I worked with my dad, it was a little father-and-son garage we ran together. The air always smelled like oil and metal, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes no matter how much you washed them.
Miss Davis pulled up just before lunch, her red convertible gliding into the bay like it was part of a show. She stepped out in a fitted white blouse and a pencil skirt that hugged her in all the right ways, heels clicking against the concrete floor. Her perfume hit before her voice did—something floral but sharp enough to make you turn your head.
“Morning, boys,” she said, sliding her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. “Think you can have her fixed by the end of the day? I’ve got somewhere to be tonight.”
I swear, even my dad straightened up a little.
“We’ll see what we can do, Miss Davis,” he said, trying not to stare as she leaned over the bonnet her blouse slightly open and showing her bra slightly.
After she left, the garage felt quieter, like all the air had gone with her.
“Dad, she was hot,” I said, grabbing a wrench.
He chuckled under his breath. “Yeah… she was something. Don’t tell your mum I said that.”
“So, you and Mum got anything planned for today? Big anniversary and all.”
He froze, eyes wide. “Oh, bloody hell… I totally forgot.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of grease. “Mike, maybe you can help your old man out here, yeah? I’ll work on the car, and you nip to the shop—flowers, chocolates, whatever you can find. Drop them off for your mum and tell her they’re from me.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re lucky she loves you, you know that?”
He grinned. “Yeah, but right now, I’m lucky I’ve got you.”
I sighed, but there was a smile playing on my lips. It was classic Dad. He was a wizard with an engine, but sometimes the simplest things slipped his mind. “Alright, alright, give me some cash then, old man.”
He fumbled in his greasy wallet, pulling out a couple of twenties. “Just make sure they’re nice, son. And don’t forget the card. Something mushy, you know how your mum likes it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Got it. Mushy, nice, from you. Wish me luck.”
I wiped my hands on a rag, grabbed my keys, and headed out into the afternoon sun. The air outside the garage was crisp, a welcome change from the heavy scent of oil. First stop, the flower shop down the street. I picked out a vibrant bouquet of her favourite lilies and a box of fancy dark chocolates – the kind she only let herself have on special occasions. The card was awkward; I ended up writing something generic about “another wonderful year” and signed it “Love, Henry.” It felt weird forging his sentimentality, but duty called.
Back in my beat-up truck, I made the short drive home. The house was quiet when I pulled into the driveway. Dad had been vague about what Mom might be doing, but knowing her, she’d probably be tidying up or getting ready for their evening out – or maybe just relaxing after a long day of teaching.
I unlocked the front door, the old wood groaning faintly. “Mum? It’s me, Mike!” I called out, not wanting to surprise her. No answer. Maybe she was in the shower? I kicked off my work boots by the door, trying to make as little noise as possible. The flowers and chocolates felt heavy in my hands.
I walked through the living room, heading towards the kitchen, thinking I’d leave them on the counter with a note. As I passed the foot of the stairs, I heard a soft rustling from upstairs, then a low hum, a tune Mom often sang when she was happy. And then… a door creaked open.
“Honey? Is that you?” Mom’s voice floated down, a little breathy, a little softer than usual. “Mmmm, left Mikey at work to come see to me huh. I am in the bedroom blindfolded. Don’t talk honey just give me it.”
I froze, mid-step, my heart slamming against my ribs like a piston in a stuck engine. Blindfolded? This was not the simple drop-and-dash operation I had signed up for.
I was caked in motor oil and WD-40 residue; my hands were black under the grime. If I spoke, she’d know immediately. If I left, Dad’s anniversary was ruined for good.
The dilemma lasted maybe two seconds. Dad was depending on me. I ditched the bag of chocolates on the nearest hallway table, clutching the bouquet of lilies, and slowly, silently ascended the carpeted stairs. Each step felt like a mile; every creak of the old wood was deafening.
The bedroom door was indeed ajar. I pushed it open gently with my elbow. Oh shit, she was on the bed naked and blindfolded, her tits I had never seen before. Her pussy neatly clean shaven, my dick went solid in seconds. I placed her chocs and flowers on the dresser and got onto the bed nervously.
The mattress on the old oak frame sighed beneath my weight as I slipped onto the bed, trying to keep my denim-clad legs from brushing against hers. The scent of her perfume, now mixed with the musky heat of arousal, was almost too much to bear, a heady combination that both terrified and thrilled me. She lay perfectly still, the silk blindfold taut across her eyes, her chest rising and falling in shallow, expectant breaths.
I moved with the agonizing precision of someone diffusing a bomb. My jeans felt skin-tight and abrasive against the thick, throbbing length of my erection. The immediate, overwhelming task was to ready myself without making a single sound that wasn’t expected physical contact.
I shifted my hips just enough to reach the zipper of my work jeans. It was already a battle against the pressure inside the fabric. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, I pulled the zipper down, muffling the metallic rasp with a fold of the blanket. My cock sprang free, instantly thick, heavy, and hot—pulsating with a mixture of fear and pure lust. I looked at her pussy as I slowly jerked my cock in my hand. Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this, I thought as I laid between her legs.
I pressed my lips together so tightly my jaw ached, fighting the urge to gasp or groan. I had to move fast. The heavy, pressurized throb of my cock needed more than just sheer friction against her incredibly slick skin. I leaned my head slightly, turning away from her face and gathering a thick glob of saliva in my mouth. It tasted metallic, like the oil residue still clinging to my mustache. I spat discreetly into the roughened palm of my right hand, the sound swallowed by the thick pile of the carpet just beneath the bed. Quickly, I smeared the warm, heavy liquid over the head and shaft of my thick erection. The immediate slickness was startling, a necessary evil against the dry air and the sheer impossibility of what I was doing.
My heart pounded a rhythm against the mattress that I prayed she couldn’t hear over the blood rushing in her own ears. I shuffled forward on my knees, the already-open fly of my denim jeans scraping subtly against the satin sheets. I positioned myself directly between her magnificent legs. They were slightly parted, welcoming, her knees bent just enough to offer perfect access.
My hands, still grimy and smelling faintly of transmission fluid, hovered over her inner thighs. I risked a touch—my fingertips brushing the smooth, silken skin, tracing up to the soft, surprising mound of her pubic bone. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she gasped, a small, choked sound of anticipation, and shifted her hips slightly, tilting her pelvis up in a blind, silent invitation. That sound, that tiny movement, was all the permission I needed. It was too late to be Mike; I was Henry now.
I guided myself. I needed absolute precision. I held the head of my cock with my greasy thumb and forefinger, steadying the thick muscle as I lined it up with the neat, damp split of her pussy. The scent was incredible—clean soap, her familiar floral perfume, and the sharp, coppery fragrance of immediate, undeniable heat. I pressed the tip against her. She bucked slightly, a silent signal of surprise at the sudden, firm pressure of my entry. Then, she relaxed, opening just a fraction more, her inner muscles already clenching around the pressure.
I pushed in, slowly. Slowly.
The resistance was immediate, but soft, yielding—a velvet barrier giving way to urgent need. It was tight, incredibly warm, and wet enough that the spit-lube wasn’t necessary, but helpful. I was buried past the head instantly, and her body swallowed the rest of me easily. I was fully inside my mother.
The sheer, staggering magnitude of the transgression hit me then, a paralyzing wave of shock, yet it was overridden by the raw, animal relief of being home. My hips froze, inching slightly above hers, the length of my cock fully embedded, throbbing deep in her core.
She sensed the pause. Her hand moved, blindly searching for me across the sheets. It found my hip, the coarse denim of my open jeans, then slid upward, and, startlingly, clasped the small of my back, her fingers digging in, urging me forward. She believed I was teasing her.
“Don’t stop, Henry,” she whispered, her voice husky, strained, and unrecognizable in its intensity. “Please. Now. You know how much I need it tonight.”
That command broke the spell of fear. I thrust, a deep, rhythmic plunge that drove me to the absolute hilt, feeling the sharp, momentary pressure against my bladder as I bottomed out inside her. The noise was only the wet, rhythmic, sucking sound of skin on skin, the groan of the old oak mattress springs beneath us, and her escalating, breathless moans.
I focused on the movement, the pure mechanical act of coupling, trying to lose myself in the overwhelming sensation of her interior grip. She was perfect. The tightness, the slick heat, the way her body accommodated my size—it was a revelation. I maintained a steady, deep rhythm, driving into her with an urgency fueled by months of subconscious desire and the absolute panicked need to satisfy her and get out before Dad called.
My chest was inches above hers, slick with sweat and the faint scent of garage oil mixing with her expensive perfume. She reached up, blindly, her fingers finding my hair—my hair, which was slightly longer and thicker than Dad’s, but she didn’t notice. She pulled my head down, missing my mouth, and let her fingers tangle in the grease-filmed strands.
“God, Henry,” she whispered, the words trembling against my ear as I drove into her again and again, deeper, faster. “I forgot how much I love it when you take me like this. Hard. Just like this.”
The lie was intoxicating. Her need, her passion, all directed at me, thinking I was the man she loved. I used my silence as a weapon, letting my body speak for the forgery.
I slid my hands beneath the curve of her hips, lifting her slightly, angling her pelvis to allow for even deeper penetration. Each thrust was an electric shock, meeting the deep, hidden pressure center inside her. Her breath hitched. Her legs tightened, anchoring me. Her toes curled against the sheets.
I watched her face, the way the blindfold emphasized the flush across her cheeks, the parted lips that let out tiny, ragged gasps. I was driving her wild. I slowed the pace just enough to draw out the agony, sliding all the way out until only the tip remained, and then slamming back in, meeting her rising hips halfway.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
“Yes,” she whimpered, “Oh, God, that’s it, Henry, don’t hold back. I’m almost there! Bring me with you!”
The realization that she was close, combined with the extreme danger of the situation, pushed me off the edge. My muscles locked. I slammed into her one final, impossibly deep time, holding the position, and let out a huge, silent, shuddering breath as my body convulsed.
The knot of my tension broke, and the hot, thick explosion of my seed surged deep inside her. It felt like a release of all the repressed air, all the fear, and all the desperate lust I’d held for years.
She cried out as I came, a high, desperate sound. Her hips bucked violently against mine, her inner muscles squeezing my draining length with a relentless, exquisite force.
For a long moment, we were frozen. My weight was heavy on her, my breathing ragged and fast. She tightened her arms around my neck, pulling me close, burying her face in my shoulder.
“Happy Anniversary, my love,” she sighed, the exhaustion and pleasure thick in her voice.
I couldn’t answer. I just kept my face pressed into her hair, still breathing heavily, my cock slowly shrinking inside her tight warmth.
I had to pull out. Now.
I managed to stabilize my breathing, gave one final, slow grind of my hips inside her just for good measure, and then, carefully, silently, began to withdraw. The sound of wet suction as my cock slid free was loud in the sudden quiet of the room.
She made a contented murmur and released me, settling back onto the pillows. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t look. I needed to move, dress, and escape this bedroom before she realized the smell of oil was fresh, not hours old, or before she reached up and found the youthful sharpness of my jaw instead of Dad’s slightly slackened skin.
I slid off the bed, pulling my soiled denim jeans up over my still-trembling hips, fumbling with the zipper. I grabbed the flowers and chocolates I’d left on the dresser—the anniversary gifts that had initiated this entire catastrophe—and placed them gently on her nightstand, next to the bed. A silent delivery. Mission accomplished, Mike.
I gave the bed one last look. She was lying there, completely spent, still blindfolded, a satisfied smile playing on her lips.
I turned and slipped out the door, closing it with agonizing care. I flew down the stairs, heart still hammering, grabbed my work boots, and bolted out the front door, leaving the quiet house behind. The flowers and chocolates were now delivered. The anniversary, against all odds, was saved.
But the secret—the heavy, sticky, hot secret that smelled of motor oil and lilies—was now buried deep between us. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would never be able to look at my mother the same way again.