It was a dreary Monday, April 1, 2016, and I was truly wading through the trenches of late-night work. The office was quiet, the city lights twinkled outside, and my desk was buried under a small mountain of urgent paperwork. Just as I was contemplating giving up and sleeping under my monitor, my phone buzzed with a text from my eighteen-year-old, Marcus:
What time will you be getting home tonight?
I rubbed my tired eyes, glancing at the oppressive stacks. “Ugh,” I muttered to myself.
Likely a couple more hours, I tapped out. Drowning in this stuff. I’ll order pizza for us before I head out though.
His response was immediate and, as always, sweet:
Sounds great. Love you.
It was a habit I cherished – no matter the brevity of the exchange, he always ended it with that little declaration. It felt like a warm hug through the phone line.
Love you too, I typed back, a small smile touching my lips, and immediately refocused on the glowing screen of my computer, ready to plunge back into the numbers.
Barely a second later, maybe two, my phone vibrated again. The sound cut through the office silence with an almost jarring urgency. Thinking it was a quick follow-up question about toppings, I picked it up, not even looking at the sender’s name yet.
Then I saw the message.
Do you need my cock? I wanna fuck your pussy so hard Ella, it screamed silently from the screen.
My heart leaped into my throat. My eyes widened so fast I felt physically jolted. What…?! Before I could even process the words, my gaze fell to the attached image below the text.
My breath hitched.
Oh. My. God.
It was a picture. A very close-up picture. Of Marcus’s… well, of his absolutely magnificent, fully erect, and undeniably impressive cock. It filled the frame, thick and veiny, standing tall at what had to be a good seven inches, maybe more, gleaming under what looked like bedroom lighting.
My brain stalled. Ella. The text said Ella. He’d sent this… to me?
A hot, mortified blush surged up my neck and instantly heated my cheeks. My stomach did a confused, nauseated flip-flop, a bizarre blend of shock, embarrassment, and… good heavens, that’s what my son looks like? Fucking hell his dick is so big!
He’d sent me that… instead of Ella.
The accidental naughtiness of it all hit me like a physical wave, leaving me absolutely stunned, phone still clutched in my trembling hand, the image seared into my retinas. The sheer, horrifying, almost comically inappropriate mistake was breathtaking.
My fingers, stiff and unresponsive, fumbled for the power button. I wanted to unsee it, to erase it, to pretend it never happened. The image was burned into my memory though, and the words echoed in my head, amplified by the quiet office. My son. My eighteen-year-old son.
I managed to turn the screen off, plunging the offending device into darkness. But the darkness only seemed to amplify the mortifying reality. I had seen my son’s penis. Not only had I seen it, but I’d gotten a detailed, unsolicited, and frankly quite impressive view of it.
I had to do something. Delete the message? Pretend it never happened? Launch myself into the nearest black hole? None of those seemed adequate, or even possible. I closed my eyes, trying to conjure up an image of Marcus as a little boy, chasing butterflies in the park, anything to counteract the very recent, very vivid image of his… manhood.
After what felt like an eternity, I opened my eyes. I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen. This was Marcus, my son. We had a good relationship, an open relationship, even. But this was beyond the pale.
With a shaky hand, I picked up the phone again. My thumb hovered over the call button, then moved to the text icon. I needed to address this, but I needed to do it calmly, rationally, without completely losing my mind.
I started to type, then deleted it. Started again, deleted again. How do you even begin a conversation like this? “Hey, sweetie, just wanted to say that while I appreciate the… anatomical update, it was accidentally sent to Mom and might be better directed elsewhere?” No. God, no.
Finally, after several false starts and internal screaming matches, I managed to compose a message. It was stilted, awkward, and probably completely inadequate, but it was the best I could do.
“Marcus,” I typed, my fingers trembling so much I kept hitting the wrong keys. “I think you sent that last message to the wrong person.”
I hit send and immediately regretted it. Too cryptic? Too vague? Too likely to induce a full-blown panic attack in my already mortified son? Probably all of the above.
Now, I just had to wait. Wait for the inevitable flood of apologies, explanations, and probably a desperate attempt to crawl into a hole and disappear forever. The city lights outside seemed to mock me, twinkling with an innocent indifference to the internal turmoil raging inside. The paperwork on my desk suddenly looked even more daunting, a physical representation of the monumental awkwardness that was about to engulf my life.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed again. My heart leaped into my throat. This was it. The moment of truth. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the fallout.
I unlocked my phone, and read the message.
“Oops! LOL. Sorry Mom. Meant for Ella. Please forget you ever saw that! Pizza still on? I am so embarrassed.”
I text back, “don’t be, it’s impressive.”
I stared at my own message, the words hanging there on the screen like a neon sign proclaiming my utter and complete lack of parental decorum. “Don’t be, it’s impressive.” What. The. Hell. Had I just done? Had I actually complimented my son’s… member?
My phone buzzed and I read it, “Oh omg really. So it isn’t you know small. Truthfully as I don’t feel very confident lately.”
I sighed and text back, “Honey, let me work ill be home soon. Yes, it is good like big good. Your going to make your mother need a cold shower lol.”
My whole body was on fire. The heat radiated from my face, down my neck, and settled in my stomach, a churning mixture of horror and, if I was being honest with myself, a sliver of something akin to pride. Pride? In my son’s… equipment? Oh, this was a new low.
But he was insecure. My baby thought he needed validation. That maternal instinct, dormant for the past few hours under a blanket of sheer mortification, flared to life. He needed reassurance, and apparently, I, in my infinite wisdom (or lack thereof), had just volunteered to provide it.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, desperately trying to course-correct this runaway train of a conversation. “Marcus, look, let’s just…table this discussion for when I get home, okay? Focus on your homework. Pizza will be there soon.”
He types back, “Okay Mom.”
I almost wept with relief. A temporary ceasefire. A chance to regroup, to strategize, to figure out how to navigate this minefield of parental awkwardness.
I leaned back in my chair, took a deep breath, and tried to focus on the mountain of paperwork still looming on my desk. But the numbers swam before my eyes, each one morphing into a distorted image of… well, you know.
I groaned and buried my face in my hands. This was going to be a long night.
After an hour of forced productivity, fueled by copious amounts of stale coffee and the sheer, desperate desire to escape the confines of my office, I finally ordered the pizza and packed up my things. The drive home was a blur, my mind racing, rehearsing conversations, conjuring up emergency escape routes.
When I finally pulled into our driveway, the lights were on in the living room. Marcus was probably sprawled on the couch, glued to his phone, waiting for the pizza like a normal freaking teenager. Except, of course, nothing about this situation was normal.
I took another deep breath and opened the front door. The aroma of pepperoni and melted mozzarella filled the air, a welcome distraction from the suffocating tension that had been building inside me all evening.
“I’m home!” I called out, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
Marcus bounded into the hallway, a sheepish grin on his face. “Hey, Mom! Pizza’s here?”
“Yep,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Let’s eat.”
We sat at the kitchen table, tearing into slices of pizza with a forced enthusiasm. The silence was deafening, broken only by the sounds of chewing and the occasional awkward cough. I could feel his eyes on me, gauging my reaction, searching for any sign of… what? Disgust? Amusement? Horror?
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. “So… um… Mom…”
I braced myself. “Yes, Marcus?”
“About the… uh… thing…” He gestured vaguely, his cheeks flushed.
“Yes,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “The… thing.”
“I just… I really am sorry. It was a stupid mistake. I feel terrible.”
I softened. He did look genuinely contrite. “I know, honey. It’s okay. Mistakes happen.”
“But…” He hesitated, fiddling with a piece of pepperoni. “Did you… I mean…”
“Marcus,” I interrupted, trying to steer the conversation away from the specifics. “Let’s just agree that it was a one-time thing, and we never speak of it again, okay?”
He nodded, relief flooding his face. “Okay. Deal.”
But then, he ruined it. He just had to ruin it.
“But Mom?” He asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Were you really… impressed?”
I nearly choked on a mouthful of pizza, coughing and sputtering as I tried to process his question. “Impressed?” I managed to gasp out, my face burning with a mix of mortification and something far more primal. He nodded, his eyes wide and hopeful, as if he truly wanted to know. As if he needed my validation, my approval. I could feel my resolve crumbling, the carefully constructed wall of maternal decorum beginning to crumble.
“Marcus,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Your… equipment is impressive. It’s big. Very big.” His face lit up, a grin spreading across his features.
“Really? You think so?” I nodded, unable to meet his gaze. “Yes, I think so. But that doesn’t mean—”
I cut myself off, my mind racing with the implications of what I was saying, what I was implying. “It’s just been a few since you know… I have seen one. Just eat honey.”
Later that night I had a hot shower and just put on a t shirt and purple laced panties. I was sat on the couch with my legs curled under me with a glass of red wine. My son sat next to me with beers.
I couldn’t help but steal glances at him, my eyes drawn to the way his jeans hugged his hips, the way the fabric strained against his… assets. I felt a flutter in my chest, a heat that had nothing to do with the wine. I quickly looked away, my cheeks flushing.
“So, how’s school going?” I asked, desperate to change the topic. Any topic. Just not that one.
“It’s fine, I guess,” Marcus replied, taking a swig of his beer. “Just trying to stay focused. You know how it is.”
I nodded, taking a sip of my own drink. “Yeah, I do. You’ve always been a good student.”
He shrugged, his gaze drifting back to the TV screen. “Thanks, Mom. I try.” The silence that followed was comfortable, easy. Just the sound of the TV and the occasional clink of glasses. I found myself relaxing, the earlier tension melting away.
“I can’t wait until Ella comes back from Spain damn I could just…” he stopped and looked at me. “S-sorry mom.”
I shook my head, waving my hand dismissively. “No, no, it’s fine. I know you miss her.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I do. A lot. But it’s not just that… I just feel a lot pent up down there.”
I nearly spit out my wine. “Pent up?” I repeated, trying to keep my voice steady.
Marcus looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Yeah, you know, horny. I haven’t had sex in a while, and it’s getting really hard to control myself.” I felt my face heat up, my mind racing with images of my son, his big… equipment straining against his jeans, aching for release.
“Oh, Marcus,” I breathed, setting my glass down on the coffee table. “Sweetie it as only been weeks for you, how you think my pussy feels. It as been 4 years. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He was adjusting his crotch as he looked embarrassed, was my words making him hard. I felt a tingle between my own legs.
“Do you… do you ever think about… you know, having sex again?” His voice was tentative, but his eyes were burning with curiosity. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
“Marcus, I… uh… I don’t know what to say,” I stuttered, trying to play it cool.
He leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Come on, Mom. You can tell me. I’m not a kid anymore.”
I sighed, rubbing my temples. This was getting out of hand. “Marcus, I’m not sure this is an appropriate conversation to be having.”
But he just chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Oh, come on. I’m your son. I’m the only one who can help you with your…itch.” I felt my face burn with embarrassment. He put his hand on my thigh and slowly parted my legs, why wasn’t I stopping him.
I gasped as Marcus’s hand slid up my thigh, parting my legs. My heart raced, a mix of shock and forbidden desire coursing through me. “Marcus, we can’t… I’m your mother,” I whispered, my voice trembling. But he just smiled, his eyes dark with lust.
“Shh, Mom. Let me take care of you. I know you need this.” His fingers brushed against my panties, and I let out a shuddering breath. I should stop him, but my body betrayed me, arching into his touch.
“Oh god,”I moaned softly. Marcus hooked his fingers into my panties and pulled them aside. He leaned in, his breath hot against my core.
“Fuck, Mom. You’re so wet already.” I bit my lip, trying to hold back a whimper as he parted my folds with his fingers. “Marcus, please… Ahhh honey… we…”
Marcus’s tongue flicked out, tasting me for the first time. I gasped, my fingers tangling in his hair. “Oh god, Marcus… yes…” I panted, my hips rocking against his face. He groaned against my pussy, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through me.
His tongue explored my folds, circling my clit before plunging deep inside me. I cried out, my head falling back against the couch. “Fuck, your tongue… it feels so good…” I moaned, my thighs trembling. Marcus licked and sucked, his fingers digging into my hips as he feasted on me. I was lost in a haze of pleasure, my son’s face buried between my legs, his tongue working magic on my neglected pussy.
“Marcus, I’m going to… ahhh…” I warned, my orgasm building rapidly.
He doubled his efforts, his tongue flicking against my clit as he fucked me with his fingers.
Marcus sucked hard on my clit, sending me hurtling over the edge. I screamed his name as I came, my pussy convulsing around his fingers. He groaned, lapping up my juices as I rode out my orgasm. When the waves of pleasure finally subsided, I collapsed back against the couch, panting.
Marcus sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips were shiny with my arousal, his eyes dark with desire. “Mom, that was… fuck. You taste amazing.”
I blushed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Marcus, we shouldn’t have… I mean, this is crazy. You’re my son.”
He crawled up my body, pressing his lips to mine in a searing kiss. I could taste myself on his tongue, a mix of intimacy and taboo that made my head spin. “Crazy or not, I want you, Mom. I’ve wanted you for a long time.”
Marcus’s words hung heavy in the air, a confession that sent shockwaves through me. I stared up at him, my mind reeling, my body still trembling from the aftermath of my orgasm. He wanted me? His own mother?
“Marcus, I… I don’t know what to say,” I whispered, my voice hoarse with emotion. “This is insane. I’m your mother, for god’s sake.”
He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. “I know, Mom. Believe me, I’ve tried to ignore it, to push these feelings away. But I can’t anymore. Not after tasting you, feeling you come apart on my tongue…”
He trailed off, his hand drifting down to the bulge in his jeans. “Your pussy is ready for my dick.”
He took out his cock and it was thick and big, didn’t look at it for before he pushed it inside of me.
He pulled back slightly, then sank deeper into me. My labia gripped his shaft, as he hit a spot deep inside causing me to whimper with another cry of pleasure. This time, “Ahh… fuck my pussy,” I whispered.
Marcus’s thick cock stretched me open as he began to thrust, his hips moving with a rhythm that was both familiar and utterly foreign. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, my nails digging into his back. “Oh god, Marcus,” I moaned, my voice barely recognizable. “You’re so big. So deep.”
He groaned, his face buried in the crook of my neck. “Fuck, Mom. Your pussy is so tight. So fucking perfect.” His hips snapped forward, burying his cock to the hilt. I cried out, my back arching off the couch.
Marcus picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming more aggressive, more demanding. I met him stroke for stroke, my body moving in tandem with his. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a primal rhythm that drove us both closer to the edge.
“Harder, Marcus,” I panted, my nails raking down his back. “Fuck me harder.” He complied, his thrusts becoming brutal, his cock pounding into me with a ferocity that bordered on violence. I loved it, revelled in the intensity, the raw, animalistic passion that consumed us both.
“Yes, yes, yes!” I chanted, my voice rising to a fever pitch. “Give it to me, baby. Fill me up with that big cock.
“Oh god, Marcus,” I moaned, my walls clenching around his thick shaft. “You’re going to make me cum again. Ahhh!”
My orgasm hit me like a freight train, my pussy convulsing around his cock as I screamed his name. Marcus groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release.
“Fuck, Mom, I’m close. Gonna cum so deep inside you.”
He pounded into me one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he erupted. I felt his hot seed filling me up, coating my walls with his cum. It was intense, overwhelming, a sensation I’d never experienced before.
As we both came down from our high, Marcus collapsed on top of me, his weight pinning me to the couch. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close as we both struggled to catch our breath. After a moment, Marcus lifted his head, his eyes locking onto mine.
“Mom?” he asked, his voice soft, hesitant. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, a small, shaky smile on my lips. “I’m fine, honey. Just… wow.” He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest against mine. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
We lay there for a while, just holding each other, the afterglow of our forbidden encounter still lingering.