Neil lived an intensely ordinary life in London, an eighteen-year-old tethered to the familiar comfort of his mother’s flat. He stood at the threshold of manhood, but his deepest anxiety was intensely physical: the scale of his own body. It was a private, nagging shame of the size of his penis. He wasn’t ‘big’ down there. He was still a virgin at 18, yes 18.
He was a silent, hungry observer. He lived perpetually in a world of fantasy, tracking the alluring curves of women he saw—the decisive swell of a chest, the enticing line of a skirt over hips. He yearned for connection, but the thought of actual closeness paralyzed him. His confidence was threadbare.
It didn’t help that his environment was volatile. His mother, a woman of casual audacity, dressed as if nudity were merely a minor inconvenience. Her wardrobe favoured short, insistent skirts, and tops cut severely low, displaying an unavoidable spectacle every single day.
One Tuesday morning, the kitchen air was thick with the scent of burnt toast and tension.
“Morning, sweetie,” she chirped, her voice too bright for the hour.
She was wearing a sheer silk camisole, the colour of cream, and practically nothing else. She moved toward the refrigerator, needing the milk carton Neil had left on the counter.
She leaned over him, her shoulder brushing his arm.
In that sudden, startling shift of gravity, the low-cut neckline of the silk gaped open. Neil’s eyes, without permission, fell directly into the warm, revealing geography of her chest.
He froze, his fork faltering halfway to his mouth. He registered the soft curve of her breast, the shadow beneath the fabric—a view too intimate, too close, and too casually offered.
She straightened, oblivious to his internal panic. But it was to late, he was hard. No I shouldn’t be getting hard over my Mum. Also, she bent down to pick some thing up. Her skirt rode up high, he could see a glimpse of her red knickers.
“Honestly, Neil,” she sighed, adjusting the fragile strap on her shoulder. “You leave things everywhere.”
The air felt thick, charged with a strange new energy. Neil’s heart hammered against his ribs. He was painfully aware of the tightness in his jeans, a direct and shameful result of the accidental glimpse. He dropped his fork. It clattered loudly on the plate, breaking the silence.
His mother turned, her brow furrowed. “Everything alright, sweetie? You’ve gone all red.”
“I am fine,” he mumbled, his voice a choked croak. He shifted in his seat, trying to hide the obvious bulge. His mind raced. Not her. Anyone but her. This is wrong.
She shrugged and bent down again to retrieve a fallen tea towel. The motion was fluid, thoughtless. Her short skirt rode up again, higher this time. The scarlet lace of her knickers was fully visible, a stark contrast against her pale skin.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of torment for Neil. Every time he closed his eyes, the image flashed: the sheer silk, the pale curve, the scarlet lace. A constant, gnawing shame burned in his gut.
He avoided his mother entirely, retreating to his room. He tried to lose himself in video games, but the aggressive digital action couldn’t drown out his thoughts. His mind was a mess of confusing, electric impulses. He felt arousal, yes, but it was poisoned by a deep, sickening guilt.
“Neil?” Her voice, slightly slurred, called from the living room hours later. “Could you come here a moment?”
He hesitated, his hand frozen on his doorknob. The sound was different. Heavier. He ventured out.
The sight in the living room made his breath catch. The lights were dim. An empty wine bottle lay on its side on the coffee table. Another was half-empty. His mother was slumped on the old creaky sofa. Her posture was loose, her eyes glassy. The air smelled sweet and sour with cheap Merlot.
She had changed into a thin, satin nightdress. It had slipped off one shoulder.
“You’ve been hiding from me all day,” she slurred.
Neil stood rigidly by the doorframe. “You’re drunk, Mum.”
“Just… relaxed,” she corrected, waving a dismissive hand. The movement made her wobble on the sofa. “Come. Sit. Talk to your mum.”
Neil stood frozen in the doorway. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of wine. His mother’s eyes were unfocused. Her satin nightdress shimmered in the dim light. It had slipped down even further, revealing the smooth curve of her breasts.
“I’m fine, Mum. You should sleep it off,” he said. His voice was tight.
She gave a loose, wobbly wave. “Don’t be so serious. Come here.”
He took a hesitant step into the room. The floorboards creaked under his weight. Every instinct screamed at him to turn and run.
She patted the sofa. “Talk to me. You’ve been so quiet.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He kept his distance. His eyes stayed fixed on a stain on the carpet.
“Is it a girl?” she asked. Her words slurred together.
“No,” Neil answered, his voice cracking. “It’s not a girl.”
His mother gave a slow, drunken blink. “It’s always a girl. Or the lack of one.” She shifted, and the satin whispered against her skin. The neckline dipped perilously low. “You can tell me. I’m your mother. I know things.”
Neil’s throat was sandpaper. He could smell her perfume mixed with the sour wine. It was a confusing, intimate scent. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He focused on the frayed edge of the Persian rug.
“You don’t know anything,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. Truth was, he has never been with a girl, but as seen a lot of porn and the way is mum looked in that nightie is mind started to wander.
His mother’s face softened with a drunken, misplaced sympathy. “Oh, sweetie. I do. I was young once.” She gestured vaguely at his rigid posture, his averted eyes. “It’s written all over you. The tension. The fear. It’s okay to be nervous.”
A bitter, hysterical laugh caught in Neil’s throat. Nervous wasn’t the word. He was terrified. Of himself. Of her. Of the chasm between his fantasies and the terrifying reality of a woman.
“It’s not that simple,” he forced out.
“It is,” she insisted, her voice taking on a know-it-all tone that grated on him. “You just… find a nice girl. You talk to her. You buy her a drink. It’s easy.”
Something inside Neil snapped. The condescension, the obliviousness, the sheer, unbearable ordinariness of her advice against the monumental chaos inside him.
“You think it’s about buying a drink?” he exploded, his voice cracking with a new, raw power. “You think I don’t want to talk to them? Look at them?”
He took a step forward, his own anger shocking him. His mother blinked, her drunken haze receding for a second under the force of his outburst.
“Then what is it, Neil?” she asked, her voice quieter now.
The words tumbled out. He couldn’t stop them. They were a truth so deeply buried it had festered, and now it demanded air.
“It’s me!” he shouted, jabbing a finger at his own chest. “It’s all me! I’m… I’m not built like them. Like the men in films. Or on websites. I’m not… enough.”
The confession hung in the air, ugly and stark. His face burned with a humiliation so complete he felt dizzy.
His mother stared, her mouth slightly agape. The silence stretched, taut and painful.
“What are you talking about?” she finally whispered, genuine confusion in her bloodshot eyes.
“I’m a virgin!” The admission was a roar of pain. “Okay? Eighteen years old and I’ve never… because I know… I know I’ll be a joke. They’ll laugh. The second my pants are off, it’ll be over. How am I supposed to… to do any of that… when I’m… inadequate?”
He spat the last word out like poison. He was breathing heavily, his whole body trembling. He had laid his deepest shame at her feet, in her drunken, half-naked state. He expected her to laugh. To be disgusted. To dismiss him.
Instead, her expression shifted. The drunkenness was still there, but a flicker of maternal instinct broke through. It was a clumsy, alcohol-soaked instinct, but it was real.
“Oh, Neil,” she breathed. She moved to stand, wobbling unsteadily. “No. That’s… that’s not what matters.”
“Don’t!” he barked, holding a hand up. He sat down on the couch next to her. “Don’t give me the ‘it’s what you do with it’ speech. I’ve read it all online. It’s lies people tell to make guys like me feel better.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” she said, her voice gaining a sliver of steadiness. She gripped the back of the sofa for support. “I was going to say… confidence matters more. A woman who cares… she won’t…”
Neil let out a sharp, derisive laugh and without thinking pulled his zipper down and pulled his cock out. “Confidence? Look at me! Do I look confident? Look at it.”
Her drunken haze shattered. Her eyes, wide and startled, flicked down for only a second before locking onto his face. She didn’t gasp. She didn’t scream. She just stared, her expression unreadable.
“I… I mean, it doesn’t look bad. Sure it may look small when… when it is soft, and who cares if you are a virgin,” she slurred, reaching for the wine bottle to pour another glass. But she couldn’t help but keep looking at it, which he noticed as he stared at her tits and it began to harden. “I shouldn’t say this, but you have a nice cock.”
“I…” she began, her voice husky. “I mean it. It’s… it’s fine. It’s more than fine.” She forced her eyes up to his, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. “You’re a handsome boy, Neil. Any girl would be… Do you… really wanna lose your virginity.”
“Yeah right, who with?” Neil said as he stared at his mothers chest again, as he was staring his cock started to get hard.
She lounged on the couch, slipping her hands beneath her nightgown to tug down her scarlet knickers. They fell to the floor, and Neil’s mouth gaped open, his erection throbbing harder.
“Well, get on with it,” she slurred, “before I change my mind. Hop on top of me.”
Neil, still exposed, fumbled out of his jeans. He positioned himself between her thick thighs. “I’ve never actually done this before, Mum,” he confessed nervously.
“No worries,” she soothed, reaching down to grasp his cock. She lifted her legs and rest them on each of his shoulders as she brushed the head of his cock up and down her labia and slit. “Let me help you in.”
She guided him in swiftly.
There was a moment of sharp, unexpected resistance, then a tearing sensation that made Neil suck air through his teeth. He was now fully inside her vagina with his heavy balls resting against her clit.
The air left Neil’s lungs in a silent whoosh. He was in. The world tilted. A dizzying mix of pain and pleasure shot through him, foreign and raw. The tightness was shocking, overwhelming. He could feel the warmth, the wetness, the undeniable reality of it. His balls, heavy and full, gently pressed against her clit, a further jolt of sensation. This was it. The thing he’d feared, longed for, obsessed over, now a terrifying, bewildering truth. And it was with his mother.
Her legs, surprisingly strong despite her drunken state, held firm on his shoulders. The satin of her nightdress was soft against his bare skin. He could feel the pulse thrumming in his temples, echoing the frantic beat of his heart. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps above him, smelling of wine and something else, something primal and female.
He was frozen, impaled. Every muscle in his body was screaming, a high-pitched, silent scream of shock and disbelief. This was not the fantasy. This was not the porn. This was real, messy, horrifying, and utterly inescapable.
“There you go,” she slurred, her voice a low murmur against his ear, sending shivers down his spine. Her hands, still grasping him, squeezed gently at the base of his shaft. “See? Nothing to worry about.”
Nothing to worry about? His mind reeled. He was inside his mother. The phrase echoed in his head, a mantra of transgression. But beneath the horror, a different current ran, a dark, hot river of pure, animalistic sensation. The tightness was exquisite, a pressure he’d never known, a boundary crossed. He could feel the deep, soft yielding of her flesh around him.
He dared to look down, his gaze blurring past his own body, past the thrust of his hips, to the place where they joined. It was an obscene, beautiful tableau in the dim light. Her legs were splayed, her inner thighs pale against his darker skin. The thin satin was bunched around her waist, revealing the dark triangle where they were connected. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, but it wasn’t from exertion; it was from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of the moment.
“Move, Neil,” she whispered, nudging him slightly with her hips. Her voice was husky now, less slurred, a strange, commanding tone he hadn’t heard before. It was the voice of a woman, not a mother. Or perhaps, it was both, terrifyingly intertwined.
He couldn’t. His body was a block of concrete. He felt a profound sense of shame, of revulsion, but also a burning need. The blood rushed and pounded in his ears. He was hard, throbbing, fully engaged, despite the mental alarm bells screeching in his brain.
She shifted again, a slow, deliberate tilt of her pelvis. It was enough. The subtle movement sent another jolt through him, deeper this time, a friction that was both raw and unbelievably stimulating. His breath hitched.
He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut, trying to block out the image, the reality of it. But he couldn’t block out the feeling. It was everywhere, encompassing him, drawing him in. The warmth was like a furnace, the pressure like a vise. His body, on some primal level, was responding with an urgency that terrified him.
“Don’t stop,” she murmured, her voice laced with an undeniable pleasure that twisted his gut. It was a sound he shouldn’t be hearing from her. A sound that belonged to someone else.
He opened his eyes again. Her face was flushed, her eyes half-closed. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips. She looked different. Undone. Not the mother who scolded him to do his homework, or made him dinner. This was a stranger, wrapped in his mother’s skin, consumed by a drunken, primal desire.
He felt a sudden, frantic urge to pull out, to undo this impossible mistake. But his body wouldn’t obey. It was caught, trapped by the intoxicating grip of her flesh, by the sheer novelty of the experience. Every nerve ending was alight.
His hands, which had been frozen at his sides, now moved, almost involuntarily. They found her hips, gripping the soft flesh beneath the satin. Her skin was warm, surprisingly firm. He pulled her closer, a slight, almost imperceptible movement, and the friction intensified.
A low moan escaped her lips. It was a soft, guttural sound, deeply unsettling. It was the sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. And it was coming from his mother.
He felt a wave of nausea, a dizzying mix of disgust and excitement. This was wrong. So wrong. But the sensations were too powerful to deny. His body was taking over, driven by years of pent-up frustration and a sudden, violent release of hormones.
His hips began to move, tentatively at first, a small, almost experimental thrust. Then another. And another. Each movement was met with a low sigh from her, a deepening of her breathing. He could feel her tightening around him, responding to his rhythm.
The room began to spin. The scent of Merlot, her perfume, a new, musky scent that was intensely sexual, filled his nostrils. He could hear the creak of the sofa beneath them, a rhythmic counterpoint to their movements.
He stared at her face, trying to find his mother there, the woman who had tucked him into bed, read him stories. But all he saw was flushed cheeks, half-closed eyes, and lips parted in a silent gasp. This was a woman consumed by sensation, a woman he barely recognized.
His pace quickened. The shame was still there, a dull ache beneath the roaring storm of sensation, but it was being drowned out. He was moving, thrusting, driven by an instinct he hadn’t known he possessed. The initial awkwardness gave way to a clumsy, desperate rhythm.
Her hands moved from his base, sliding up his back, her nails digging gently into his skin. He felt a jolt, a surge of adrenaline. Her touch, intimate and possessive, was electrifying. He was no longer just a boy. In this moment, in this horrible, beautiful act, he was a man. Or at least, he was finally doing what men did.
He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. He could feel the warmth of her skin, smell the wine on her breath. He could feel her heart pounding beneath his chest, a frantic echo of his own. Their breaths mingled, ragged and strained.
“Oh, Neil,” she murmured again, her voice almost a sob. “Yes. That’s it.”
Her words, simple and direct, sent a fresh wave of heat through him. She was acknowledging him. Acknowledging this. It was a strange validation, twisted and perverted, but a validation nonetheless.
He continued, his movements becoming more forceful, more desperate. He was lost in the rhythm, lost in the overwhelming sensations. The world outside the small, dim living room had ceased to exist. There was only the creak of the sofa, the smell of wine and sex, the feel of her body moving beneath his, around his.
He felt the tension building, a coil winding tighter and tighter inside him. It was a sensation he’d only ever imagined, a culmination he’d only ever seen portrayed on screens. Now it was real, raw, and almost unbearable.
His vision blurred. He could feel himself nearing the edge, hovering on the precipice. The shame, the terror, the confusion – all of it was being swept away by the rising tide of pure, physical release. It was a dangerous, exhilarating freedom. Freedom from his own inadequacy, if only for this fleeting moment.
He thrust one last time, deep and hard, and then everything exploded. A guttural cry ripped from his throat, a sound he barely recognized as his own. He convulsed, his body shuddering violently, emptying himself into her. The warmth, the pressure, the sheer, overwhelming ecstasy of it, consumed him entirely.
He slumped forward, his weight pressing down on her. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart hammering in his chest like a trapped bird. The intensity slowly receded, leaving behind a profound emptiness, a deep, unsettling silence.
Her legs slowly lowered from his shoulders, resting on the sofa. Her hands, which had been gripping his back, now lay limply at her sides. The soft whisper of satin was the only sound in the room for a long moment.
He lay there, still inside her, the warmth slowly dissipating. The scent of wine and sex now felt suffocating. The reality of what had just happened began to creep back in, slowly, inexorably, like a cold tide.
The initial shock, the overwhelming sensation, had momentarily blotted out everything else. But now, it was returning, sharper, more defined, and infinitely more horrifying. He had just had sex with his mother. The thought was a hammer blow to his gut.
He slowly lifted his head, pushing himself up on his forearms. Her eyes were now closed, her face still flushed, a small, contented smile still on her lips. She was breathing deeply, evenly. She looked asleep. Drunk. Oblivious.
A fresh wave of nausea washed over him. He felt dirtied, violated, and yet, paradoxically, strangely… fulfilled. The conflicting emotions were a maelstrom in his chest, tearing him apart.
He carefully, slowly, began to withdraw. The movement was awkward, sticky. He hated the sound, the wet, squelching noise of their separation. It was a sound that would haunt his nightmares.
He pulled entirely free, shivering slightly, though the room wasn’t cold. He was sticky, warm, covered in a strange, primal scent. He scrambled off the sofa, fumbling for his jeans on the floor. His hands trembled so violently he could barely pull them on. He zipped up, the sound loud in the sudden, oppressive silence of the room.
His mother didn’t stir. She lay there, on the sofa, her nightdress still dishevelled, her knickers a scarlet puddle on the floor. Her face was a mask of drunken peace.
Neil stared at her, his vision blurry with unshed tears and a profound sense of horror. He had wanted to lose his virginity. He had wanted to feel like a man. And now… now he had done it. But the cost. The unbearable, unimaginable cost.
He turned, stumbling slightly, and walked out of the living room, leaving her there, alone in the dim light, with the empty wine bottles and the lingering, sweet-sour smell of Merlot. He didn’t look back. His chest felt hollowed out, his head a confused mess of images and sensations he wished he could scrub clean from his mind. He just wanted to escape. To run. To pretend this never happened. But the undeniable warmth, the phantom pressure, the lingering scent on his skin, told him it had. And it would never leave him.