The rain came down in sheets, a sudden, violent drenching that had us scrambling for the pathetic cover of a shallow rock overhang. Our two-man tent, a relic from a happier, two-parent camping trip, had given up the ghost halfway through the first night, its poles snapping under the assault of a fallen branch. This was our shelter now: a damp, cramped space that smelled of wet stone and decay.
“It’s no use,” Alan said, his voice tight. He was shivering, his eighteen-year-old frame hunched against the cold. “The sleeping bags are soaked. Both of them.”
My heart sank. I’d promised him one last trip before he left for college, a chance to reconnect. This was not what I had in mind. I rummaged frantically through our flooded packs, my fingers numb. At the very bottom of mine, wrapped in a plastic trash bag I’d instinctively used as a liner, was my sleeping bag. The single, queen-sized one I’d brought for myself, a luxury compared to his smaller one.
“I have one,” I said, my voice barely a whisper against the drumming rain.
He looked at me, water dripping from his dark hair. “One?”
“It’s big,” I offered, the words feeling like a betrayal. “We’ll have to share.”
The space beneath the overhang was just long enough for the bag if we laid it diagonally, and only just wide enough for the two of us if we pressed together. There was no alternative. The temperature was plummeting. Hypothermia was a real, lurking danger.
We took off our wet outer layers, our movements stiff and awkward in the confined space. Clad in long johns and thermals, we slid into the sleeping bag. It was an immediate, shocking intimacy. The bag was a warm cocoon, but it was also a prison of proximity. There was no room for modesty, for the careful distance a mother usually keeps from her nearly grown son.
We ended up on our sides, facing the same way. It was the only way to fit. My back was flush against his chest, his knees tucked behind mine. His arm, heavy and unfamiliar, settled around my waist to keep us from falling out of the bag. I could feel the entire length of him against me, a solid, warm pressure in the oppressive cold.
“This is… cozy,” he muttered into my hair, his breath warm on my neck.
“Don’t get used to it,” I replied, my tone sharper than I intended. I was terrified. Terrified of the cold, of the storm, of the hard, muscular body pressed against mine. It had been so long since I’d been this close to anyone.
We lay in silence for a long time, listening to the storm rage. The initial shock of our position began to fade, replaced by a creeping awareness. The way his chest rose and fell against my back. The scent of him, no longer just my little boy’s smell, but something muskier, adult. My bum was nestled firmly into the cradle of his hips, a fact I was trying desperately to ignore.
Then I felt it. A subtle shift. A thickening, a hardening against the cleft of my buttocks. My breath hitched. It was unmistakable. Involuntary, surely. A biological response to warmth and proximity. I told myself that, repeating it like a mantra.
But it persisted, growing firmer, more insistent against me.
“Alan,” I said, my voice low and stern, a tone I hadn’t used on him since he was a child. “Behave yourself.”
He stiffened behind me. “I’m not doing anything,” he whispered, but his voice was thick, strained. “I can’t… help it. You’re right there.”
“Well, un-help it,” I snapped, my face burning with a shameful heat. “Think of something else.”
He tried to shift back, but there was nowhere to go. The rock wall was inches from his back. The attempt only made the friction worse. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying for the rain to stop, for dawn to break, for anything to break this unbearable tension.
We lay still again, a false, tense calm settling over us. The hardness against me softened, slightly. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe we could just sleep.
Then his arm around my waist tightened. Not much, just a subtle pull, drawing me even closer. His hips gave a slight, almost imperceptible roll. The hardness returned, fuller this time.
“Alan, stop,” I warned, but my voice lacked its earlier conviction. It was a tremor in the dark.
His lips found the nape of my neck. Not a kiss, just a press of warmth against my damp skin. A shiver, one that had nothing to do with the cold, wracked my entire body.
“You’re so warm, Mom,” he breathed, and the word ‘Mom’ sounded like a sin on his lips.
His hand on my stomach splayed open, his fingers stretching downward, brushing the waistband of my thermal leggings. I should have shoved him away. I should have screamed. But I was frozen, trapped not just by the rock and the sleeping bag, but by a need I had buried for years. A need his innocent—or not so innocent—touch was igniting.
“This is all,” I heard myself say, the words a weak, breathy concession. “Just… your hand. Nothing else. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” he murmured against my neck, and this time his lips moved, planting a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below my ear.
His hand slid lower, palm flat against my belly, then lower still, until his fingers were cupping me through the thin fabric of my leggings and panties. A jolt of pure electricity shot through me. I gasped, my head falling back against his shoulder. His fingers began to move, a slow, circular pressure over my clit. It was maddening. It was exquisite.
“You’re so wet,” he whispered, his voice husky with awe. “I can feel it through your clothes.”
I was. God help me, I was dripping. Each slow circle of his fingers sent waves of pleasure crashing through me, erasing a decade of loneliness. My hips began to move of their own accord, rocking back against his hard length, meeting the rhythm of his hand.
“I said… just your hand,” I moaned, the protest a hollow formality.
“I know,” he said, but his fingers hooked into the waistbands of both my leggings and my panties. In one swift, desperate move, he yanked them down to mid-thigh. The cold air hit my exposed skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his touch.
His fingers found me bare, slick and throbbing. He groaned, a raw, animal sound. One finger, then two, slid inside me with an easy, devastating certainty. My eyes rolled back in my head. His thumb found my clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles while his fingers plunged in and out.
“Alan… oh, God…” I was losing control, my body clenching around his invading fingers, climbing higher and higher.
“I want to feel you,” he growled into my ear, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. “I want to feel you come on my fingers.”
That was all it took. The coil inside me snapped. A silent, seismic orgasm tore through me, my body seizing, my back arching as I pressed myself against him, my mouth open in a soundless cry. Waves of pleasure pulsed around his fingers, milking them, claiming them.
As the last tremors subsided, a new, more potent need took hold. An emptiness. A deep, aching void that his fingers could no longer fill.
I was panting, spent but desperate. I reached behind me, fumbling for him, my fingers finding the hard, hot length straining against his thermal pants. I squeezed.
“Inside me,” I breathed, the words a dark and final surrender. “Now.”
He didn’t need telling twice. His own movements were frantic now, a mirror of my desperation. He wrestled his own pants down just enough to free himself. I felt him then, the slick, broad head of his cock pressing against my thigh, seeking.
He positioned himself behind me, spooning me tightly. His hand guided himself to my entrance. I felt him there, the blunt, insistent pressure of his mushroom head parting my slick folds.
“Are you sure?” he gasped, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of holding back.
In answer, I reached back, grabbed his hip, and pulled him into me.
He sank in. Slowly, inexorably, filling the emptiness, stretching me in a way I’d forgotten was possible. A low, guttural moan escaped us both. He was thick, and so deep in this position. He buried himself to the hilt, his pelvis flush against my bare buttocks, his groin a furnace against me.
He held still for a moment, both of us shuddering with the shock of it. Then he began to move. Short, deep thrusts that rubbed every perfect place inside me. The angle was incredible. Each drive of his hips ground his pelvis against my sensitive clit. One of his hands snaked around to fondle my breast, pinching my nipple through the thermal top, while the other held my hip, anchoring us together.
The sleeping bag was a sweaty, tangled mess around our waists. The rain continued to hammer on the world outside, but in our little cave, there were only our ragged breaths, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, and his low grunts in my ear.
“You feel… God, Mom… you feel so good,” he panted, his thrusts becoming harder, less controlled.
I was right there with him, teetering on the edge of another devastating climax. “Don’t stop,” I begged, my voice ragged. “Please, Alan, don’t stop. I can’t believe… I am letting you fuck my pussy… ahhh harder.”
My ass was slapping hard against him as he held my hips as he fucked my pussy from behind.
His pace became frantic, a wild, piston-like rhythm that pushed me over the edge. I came again, a scream trapped in my throat, my internal muscles clamping down on him like a vise. With a broken cry, he followed me over, his body slamming into mine one last time as he emptied himself deep inside me with a series of hot, pulsing jets.
We collapsed, a tangled, sweating, breathless heap in the dark. He softened inside me, but he didn’t pull out. His arms wrapped around me, holding me close as our heartbeats slowly settled into a rhythm.
The rain had softened to a gentle patter. We didn’t speak. There were no words for what we had done. There was only the warm, sticky evidence between my thighs and the terrifying, thrilling knowledge that something had broken between us forever, and we could never, ever put it back together.