The taxi ride was quiet. Too quiet. Mark was hunched in the corner. He always looked like that now. Like a heavy wet towel.
“You look nice, Mom,” he mumbled, but he didn’t look up. “Thanks, honey,” I said.
I tried to tell myself I looked nice. I’d dug out the black summer dress. It was tight, maybe too tight. I hadn’t worn it since before Mark’s dad left. The material was thin, clinging everywhere.
I’m fifty-two, but my body hasn’t totally given up. My tits are the best part, honestly. They are full, heavier now, but they still push right up in a deep, soft cleavage when I wear something low-cut like this. The black silky fabric felt cool against the skin stretched over my chest. I kept smoothing the skirt down over my hips, where the fabric strained a little.
I needed Mark to stop. Stop sitting in his room all day, stop that awful sound—the rhythmic, desperate sound—coming through the floorboards at night. He was twenty-five, lonely, and stuck.
“This is a singles party, Mom,” he had complained earlier. “It’s a party, Mark. People talk. Maybe you’ll meet a nice girl.”
I just needed him to get laid. Anyone.
The house was big and loud. The music was already too thumping for a Tuesday night. Everyone looked restless and a little desperate. Mark immediately found a corner table and stared at his drink.
I sighed and went to get us both another vodka. I felt like a massive fraud, dragging my depressed son into a room full of hungry strangers.
About an hour in, after I had smiled weakly at three men who looked too old, the host clapped his hands loudly. He was a guy in a velvet smoking jacket. Weird.
“Alright, everyone! Time for the icebreaker! The famous game of scent!”
A strange ripple went through the crowd.
“For the ladies,” the host boomed, holding up a stack of small, flimsy cloth bags. “We have a tradition here. It’s all about instinct. I need you to grab one of these, head to the loo, and deposit your panties inside. Write your number on the outside. Simple.”
My mouth went dry. Knickers? In a bag? This was insane.
Mark was looking at me, his eyes wide, probably hoping I’d grab him and run.
“Then,” the host continued, “the gentlemen will take the bags, smell them, and if the scent speaks to your soul, you seek out the woman who matches that number!”
This was humiliating. Gross. But then I looked across the room. I saw a few women already heading for the hallway, giggling nervously. I hadn’t had a decent night in years. And I was already half-drunk.
Maybe this was the risk I needed. A terrible, stupid risk.
“I’ll be right back, honey,” I said to Mark. He just nodded, looking terrified.
I grabbed a bag. It felt light and cheap. I walked quickly to the ladies’ room, my dress swishing tight around my legs. The line for the stalls was long. Everyone was buzzing, holding their little bags.
When it was my turn, I locked the door and leaned against the cold metal. My heart was pounding. My black dress was so tight, I had to hike it all the way up to my waist to reach my underwear.
The sight of my own flesh in the harsh fluorescent light made me pause. My thighs were soft, my stomach slightly loose, but my pussy felt full and warm.
I was nervous I wouldn’t have a strong enough scent. I wanted a connection tonight. I wanted someone to truly want me.
I pressed my fingers deep into my inner lips, rubbing lightly, making sure the moisture was on my fingertips, and then I smeared my fingers all over the inside cotton of the panties. It was a dark, private ritual. Shameful, but exciting. I was creating a signal.
I quickly slipped the damp cotton off and dropped them into the bag. I picked up the sharpie and scrawled: 44.
I straightened my dress again, pulling the tight black fabric back down. It felt strange to be standing there, totally bare underneath. Exposed.
I smoothed my hair and walked out, trying to look casual.
When I got back to the main room, the host was placing the numbered bags on long trestle tables. There must have been fifty of them.
The guys were circling, like vultures.
I spotted Mark. He was hesitant, near the back, but he was moving toward the table. Good. At least he was trying.
I tried to focus on an older man nearby who was smiling at my chest. He was pleasant.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m David. Are you a 28 or a 31?” I laughed, a little too loud. “I’m just enjoying the atmosphere.”
I kept glancing past David, tracking Mark.
He walked slowly, shoulders slumped. He picked up a bag labeled 23. He held it carefully. He pulled the fabric close to his face, near his nose. He took a sniff. He wrinkled his nose slightly and put it down. No connection there.
I felt a flash of relief for the woman who was number 23.
I chatted with David, trying to act normal while mentally cataloging where Mark was. He moved past 30, 39. He seemed nervous, giving only quick, polite sniffs.
Then he stopped. He stopped right in front of a bag near the end of the line.
44.
My blood went cold. Oh God. No.
I watched, frozen. My stomach twisted hard.
He picked it up. This time, he didn’t rush. He held the little bag firmly in both hands, bringing it right up to his face. His eyes closed.
He took a slow, deep inhale.
Then another. A longer one.
He was focused. He was really smelling it. He wasn’t just doing the game; he was studying the scent.
My cheeks were burning. I could feel the flush spreading down my neck, right to the edge of the low-cut dress. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move.
Mark spent longer on 44 than he had on all the other bags combined. He took one last, lingering breath, and when he opened his eyes, he had a strange, slightly dazed look on his face. He put the bag down, slowly, gently.
He liked it. He really, really liked it.
The realization hit me hard. My son was sniffing my knickers, and the smell of my pussy had just given him that look of complete, stunned absorption.
And the worst, most shameful part? My cunt tingled. It was a sharp, hot shock of pure, dark arousal. Knowing that the scent I had perfected, the scent of me, was what had finally broken through Mark’s depression and made him look like that—it was monstrously exhilarating.
Later, the party began to wind down. Mark hadn’t picked up another bag, and no one had come looking for 44. David had moved on.
We got a cab home. The alcohol had hit us both hard. We were giggling and leaning on each other.
“God, that was a weird party, Mom,” Mark slurred, fumbling with the apartment key.
“The weirdest, honey.” I giggled too. The low-cut dress kept slipping, and I kept pulling the top up nervously. I was incredibly drunk and felt strangely hollow—naked beneath my clothes.
We stumbled into the living room. The lights were too bright.
“I need water,” Mark groaned, heading toward the kitchen.
I sank onto the old couch. I couldn’t stop thinking about 44.
When Mark came back, he dropped heavily onto the other end of the sofa.
“So,” I said, my voice thick and slurry. I swallowed hard. “The game. You seemed very interested in a couple of those numbers.”
Mark blushed slightly, even through the booze. “Yeah, it was… strange, but some of them were nice. Really nice.”
“Did you have a favorite?” I asked, trying to sound casual, but my voice trembled.
He looked down at his lap. I could see the distinct, heavy bulge tenting his jeans. Hard. He was still horny from the scent.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “There was one. It was… clean, but really strong. Musky, I guess.”
I held my breath.
“What number was it, Mark?”
He fiddled with a thread on the sofa cushion. “Forty-four.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. It sounded like a drum.
“44,” I repeated.
“Yeah. I don’t know why. I just… I couldn’t stop smelling it.” He looked up at me, and his eyes were dark and confused, but full of heat. “It was the best one. I wish I could have found her.”
The air in the room suddenly felt too thick to breathe. I hadn’t been touched in four years. And my son, who hadn’t touched anyone but himself in months, was rock hard because of my scent.
“Mark,” I whispered. My throat felt tight.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“I have to tell you something. I was 44.”
He stared at me. His mouth opened but no sound came out. The confusion in his eyes morphed into a terrible, stunned comprehension.
“Mom, no. You… you did the game?”
“Yes. I went to the bathroom. I put them in the bag.” I confessed it quickly, hoping to get the embarrassment over with, but it only intensified the awful feeling stretching between us.
He didn’t move. He just looked from my face down to my breasts, which were swelling slightly over the low-cut fabric.
“You liked my scent, Mark,” I stated, my voice barely a whisper.
He nodded, slowly. “God, Mom. I loved it. I really loved it.”
His eyes were locked on mine, but they were also looking past me, staring at the realization that the powerful, intoxicating smell he was drawn to belonged to his mother.
I felt a wave of dizzying heat. I reached out, shaking, and placed my hand on his upper thigh, right next to the hard ridge in his jeans.
He gasped.
“Mom?”
“You’re so hard, honey,” I breathed. “You’re so horny.”
“I know. I was thinking about it the whole ride home. That smell. It just… got to me.” He reached for my hand on his leg, not to remove it, but to press it harder against him.
The feeling of his rigid cock beneath the denim sent a shudder through me. The alcohol, the loneliness, the primal smell game—it all exploded into one terrible need.
“I haven’t had sex in so long, Mark.”
“I haven’t… I know. I’m always just in my room.” His voice cracked.
He leaned forward, pulling me toward him until we crashed against the sofa. The contact was rough. His mouth found mine instantly—not a kiss, but a desperate, fumbling smash. It tasted like vodka and shame.
He didn’t hesitate. His hands grabbed the thin fabric of the black dress, bunching it up immediately.
“Oh God, Mom, I can smell it still,” he groaned against my lips.
His hands were heavy on my breasts. The tight dress offered no resistance. They spilled out of the low neckline, large and soft and aching for his touch.
“Mark, ahh, yes,” I panted. “Feel them. They’re so full, baby.”
He was grasping them greedily, kneading the heavy flesh with a desperate strength I forgot he had.
“So big, Mom. So soft,” he muttered, his breath hot against my cleavage.
He dragged the dress higher and higher, bunching it up around my waist. The sight of my completely bare, open body seemed to electrify him.
He pulled back just enough to look, his eyes wide, shining in the dim light. He saw my pussy. The dark, damp curls I had rubbed just hours earlier.
“You don’t have them on,” he whispered, amazed.
“No, honey. You have them.”
He pushed the dress higher, pinning it with his elbow, exposing everything. He was kneeling between my legs on the couch, shaking.
“Please, Mom. I need this. I need you.”
“I need you too, Mark. Hurry. Put it in me.”
He fumbled desperately with the zipper of his jeans. The sound of the metal scraping open was loud in the quiet room. He sprang out, already slick and huge.
He was shaking so much, finding my wet entrance was difficult.
“God, Mom, wait, ah!” he groaned.
“Just push, honey! You can do it!” I grabbed his hips, guiding him. My own breath was coming in ragged gasps. “Push hard!”
A sharp, painful pressure, then a deep, glorious warmth. He was in. Fully.
I cried out, a mixture of shock and release. “Oh! Mark! Yes!”
He paused for a second, his face buried in my neck, groaning. “It’s so tight. So good.”
“It’s been so long. Too long,” I whispered back, pulling his hips close. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
He started moving. Slow, desperate, animalistic thrusts.
Thump. Thump. Thump. The couch springs groaned under our weight.
“You feel so wet, Mom. So much hotter than I thought.”
“Ah! Yes! Harder, Mark. Faster!” I was bucking underneath him, my heel kicking the sofa cushion.
The dialogue was gone, replaced by urgent, ragged breathing and guttural sounds.
“Oh God! God! I’m going to—Ah! Mom! I can’t stop!” He was panting heavily, his chest heaving against mine.
“Don’t stop! Cum inside me! Please! Oh, yes, Mark! YES! Your making my pussy feel so good.”
He shuddered violently, a deep, final set of thrusts, pouring himself into me with a long, raw groan. He collapsed instantly, heavy, breathing hard, face nestled into my shoulder.
We lay there, panting, sweating, the smell of sex heavy around us. The black dress was soaked and bunched around my waist. He was still inside me, slack and heavy.
A long, silent minute passed.
Then, Mark lifted his head, eyes wide, staring right at me. The realization of what had just happened, what they had done, settled over his features. The dark, post-coital satisfaction was quickly replaced by confusion and horror.
“Mom,” he whispered, his voice thin and shaky.
“I know, honey,” I managed, stroking his damp hair.
We were utterly naked beneath my dress, tangled up, spent, and very, very drunk. The silence that followed was heavy, awkward, and truly terrifying. We had finally connected, but in the deepest, darkest, most ruinous way possible.