The July sun was already blazing early in the morning, making the air feel thick and heavy even before I had my coffee. I rushed around the house, grabbing my bag, checking my phone, trying to make sure I had everything before heading out the door. Then it hit me—Where are my damn keys?
I sighed, tossing cushions off the couch, rummaging through drawers, even checking the fridge (don’t ask). Nothing. Ugh, not today.
I glanced at the clock—I’m gonna be late.
My son, Jake, usually kept his keys on his desk. Maybe I could just borrow his for the day. I knew he was home—his door was shut—so I walked over and knocked lightly. No answer.
Sleeping in again, huh? I thought, rolling my eyes. Teenagers.
I hesitated before turning the knob. “Jake?” I called softly as I pushed the door open.
And then—oh God.
There he was, sitting in his chair, completely lost in whatever was playing on his laptop. His body was turned slightly sideways, his hand moving between his legs at a steady pace. By the sounds coming from the laptop he was watching porn.
My stomach dropped.
At first, I couldn’t see much—just the back of his hand, the tense muscles in his forearm, the way his hips moved slightly. Then, hearing the creak of the door, he suddenly turned toward me.
I heard a voice from the porn video on the laptop say, “Arghh mom ahh your pussy feels so good.” Wait… was he watching taboo porn.
His eyes widened.
“Jesus!” he yelped, ripping off his headphones. His free hand shot to his laptop, slamming it shut—but not before I saw flashes of skin on the screen, not before his other hand let go of himself—giving me a very clear view of exactly what he’d been working with.
Oh my God.
His cock sprang free, thick and hard, standing up against his stomach. My brain short-circuited.
I’d seen him naked before, of course—he was my son, I’d bathed him as a baby, seen him run around in his underwear as a kid. But this?
This wasn’t a boy anymore.
He scrambled, grabbing the nearest T-shirt to cover himself. “Mom! What the hell?!”
I blinked, snapping out of it. My throat felt dry. “I—uh—sorry, I just needed your keys.” My voice sounded weird, shaky.
He was red-faced, pissed and flustered. “You could’ve knocked!”
“I did knock!”
He huffed, grabbing his keys off the desk and chucking them toward me without looking. “Just—go.”
I caught them, stepping back quickly, pulling the door shut behind me. My heart pounded in my ears.
What the hell just happened?
I stood frozen for a second, gripping his keys way too tight. My face burned. That could not have just happened.
Shaking my head, I forced myself to move, heading for the garage. My hands trembled as I unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat.
The engine roared to life, but my mind was stuck on one thing—that split second when his cock had been completely exposed.
Big. So big.
The last time I’d seen it, he was like, what? Twelve? Tiny, soft, nothing. Now?
Now he was huge.
I gripped the wheel, trying to focus on the road, but my thoughts kept circling back.
There’s no way that’s real.
My husband—his dad—wasn’t exactly packing. Average, maybe even on the smaller side. I’d never minded, never cared. But Jake?
That thing was not from his father’s genes.
I squeezed my thighs together instinctively, a pulse of heat running through me.
Stop it.
I bit my lip, shaking my head. This is wrong. He’s your son.
But the memory wouldn’t fade—his length, the way it stood straight up, thick and veiny. A man’s cock.
I shifted in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how tight my panties felt, how warm I was getting between my legs.
No. No, no, no.
I turned up the radio, trying to drown out my own thoughts. But the image was burned into my brain.
And worst of all?
Part of me liked it.
Later that day well now at night I got home and he was sat on the couch in just his boxer shorts. I went upstairs and got changed into my nightie. It was very low cut and short, I left my bra off as it was making my tits ache. I went back down stairs and he had some beers and was watching some action movie. I dropped my handbag down and went to sit next to him. I tried not to look, but I glanced at his crotch, he had a huge bulge oh fuck.
Without thinking I just spoke out. “That video this morning…” I trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.
He flinched hard, but then he kind of looked at my chest and my cleavage. “I told you, forget it.”
“I can’t,” I admitted. It was the truth. “It was… that word. You know. It was weird, Jake. Why were you watching something like that? Like mom and son you know… fucking. I am not mad honest, is that what you are into.”
“It’s just a movie, Mom,” he muttered, his voice tight. “What are you wearing, anyway?”
“Don’t change the subject, Jacob. It’s too hot for clothes. Why is it ‘mom and son’? Why not… anything else?” I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees. The movement made my nightie gape a little, and I knew he saw everything. I didn’t move to cover myself.
He took a long sip of his beer, not meeting my eyes. “It doesn’t matter, okay? It’s just fiction.”
“But you were doing something while watching fiction, weren’t you?” I pushed, the curiosity overriding any sense of propriety. I needed to know if I was the ghost in his fantasies, or just a trigger word.
He sighed, a deep, frustrated sound, and finally looked straight at me. He stopped staring at my chest and looked into my eyes, but only for a second before his gaze dropped back down to the curve of my breasts.
“Look at you, Mom. You’re sitting here almost naked, wearing that thin thing, and you’re asking me why I might be into that?” He gestured vaguely at my body.
My throat went dry. He was right. I hadn’t dressed like this for attention—I’d told myself it was just the heat—but sitting here now, next to him, knowing what he saw and what he thought, the truth was I wanted him to look. I wanted him to see me.
“It’s just a nightie,” I whispered.
“It’s not. It’s everything. You know what all the guys at school say about you? They talk about you. You’re hot, Mom. And you walk around like you don’t even know it.” He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration turning into a kind of nervous energy. “And then this morning… you walked in, and you just stood there. You didn’t scream, you didn’t just leave. You looked.”
I felt a flush spread from my chest up to my cheeks. He was calling me out. He knew I lingered.
“I was shocked,” I said weakly.
“No, you weren’t just shocked. You saw it. You saw me. And you didn’t look away right away.” He leaned forward too, suddenly closing the small gap between us. I could smell the faint scent of beer and his hot, young skin. His knee brushed mine, and I fought the urge to pull back. He kept looking down my nightie at my tits.
“And what if I did look? Just like your looking down my tits.” I challenged him, my voice barely audible, I looked at his crotch his boxers were now tenting. “Is that why you watch those videos, Jake? Because you think about me? You know, you are twice the size of your dads, he’s like 5 inch. Shame he’s working nights.”
He smirked, “wow bigger than dads. What this thing.” I can’t believe what he did next. He took out his cock, it was fully erect. “Lay down if you want it. You don’t have to take your panties off, just pull them to the side.”
I stared. The remote control for the TV slipped out of my hand and hit the carpet with a soft thud that sounded deafening in the sudden stillness of the living room.
My eyes cataloged every detail: the deep red flush of its head, the way the veins stood out like cords, the sheer impossibility of its size—it looked heavier than I remembered objects looking. It was magnificent and terrifying all at once.
Jake—my son, my baby, my teenager—was holding this thing, this massive proof of his adulthood, a few feet from my face.
“Mom?” he prompted, his voice rough, laced with nervous impatience and a powerful, startling confidence. He didn’t seem embarrassed anymore; he looked like a predator.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I swallowed hard, feeling the rush of adrenaline mixed with pure, liquid terror.
“Jake, put that away,” I managed, the words thin and unsteady. “We can’t do this. This is… this is crazy. You are my son.”
He didn’t move. His hand, so large and familiar, was wrapped around the base of that impressive length. He just stood there, his gaze fixed on my face, but I could tell he was tracking the movement of my eyes—from his gaze back down to his cock, and up again.
“You asked about the video, Mom. You asked why I watch them. You told me about Dad’s size,” he hissed, tossing my own words back at me like stones. “You opened this door, not me. You want to see if it’s real? You want to know what it feels like? If it’s bigger than five inches?”
He took one slow, deliberate step toward me. The air felt thick, like underwater. The scent of him—young sweat, beer, and something sharp and musky—hit me hard.
“I was just curious, Jake. I was just talking.”
“No, you weren’t,” he whispered, his eyes dark and intense. “You were looking. You were looking in my room this morning, and you’re looking right now. It doesn’t matter what you say, your eyes are telling me the truth.”
My body betrayed me. I shifted again, the thin silk of the nightie rubbing against the immediate, sharp need blossoming between my legs. The heat was unbearable. It felt like I was burning up under the unforgiving gaze of the summer night and my own child.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he said, his voice dropping, turning into a low, persuasive rumble that seemed far too mature for his seventeen years. “It will be our secret. Just lay down. Like I said.”
The command was absolute. It stripped away all my pretense, all my maternal authority. He wasn’t asking anymore. He was giving an order, backed by the raw, physical reality of him.
I looked at the couch, then back at him. My brain screamed ‘No.’ My body screamed ‘Yes, now.’
With a sigh that felt like I was shedding years of propriety and marriage vows, I slowly leaned back onto the couch. My heart hammered against the silk of the nightie. The movement caused the fabric to pull taut over my hips and breasts, making me feel utterly exposed. I watched him watch me.
He didn’t rush. He stood there for another agonizing moment, letting me soak in the reality of what I had just agreed to. My legs felt weak, tingling with a mix of fear and lust.
He finally reached down and threw the beer can and the action movie remote onto the coffee table. He was still in those grey boxer shorts, pushed down low on his hips, leaving everything else exposed.
He knelt on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, right at my knees.
“Lift up,” he instructed softly.
My hands trembled as I grabbed the hem of the nightie and pulled it up over my stomach, gathering the thin silk around my waist. The sudden rush of cool air was temporary; the heat returned instantly.
I was wearing a simple pair of white cotton panties. Nothing sexy, just practical, but now they felt like a flimsy barrier protecting me from the world—and from him.
He reached out. His fingers were big, strong, and slightly rough. When he touched the thin cotton over my mound, a sharp gasp escaped me. It wasn’t a gentle touch. It was firm, purposeful.
“You said pull them to the side,” I managed to whisper, my voice catching.
“I know what I said,” he countered, his voice low and breathy.
He didn’t pull them to the side yet. Instead, his thumb circled the cotton covering my deepest crease, pressing down gently, just enough to make me wet through the fabric. I squeezed my eyes shut, a helpless moan escaping my lips.
“You’re already wet, Mom,” he murmured, a hint of dark satisfaction in his tone. “You really did want this.”
“I don’t know what I want,” I lied, breathless.
“Yes, you do.”
Finally, he hooked his thumbs under the waistband and slowly, inch by agonizing inch, pulled the barrier aside. The cotton disappeared into the crease between my inner thigh and hip, leaving my slick, trembling wetness completely exposed.
The sight of it—his huge, hard cock next to my own bare skin—was overwhelming. That thick, throbbing thing was about to violate every single rule I had ever taught him or myself.
He didn’t use his hands to guide it; he just pushed forward, leaning his weight into the couch. The rim of his massive cock met my flesh, hot and slick.
I gasped, bracing myself. “Jake, slow down! Please.”
He paused, breathing hard, his face inches from my stomach. “I can’t. I’ve been thinking about this all day, since this morning when you walked in.”
And then he pushed.
It was immense. Not just long, but impossibly thick. It filled me instantly, stretching me in ways I hadn’t been stretched in years. A cry of pain and pure, shocking pleasure ripped from my throat.
“Oh God!” I arched my back, gripping the sides of the couch so hard my knuckles turned white. It took me a full second to breathe again.
“Too much?” he asked, his voice strained. He pulled back maybe an inch, then plunged forward again, deep and deliberate.
“No! Don’t stop!” I pleaded, the pain already dissolving into a deep, consuming pressure. “Just… stay there for a second.”
He stayed perfectly still, buried deeply inside me. I could feel the heat radiating from him, the texture of his skin against mine. The sheer scale of him was intoxicating. It was everything my husband wasn’t, everything I hadn’t realized I was missing.
“You feel so tight,” he choked out, his chest heaving as he stared down at the point where we connected.
My voice was a ragged whisper. “It’s been a long time, Jake.”
“I know,” he said, and the implication hung heavy in the air—I know Dad isn’t doing his job.
He began to move, slow, deliberate strokes at first. Each thrust was an event, a deep, powerful sensation that went right up into my gut. The friction of the cotton panties, bunched tight against my leg, felt strangely erotic, heightening the central pleasure.
“This is wrong, Jake,” I whispered, even as I wrapped my legs instinctively around his hips, pulling him closer, demanding more.
“Then why are you holding me so tight, Mom?” he countered, picking up the pace.
The sound was wet and rhythmic, echoing embarrassingly loud in the quiet house. Thwack, thwack, thwack. The couch cushions groaned beneath me.
I threw my head back, my hair dragging across the worn leather of the sofa. “I don’t care,” I admitted, the last ounce of resistance finally burning away. “I don’t care. Just harder. Don’t slow down.”
He groaned then, a deep sound of pure male gratification that vibrated through me. He abandoned the measured tempo and went savage, pounding into me with the desperate urgency of a young man who had waited too long.
“Look at me, Mom,” he commanded, fixing his gaze on mine.
I opened my eyes and met his, his face flushed and glistening, his jaw tight. It wasn’t the face of the boy who asked me for gas money; it was the face of a man taking what he wanted.
“You’re so good,” he panted, each word punctuated by a hard thrust. “I knew you’d feel good. Just like in the video.”
The mention of the taboo video, of the mother-son scenario, broke the last fragment of my sanity. It was no longer fiction; we were living it. And the power of that forbidden act was like a drug.
“Yes, Jake. Fuck me. Just like that,” I gasped, clutching his shoulders, urging him deeper with every pelvic tilt.
My orgasm hit me like a physical shockwave. It started as a tight knot in my lower abdomen and exploded outward, my muscles clenching uncontrollably around him. The feeling was so intense, so shattering, I thought I might blackout. I screamed, muffling the sound slightly by biting my lip, but the rest of my body was shaking uncontrollably.
He felt the tremors and let out a guttural sound of triumph. He drove into my convulsing body three more times—hard, deep piston strokes—and with a final, massive roar, he stopped moving and collapsed forward, emptying himself deep inside me.
He was heavy on top of me, his breath hot on my neck. The silence returned, filled only by our ragged, wheezing breaths and the distant hum of the air conditioning struggling against the July heat.
We lay there for a long time, the weight of his body and the reality of what we had done pressing down on me.
Finally, he shifted, pulling himself out of me slowly. The separation was wet and sickeningly intimate. He was still fully erect, dripping slightly as he stood back up, looking down at me.
I tried to sit up, but my body felt like jelly. I was drenched in sweat and the heat between my legs was overwhelming.
“Mom?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost scared again. The predator had vanished.
I didn’t answer. I just reached for the hem of my nightie and carefully pulled it down over my thighs, trying to cover the disaster zone, even though I knew the evidence—the wet stain, the scent, the deep, satisfying ache—was all over me. I let my cotton panties snap back into place, now hopelessly damp and pushed out of shape.
“We shouldn’t have done that,” I whispered, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above us.
He sat down next to me, suddenly shy, pulling his boxer shorts back up over his still-hard cock, hiding the proof.
“But you liked it,” he insisted, reaching out tentatively to touch my arm.
The touch was familiar, yet alien. It was the hand of my son, but it was also the hand of the man who had just used me completely.
“I did,” I admitted, closing my eyes in a wave of crushing guilt and undeniable pleasure. “But Jake, this is… this is the end of it. It can never happen again. Do you understand me?”
He was quiet for a long moment, staring straight ahead at the blank TV screen.
“I don’t know, Mom,” he finally said, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know if I can promise that.”
The sound of his honest, terrified admission chilled me more than the thought of my husband walking through the door. I knew he was right. The boundary was not just breached; it was obliterated. And after feeling that size, that intensity, I wasn’t sure I wanted to rebuild it either.
“Just… go to your room,” I told him, rubbing my temples. “I need a minute.”
He stood up, looking down at me one last time, a complicated mix of shame and pride in his teenage eyes.
“Good night, Mom,” he mumbled, and disappeared up the stairs.
I lay on the couch, the lingering heat of him still inside me, staring at the ceiling. The guilt was starting to creep in, cold and sharp, but it hadn’t completely eclipsed the hot, glowing ember of pleasure.
I knew I should get up, clean myself, shower, try to forget, but I couldn’t move. I shifted slightly, feeling the movement of his spillage deep inside me.
The five inches that belonged to my husband suddenly felt like a joke. Jake was right. I was his now. And he didn’t even have to ask twice. I realized, with a horrifying finality, that I was already thinking about the next time.