t seem to care that I was standing there, half-naked in my robe. Or maybe he did, and that was the point.
“Coffee brewing?” I asked, moving towards the machine. My bare feet were cool on the tiles.
“Yep. Almost done.”
I busied myself with getting a mug, the steam rising pleasantly. He finished his toast and went to the sink, rinsing the plate. As he turned, his back briefly faced me, the muscles in his shoulders flexing slightly. He was growing up. Fast.
“Big plans for the weekend?” I asked, trying to break the weird tension.
He shrugged, drying his hands on a tea towel. “Nah. Not really. You?”
“Thought I might tackle the garden. Get some of the weeds out before they take over.”
He chuckled. “Good luck with that.”
The coffee finished brewing, pouring out a rich, dark stream. I poured myself a mug, the warmth seeping into my hands. He was still standing by the sink, watching me.
“You… uh… gonna close your robe, Mom?” he asked, not unkindly, but his gaze was fixed below my neck.
I felt a blush creep up my throat. My boobs felt like they were practically shouting at him. “Oh. Right. Sorry.” I pulled the soft material closed, tying the belt. But it felt flimsy now, like he could still see through it.
“It’s cool,” he said quickly. “Just… distracting.” He smiled, a slow, slightly self-conscious smile that somehow made my knees feel weak. Distracting. Okay.
The rest of the morning was relatively normal. We had coffee, chatted about nothing much. He went back upstairs to shower and get dressed. I did the same. We spent the day separately – me puttering in the garden, him out with friends or holed up in his room.
That evening, things shifted. It was still cool outside, but the sun had set, and a gentle rain had started, drumming against the windowpanes. The house felt small, enclosed. I had made a big pot of stew, and we ate together at the kitchen table, the only sound the rain and the clink of our spoons.
After dinner, we drifted into the living room. The rain seemed to encourage laziness. I put on some music, something mellow. He was sprawled on the sofa, scrolling on his phone.
“Want a drink, Rob?” I asked. “Got some beer. Or… there’s that bottle of whiskey your uncle left last visit.”
He looked up. His phone dropped onto the cushion beside him. “Whiskey? Uh, sure. Why not?”
It started innocently. Just a couple of glasses, neat, to warm us up against the damp evening. We talked more than usual. About school, about his friends, about my work, about memories from when he was little. The alcohol loosened us up. The conversation flowed easier, punctuated by laughter.
We moved from the sofa to the floor, sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, even though it wasn’t lit. Just the idea of warmth. The whiskey was potent, warm and heavy in my belly. We poured more. And more.
The music changed, became slower, sultrier. The rain outside intensified, a steady roar. We were leaning back against the sofa, facing each other, our knees almost touching. His eyes, usually the color of the sky on a clear day, looked darker, more intense in the dim light.
“Remember that summer we went camping?” he asked, voice a little slurred.
“Which one? We went loads,” I laughed, taking another sip.
“The one where the tent leaked. And we had to huddle in the car all night.”
“Oh god, yes! You were so small, freezing your little sack off,” I joked, without thinking. The word hung in the air for a second. He didn’t flinch, just grinned crookedly.
“Yeah. You kept pulling me onto your lap to warm me up.”
“You were like a little icicle,” I murmured, my gaze drifting down from his face to his chest again, visible beneath the loose t-shirt he was wearing. The light dusting of hair seemed thicker now, or maybe it was just the whiskey.
He reached out, hesitant at first, and brushed a stray strand of hair from my cheek. His fingers lingered for a moment, tracing the curve of my jaw. My skin felt hot under his touch.
“You look… really pretty tonight, Mom,” he said softly, his voice lower now.
My breath hitched. “Robbie… I…”
“No, seriously,” he insisted, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. “Like… really pretty.”
The whiskey roared in my ears. The rain outside seemed to fade away. All I could hear was the blood rushing through my veins, and his words. His touch.
He didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers slid down, just to the edge of my robe, where it was belted. He hooked a finger under the tie. My heart hammered against my ribs.
“This thing,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “It was distracting this morning too.”
He tugged gently on the belt. My eyes widened, but I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t. My body felt heavy, rooted to the spot, yet vibrating with anticipation. The robe came undone, the soft material falling open again.
The fire wasn’t lit, but I felt like I was burning up. My breasts were right there, framed by the open robe. He didn’t touch them yet, just looked. His eyes traced the curve, the shadow beneath, the way my bra pushed them up slightly.
“Wow,” he breathed, still quiet. Then, his hand rose slowly. His fingers brushed against the lace of my bra, just the edge. My nipple immediately hardened against the fabric, a sharp spike of sensation.
“Robbie…” I whispered again, a plea and a question.
“Shh,” he murmured, leaning closer. His face was inches from mine, his breath warm and smelling faintly of whiskey. “Just… let me?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His lips found mine, tentative at first, then bolder. The kiss was liquid fire, fueled by alcohol and unspoken desire that had apparently been simmering beneath the surface for longer than I’d ever imagined. It was clumsy, hungry, tasting of whiskey and young male need.
My hands went to his hair, pulling him closer. His tongue tangled with mine, exploring, deepening the kiss. He groaned softly into my mouth.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes heavy-lidded. “You taste… so good.”
His hand moved from my chest, down my side, tracing the curve of my waist, my hip. His other hand came up, cupping my face, holding me in place as he kissed me again, fiercer this time.
He fumbled with the front clasp of my bra. My hands went to help, fingers clumsy with urgency. The bra popped open, and my boobs spilled free. They felt full, heavy, sensitive.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes fixed on them. He reached out, cupping one in his hand. His palm was rough, warm. He circled the nipple with his thumb, gently at first, then pressing harder. “They’re perfect.”
“Robbie,” I moaned, my voice thick with desire. This was insane. Drunken insanity. But it felt so right in the moment. The rain, the whiskey, the heat between us.
He leaned down, his mouth closing over my nipple. He suckled hard, drawing me in, his tongue painting circles. A jolt shot through me, making my back arch. His hand moved to the other breast, massaging it roughly.
“God, Mom,” he groaned, pulling back slightly, his face flushed. He looked up at me, his eyes dark with need. “I want you so bad.”
“I… I want you too, honey,” I confessed, the words tumbling out without thought. The line had been crossed, obliterated by alcohol and a shared, sudden plunge into forbidden territory.
His free hand went to the waistband of his boxers, fumbling with the elastic. He pushed them down, and his cock sprang free. It was thick and hard, throbbing with blood. My breath hitched.
“Robbie…”
“Let me,” he said again, his voice guttural now. He slid forward on the rug, kneeling between my legs. My legs were spread, my open robe pooling around my hips. He looked down at my crotch, hidden beneath my small pants.
“Take these off,” he urged, his voice shaky.
My fingers trembled as I hooked the elastic of my panties, pushing them down my thighs. He watched, his eyes devouring the sight as they revealed my cunt. It was soft, dark, and already wet. A small curl of dark hair nestled against my inner thighs.
“Oh god,” he whispered, reaching out a hand. His fingers brushed against my clit, a light, teasing touch that made me gasp. “You’re so wet.”
He spread my lips slightly, revealing the pink, slick flesh beneath. He leaned down, his hot breath ghosting over my gash. My back arched again, my hips lifting involuntarily.
“Robbie, please…”
He didn’t hesitate. His tongue darted out, tasting me. A cry escaped my lips. His tongue was rough, hot, exploring every fold and crease of my minge. He licked deeply, finding my clit and focusing on it, circling, pressing, sucking.
“Oh, fuck,” I moaned, my hands going to his head, holding him closer. “Oh, Robbie, yes… like that… ahh, honey… my pussy… god…”
He worked my clit with his tongue and lips, making me writhe on the rug. Every lick sent shivers through me, building the pressure deep inside. He was relentless, driving me higher and higher. My fingers tangled in his hair, holding him firmly in place, guiding his mouth exactly where I needed it.
“You like that, Mom?” he mumbled against my cunt. “Like this?” He increased the pressure, his tongue flicking hard against my clit.
“Yes! Oh god, yes, Robbie… harder… faster… ahh!” My body tensed, ready to explode. “I’m gonna… ohh!”
I came with a series of sharp spasms, crying out his name. My hips bucked off the floor, my fingers digging into his scalp. He didn’t stop, continuing to lick and suck until the last tremor subsided.
He pulled back, his chin slick with my juices. He looked up at me, his eyes blazing. He tasted a bit of himself from his lips, a possessive look on his face.
“You’re so wet,” he said again, his voice husky. He held his hard cock in his hand, pulsing and slick. It was thick, purplish, with a prominent head.
He shifted forward, kneeling fully between my legs. “I need to be inside you, Mom.”
My mind screamed No!, but my body was already saying Yes!. Drunken desire had overridden everything else. “Robbie… be gentle…”
“Always,” he promised, though his eyes held a raw intensity that suggested anything but gentle.
He positioned the head of his cock against my opening, already slick and ready. He pushed, slowly at first. I felt the thick warmth pressing against my labia, stretching me.
“Ah… it’s… big,” I gasped, clenching reflexively.
“Relax, Mom,” he urged, pushing a little further.
I forced myself to relax, opening for him. He slid in inch by inch, filling me completely. It was a deep, stretching fullness, unlike anything I’d felt before. He was tight, and I was loose, a perfect, forbidden fit.
“Oh my god,” I breathed, tilting my head back. He was fully inside me, buried to the hilt. His sack pressed against my bottom.
He stayed still for a moment, letting us both adjust to the feeling of being joined. His chest rose and fell rapidly. My legs were spread wide on the rug, his knees on either side of my hips.
“God,” he whispered again, looking down at our joined bodies. “You feel… so incredible, Mom. So wet and tight.” He started to move, a slow, tentative thrust.
“Oh… yes… Robbie,” I moaned, wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Don’t stop… fuck…”
His thrusts grew bolder, faster. He was raw, untamed energy, driven by pure instinct. He pounded into me, his hips rocking against mine. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the quiet living room, blending with the relentless drumming of the rain outside.
“Faster, Rob,” I urged, bucking my hips up to meet his thrusts. “Give it to me… harder! Ahh, Robbie, yes! Bottom out… god, bottom out!”
He groaned, driving his cock as deep as he could, pushing against my cervix with every thrust. He didn’t hold back, rutting into me with a desperate urgency. His body was damp with sweat, his muscles straining.
“You like that, Mom? You like me deep inside your cunt?” he panted, his voice rough.
“Yes! Oh god, yes! Your cock… feels so dirty… so perfect… ahh, honey… my pussy… fuck!”
He shifted position, leaning back slightly, pulling me up so my legs were wrapped higher around his waist. He lifted my hips slightly, creating a different angle, hitting a different spot inside me.
“Oh! There!” I cried out, gasping. “That’s… oh god!”
He found a rhythm, pounding into me with brutal efficiency. His hands were on my hips, gripping tight, driving the motion. I was lost in the sensation, the forbidden pleasure, the sheer animalistic drive of it.
We moved together, a frantic, desperate dance on the rug. Our bodies collided, sweat slicking our skin. He buried his face in my neck, groaning with effort and pleasure. His cock plunged in and out of my gash, thick and pulsing, filling me completely with every thrust.
“I’m close, Mom,” he gasped against my skin. “So close… shit…”
“Me too, honey… oh god… don’t stop… rut into me… deeper!”
He let out a guttural roar, his hips giving one final, powerful thrust, bottoming out inside me. He stiffened, trembling, his cock pulsing deep inside my minge as he came. I felt the hot rush of his cum filling me, a primal, overwhelming sensation.
My own climax hit me moments later, a wave of intense pleasure washing over me. I cried out, locking my legs tighter around his waist, my body convulsing around his still-hard cock.
We stayed joined for a long moment, chests heaving, hearts pounding. His weight was heavy on me, comforting and shocking all at once. The rain continued its steady beat outside.
He finally collapsed onto my chest, burying his face in my neck. His breath was hot and ragged. His cock was still inside me, slowly softening.
“Fuck, Mom,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “What… what just happened?”
I held him tight, my own body trembling. The whiskey was wearing off, leaving a hazy, disoriented feeling. What had just happened? The drunken one night stand with my son. The words echoed in my mind, stark and terrifying.
The reality of it began to dawn, pushing away the haze of alcohol and desire. We lay there on the rug, tangled together, the silence broken only by our ragged breaths and the relentless drumming of the rain. The morning would bring a reckoning, a sober understanding of the boundary we had shattered. But for now, in the aftermath of the storm, both outside and within us, there was only the heavy, shared quiet, the undeniable proof of what we had done still deep inside my body.