The vacuum cleaner hummed its dull, comforting song, a familiar drone that usually lulled me into a kind of mindful trance. Monday mornings, right? A fresh start. Or so you tell yourself. I was halfway up the stairs, hose still in hand, when I heard them. Danny and Liam, his best mate, in Danny’s room, just a door away. Usually, I’d just power through, maybe wave at them as I passed, or shout something about homework. But today, something made me pause. A snippet, louder than the rest, cut through the vacuum’s drone.
“Dude, your mom is seriously hot.”
My hand froze on the banister. A jolt went through me, like static electricity. Liam. Of course, it was Liam. He’s always been a bit… bold. Flirtatious, even, in that way only teenage boys can be, where it’s not really flirty, just awkward and a bit too loud. I pulled the plug on the vacuum. The sudden silence in the hallway was deafening, amplifying the voices from Danny’s room. Was I really going to do this? Listen? My stomach clenched. But my feet, they just stayed put. Almost like they were glued to the spot.
“Yeah, man, she’s a total MILF,” Liam said, and I heard a snicker. A MILF. Me. I’m 42. Is that what they call us now? A funny, bitter taste filled my mouth. I unconsciously looked down at my chest, at the slight curve beneath my worn t-shirt. 34DD. Always have been. A blessing and a curse, my mum used to say. Hadn’t really thought about them much in, well, forever. Seven years, actually. Seven years since Mark left. Since anyone had really… looked at them.
Danny’s voice was lower, a bit muffled. “Nah, she’s just… Mom.” He sounded almost embarrassed. A tiny part of me, the mom part, felt a flicker of warmth. See? My son, protecting my honour. Foolish, wasn’t it? To think that.
Liam scoffed. “Please, dude. Are you blind? Them tits? Seriously. I bet her pussy is so damn good. Like, you know, seasoned.”
My breath hitched. My entire body went rigid. Seasoned. What did that even mean? My face felt hot, then cold. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic little bird trying to escape its cage. This was… this was happening. My son’s friend. Talking about me like that. I wrapped my arms around myself, like I could somehow disappear into my own skin.
Then Liam’s voice, a casual, almost challenging tone. “Like, seriously, if you were horny and had a chance, would you bang your mom?”
The world seemed to tilt. Silence. A long, agonizing silence from Danny’s room. I held my breath, every muscle in my body tensed. No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. My own son. My sweet Danny, who still asked me to fix his favourite hoodie, who hugged me goodnight, who still seemed, in so many ways, like the little boy who used to fall asleep with his head on my lap. He wouldn’t. Right? He’d tell Liam to shut up. He’d defend me. He had to.
But the answer that came wasn’t what I was expecting. Not at all. It was a low, almost guttural sound from Danny. A kind of… huff. And then, his voice. Not embarrassed anymore. Not protective. But… calculating.
“Honestly? Dude, I’ve thought about it. I once came home from work and she was asleep and drunk on the couch, legs flopped open and could see up her nightie. Her panties barely covered her pussy. I was tempted trust me. Honestly, if I saw her like that again I probably would help myself to her, I would give her pussy a damn good dicking.”
I had to move away I couldn’t listen anymore. Later that day I had changed into my short nightie and had a bottle of wine. I can’t believe he was tempted one day when I was wasted. A thought popped into my head, what if I pretend. What would he do. I heard him at the door seeing Liam out out so I quickly laid down on the couch I brunched my nightie up and pulled my panties slightly to the side so my clit was showing and I pretended to be out of it cold.
The cool leather of the couch pressed against my bare skin. My nightie, hiked up around my waist, felt like a flimsy flag of surrender. My underwear, pulled just so, was doing exactly what I’d intended: showing just enough. My clit, yes, right there. Like a little pink target. What was I thinking? Why was I doing this? My heart was thumping a ridiculous rhythm against my ribs. It felt like it was trying to escape, to run right out of my chest and hide. Was this some kind of protest? A morbid curiosity? Or just plain, idiotic despair? I honestly didn’t know. All I knew was the cold thrill running through me.
I heard the front door click shut. Liam gone. Good. Then softer sounds. Danny’s footsteps. Not heavy, not hurried. Just… normal. My breath caught in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing my muscles to relax. My jaw went slack. My arm flopped slightly, just for show. Was I convincing? Could he tell? My body felt like a performance, every nerve ending screaming.
He was in the living room. I could feel him. Not touch him, but feel his presence. The air seemed to thicken. I heard him sigh. A tired sigh, maybe? Or something else? Then, the footsteps got closer. Softer now. Right beside the couch. I could feel his gaze on me. It felt like a physical weight, like he was pressing down on me.
“Mom?” he whispered. His voice was husky, a little unsure.
I didn’t stir. My breathing was shallow, even. A bit too even, perhaps? Would he notice? I was trying to channel every drunk person I’d ever seen. The head lolled slightly. A soft, almost inaudible snore. Just a tiny one.
He knelt beside the couch. I could feel the warmth radiating off his body, the faint scent of his cologne. Teenage boy, all hormones and cheap spray. Yet, it was still him. My son. What was he seeing? What was he thinking?
“Mom, you really did it this time, huh?” he murmured, almost to himself. There was a weird mix of concern and… something else in his voice. Curiosity? Disappointment?
Then, I felt his fingers. Light. So light. Brushing against my leg. My bare thigh. A shiver went through me, but I clamped down on it. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just be still. Be a statue. A very vulnerable, exposed statue.
His fingers slowly traced upwards. Past my knee. Up my inner thigh. To the edge of my nightie. My stomach clenched. My whole body tensed, a desperate effort to remain limp. His touch was warm. Tentative. Then, bolder. He was pushing the fabric up further. Was this really happening? My own son.
My nightie was already around my waist, but he pushed it higher, bunching it more around my hips. My panties, already pulled to the side, were now fully exposed, revealing everything. My clit. My folds. All of it. Open. To him. A hot flush spread across my face, even though my eyes were still tightly shut. I could feel the blood rushing there. Was I giving myself away?
He breathed out, a low, shaky sound. “Holy… wow.”
Then, his hand was there. Not just touching my leg, but directly on my exposed vulva. A shock went through me. My muscles screamed for me to flinch, to recoil, to push him away. But I held fast. My teeth bit down hard on the inside of my lip. A small prick of pain. Good. It helped me focus. Stay still. You wanted this, you fool. Didn’t you?
His fingers felt… surprisingly gentle. Not rough, not harsh. Just exploring. He was tracing the outline of my labia. Then, he found my clit. His thumb brushed over it. A jolt, like electricity, shot through me. My hips wanted to arch, just a tiny bit. But I kept them still, locked down.
“You’re really out of it,” he whispered, his voice a little strained now. “This is… wow.”
His fingers moved, slowly delving deeper. Into my folds. Gently parting them. I was already wet. My body, despite my terror and disbelief, was responding. Shame washed over me, a tidal wave. But also… a strange, forbidden heat. What was wrong with me?
He seemed to hesitate for a moment. I could feel his breath on my skin. Warm. Then, he shifted. I heard the rustle of his clothes. A zip. Oh god. He was unzipping his pants.
My heart hammered. This was it. The point of no return. Do I stop him? Do I pretend to wake up? The thought flashed through my mind, bright and urgent. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. My body seemed to be moving on its own, propelled by some perverse, dark curiosity.
I felt a press against me. Hard. Hot. His erection. My breath hitched. I bit my lip harder. I could taste the metallic tang of blood.
He pushed. Slowly at first. Then, a firmer pressure. I felt a stretch. A dull ache, then a surprising fullness. It had been so long. Seven years. My body was remembering. Or was it just reacting?
He slid inside. A long, slow push. I felt him. Deep. So deep. My eyes stayed shut. My face, I prayed, remained impassive. But inside, I was screaming. A silent, desperate scream. This was wrong. So wrong. And yet…
He started to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts. Back and forth. He wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t rough either. Just… purposeful. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. My body automatically adjusted, molding around him. My hips, despite my effort, started to rock slightly in time with his movements. I had to stop that. I forced them still.
“Oh,” he groaned softly, a raw sound. “Oh my God, Mom.”
He got on top of me, his weight pressing me into the couch cushions. The nightie was now completely bunched around my waist, tangled. His movements grew more confident, faster. A rhythmic pounding. I could feel the couch creaking beneath us. The air in the room grew thick with heat and the smell of our bodies.
Then, his hand went to my chest. He fumbled with the neckline of my nightie, pulling it down, tugging at the fabric. My breast was exposed. My left one. My 34DD, heavy and full. It popped out, pale against the dark fabric of the couch.
He leaned down. I felt his hot breath on my nipple. Then, his mouth. He latched on. His lips, his tongue, his gentle suction. He was sucking my nipple. While still pounding me. Fuck his dick felt so good.
A gasp almost escaped me. I swallowed it. My eyes stayed shut, but tears pricked at the corners. The sheer audacity. The absolute violation. And the strange, undeniable sensation of it. The pain from my lip intensified, a sharp counterpoint to the insistent pleasure. I squeezed my eyes tighter. Pretend. You have to pretend.
He kept going. His mouth on my breast, drawing, sucking. His hips pumping, a strong, steady rhythm. The couch groaned. My head lolled. I felt completely out of control, a puppet on strings held by an invisible hand. This wasn’t me. This wasn’t my life. Was it?
His breathing grew ragged. Faster. His grip on my breast tightened, one hand cupping it, the other still pumping. He groaned again, a louder, more desperate sound. My body, despite myself, felt a tremor. A shiver of something. Was it impending climax? My own, or his?
He leaned into me, burying his face in my neck, his mouth still on my breast. His thrusts became frantic, shallow. Short, sharp bursts. He was going to cum. I could feel it. The tension in his body. The sudden, violent tremors.
“Ahh fuck, am… ahh going to cum unnngh,” he groaned deep from his throat.
Then, a final, deep thrust. And he groaned, a long, drawn-out cry of release. His body tensed, then slumped onto me, heavy and wet. I felt the warmth of his cum inside me. A hot, liquid rush. It felt… foreign. Disgusting. And undeniably, disturbingly, intimate.
He lay there for a long moment, breathing heavily, his head buried against my neck, his mouth still loosely latched onto my breast. His body was still on top of mine, warm and heavy. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I still pretended to be out of it.
I kept my pretence. My eyes still shut, my mouth slightly open, a soft snore escaping. Was he buying it? Did he truly believe I was still out cold?
He leaned closer. I felt his lips brush my cheek. A soft, almost tender kiss. And then he whispered, his voice still hoarse, “Goodnight, Mom, you felt so good best sex I have ever had.”
He slipped off me. The sudden absence of his weight left me feeling cold and exposed.
And then, silence.
Just the hum of the refrigerator. The distant sound of traffic. My own ragged breathing. And the incessant, drumming beat of my heart. I lay there, eyes still shut, listening to the silence. My body ached. My mouth tasted of blood. And the sensation of him, still inside me, was a ghost. A terrifying, beautiful, horrifying ghost.
Was that it? Was it over? What was I supposed to do now? Get up? Wash it off? Or just lie here, forever, pretending? What kind of mother was I? What kind of son was he? The questions swirled, a dizzying, sickening vortex. I didn’t have any answers. Not yet. I just lay there, frozen, in the dark. Waiting for the morning. Or for something else. I just didn’t know what. Did I?