The air felt heavy, like the kind that clings to your skin before snow. Even the fairy lights Mum had strung above the mantelpiece looked cold tonight, their twinkle more ghostly than warm.
I was sunk deep into the old corduroy sofa, half-watching the tree lights blink in that lazy rhythm. My phone sat dead in my hand. Every thought of Sarah — her laugh, her coconut shampoo, the way she’d twist her hair when she lied — hit like a bruise that wouldn’t fade.
Then the front-door latch clicked. The living-room door creaked open.
Mum stood there, backlit by the hall light. Same as always — solid, familiar, the safest place I knew.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, her voice all soft and warm. “You’re not yourself today, are you?”
She crossed the room, her slippers whispering against the carpet, and eased herself down beside me. The sofa groaned under us both. Mum was one of those women built for hugs — soft, curvy, everything about her said comfort. Her Christmas jumper, a bright green thing with a reindeer stretched tight across her chest, only made her look more… her.
Her curls were wild as ever, tumbling around her face like she’d just run a hand through them a hundred times. She took my cold hand in both of hers, her fingers warm and plump, the smell of her perfume faint but familiar.
“It’s Sarah, isn’t it?” she asked gently.
I nodded. Couldn’t get words past the lump in my throat.
“Ah, love,” she sighed. “First heartbreak’s the worst. I remember my Barry — God, he was gorgeous, but as useful as a chocolate teapot. I cried so much your nan said I’d flood the house.”
That got a weak laugh out of me.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Your Auntie Shaz dragged me to the working men’s club. Said the best way to get over one bloke was to get under another.” She winked, and for a second I could see the young woman she used to be. “Didn’t work though. Spent the whole night comparing everyone to Barry. Still, it got me out of the house.”
She went quiet for a bit, eyes drifting to the window. Rain tapped against the glass like it was trying to come in.
“Not tried again in years,” she murmured, patting her stomach. “World’s not exactly begging for women built for comfort, not for speed.”
“That’s rubbish,” I said quickly. “Dave at the butcher’s — he’s always smiling at you. He’s decent.”
She laughed, loud and warm. “Dave smiles at everyone, love. Especially the rump steak.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “Nah, I’ve got my garden, my job, my boy. I’m lucky.”
Then the doorbell went.
“Speak of the devil,” she muttered, hauling herself up with a grunt. “That’ll be Shaz. Stick the kettle on, love.”
I went to the kitchen. Voices floated in from the hall — laughter, chaos, Sharon’s voice cutting through like always.
“…told him, if you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best! And he says, ‘Sharon, your worst’s a natural disaster!’ Cheeky sod!”
She breezed in a moment later, all leopard print and perfume. Her blonde hair was piled high, lipstick perfect, neckline low enough to make you look twice.
“How’s my favourite lad?” she said, dropping into the chair like she owned the place. “Still moping over that Sarah? Pretty girl, but full of herself.”
“Sharon!” Mum scolded, though she was smiling.
“What? He needs a woman who laughs, not one who sulks over chipped nails.” She gave me a look that made my skin prickle. I turned away, pretending to fuss with the kettle.
Then it hit — the memory I’d buried. My eighteenth. The cider, the noise, her perfume. The way she’d pulled me close, whispering nonsense and laughing into my neck. That stupid, wild thing we did. The secret that still sat between us. The way I pounded my own Aunt over the bathroom sink, fuck it was good.
“…so I said to him, size isn’t everything, but it’s a bloody good start!” Sharon laughed, dragging me back to the present.
Mum howled, tears streaming down her face, clutching her sides. I couldn’t join in. Couldn’t even look at Sharon. The guilt burned through me, hot and sharp.
When she finally left — smelling of gossip, hairspray and sin — the silence hit hard.
“She’s a good soul,” Mum said fondly, rinsing mugs in the sink. “Bit much sometimes, but her heart’s in the right place.”
I swallowed hard. “Mum?”
“Yes, love?”
“You shouldn’t give up. On finding someone.”
She turned, smiling softly. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“I mean it. You’re lovely, you’re funny, and any bloke would be lucky to have you.”
Her eyes went warm and wet, like she could see right through me. She hugged me, tight and long. I breathed her in — washing-up liquid, faint perfume, something homely that hurt to smell.
“You’re the best man in my life,” she said. “That’s enough for me.”
She smiled, brave and tired. “Now come on — let’s eat, watch something daft, and you can tell me about Sarah. Don’t leave out the juicy bits. I can take it.”
But she couldn’t. Not the truth. Not what had really happened last year.
She stretched, yawning. “Back in a sec, just need the loo.”
As she left, Sharon’s eyes caught mine. She was leaning against the doorway, lips curved in that slow, knowing smile.
“I hope that’s tea you’re making me,” she said, voice low and teasing. “And don’t worry, we don’t want a repeat of last year, do we?”
She smirked. “By the way — your mum told me I’m staying the night. Maybe we might get a repeat performance after all. But I feel sorry for your mum, like you are the man of the house now. You should be helping, ‘her out’ if you get me.”
“What? she is my mum,” I said as I finished the drinks.
She ran a perfectly manicured finger along the rim of a mug, her gaze still fixed on me. “And you’re a good boy, always looking out for your mum. It’s just… sometimes, a man of the house has to take on all sorts of responsibilities, doesn’t he? Especially when his mum’s getting… well, older.” She gave a little shrug, a movement that made her leopard print top ripple. “Things get tougher to manage, don’t they? And she’s such a softy. Always has been. Built for comfort, not for speed, as she says. She could do with a really good seeing to, and trust me, I know you are capable of Adam love mmm. She once told me she accidentally saw you getting changed, bet you didn’t know that. She said she was shocked at the size of your… well you know.”
“She’d never…” The words wouldn’t come out right. My mind was a riot of images I desperately tried to push away. My cock was getting hard in my jeans, no why am I hard.
“Oh, she did,” Sharon said, her voice a low, confidential purr. She took a step closer. “Said she was fetching your laundry. The door was ajar, and there you were. She told me she nearly dropped the basket.” She laughed, a soft, tinkling sound that didn’t match the turmoil inside me. “Said it was a real eye-opener. You’ve grown up, Adam. Like I said, you are capable as I found out last year. Fuck the tea let’s get the booze out, your mum loves a good drink. I have a feeling your in for a good night.”
I spun around finally, my cheeks burning. “That’s my mum you’re talking about!”
“I know exactly who I’m talking about,” she said, her eyes gleaming. She held out a glass of amber whisky. “Here. You look like you need this more than I do.”
I didn’t take it. We stood there frozen in a silent standoff, the only sound the distant rush of water from the upstairs pipes. Mum was in the bathroom. The ordinary, everyday noise of it made Sharon’s suggestions feel even more monstrous.
Then, we heard the toilet flush. Sharon’s predatory smile returned in an instant. She took a quick sip from the whisky glass herself, then pressed it into my hand, closing my fingers around it before I could pull away.
“Think about it,” she whispered quickly. “Or better yet, don’t think. Just be the man of the house. She’d never admit it, but she’d love it. Trust me. Try at bed time when she is in bed, trust me.”
The glass felt cold and heavy in my hand, a stark contrast to the heat roaring in my ears. Sharon’s words hung in the air, a poisonous cloud that seemed to stain the very walls of our kitchen. I could only stare at her, my mind a frantic, reeling mess. The man of the house? My own mum? It was unthinkable. Should I try? Maybe I will and see what happens.
Later that night the three of us was shit face wasted. Sharon started talking about sex with my mum and they were laughing and talking about dicks.
“Another one, Pauline!” Sharon declared, sloshing more amber liquid into Mum’s glass. Mum giggled, a sound that was usually so pure but now felt laced with a danger she couldn’t see.
“Oh, I shouldn’t,” Mum protested weakly, but her hand curled around the glass anyway. “I’ll be fit for nothing tomorrow.”
“That’s the point!” Sharon crowed. “Live a little! You’re always talking about what you’re missing.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a stage whisper meant for all of us. “Speaking of missing things… tell us, Pauline, what’s the best shag you ever had? And don’t say Barry, that man was as exciting as a wet Wednesday.”
Mum’s laughter was embarrassed, but her eyes were bright. “Sharon! I’m not telling you that.”
“Come on!” Sharon urged, nudging her. “Was it that bloke from the holiday camp? The one with the… you know.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
Mum hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with mirth. “Stop it! Oh, he was all talk, that one. All talk and no… well.” She took a large gulp of her drink. “At least you’re getting some, Shaz. I don’t get any. Haven’t for years. I’m practically a nun.”
The admission hung in the air, raw and sad and true. Mum’s smile was wobbly, her eyes glassy from the drink and the confession. I felt a pang of something fierce and protective. She deserved so much more than lonely nights and memories.
“Right,” Sharon announced, clapping her hands together. “That’s enough wallowing for one night. Time for bed, you lightweight.” She hauled Mum up from the sofa with a grunt, Mum swaying on her feet, leaning heavily into her sister.
“I can take her,” I said, stepping forward quickly. The thought of Sharon being the one to tuck her in, to whisper more poison in her ear, made my skin crawl.
Sharon’s eyes met mine over Mum’s slumped shoulder. That knowing, terrible smile was back, a slow, greasy slide across her lips. “Of course you can,” she purred, her voice a low rumble that promised trouble and dared me to refuse. “The man of the house. Tonight’s the night, do what you have to, ‘for her sake.’ I better hear them bed springs go.”
The words hung in the air, a heavy, suffocating blanket. They wrapped around me, pulling me into a current I didn’t want to be in, but felt powerless to fight. Sharon’s stare burned, daring me, challenging me. It wasn’t a question; it was an order, an expectation. And the way she said “bed springs,” drawing out the syllables, made my stomach clench.
I looked at Mum, her head lolling against my chest. Her breath was warm and boozy against my neck, smelling of cheap wine and something sweet, like overripe fruit. She felt soft and heavy in my arms, a familiar weight I’d carried a hundred times before – to the car, to bed when she’d had too much, or even when she was just tired. But tonight, it felt different. Too familiar. The warmth of her body against mine wasn’t comforting; it was a slow, insistent heat that made my skin prickle.
I helped Mum up the stairs, her arm draped around my shoulders like a heavy scarf. Each step creaked under our combined weight. She stumbled a bit, her knees giving out, and I caught her, holding her close, her body pressing against mine. Her giggle was thick and slurred. “Oops,” she mumbled, leaning into me heavier, her breasts squishing against my side. “Too much wine.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. My own breath hitched, hot and fast in my throat. I could feel her curves, the softness of her belly, the give of her hips against my thigh as I half-carried her the last few steps to her bedroom door. She sagged against the frame, a dead weight, blinking at me with bleary, half-closed eyes. Her smile was sweet, innocent, utterly drunk. “Thanks, love,” she murmured, her voice husky. “You’re a good lad.”
Swallowing hard, my throat tight and dry, I managed, “Mum… are you okay?” The question felt weak, hollow, like a flimsy excuse.
She smiled, slow and lazy, her eyes fluttering open a little more. “Never better.” Her hand came up, slow and deliberate, to cup my cheek. Her palm was warm and slightly damp, smelling faintly of wine and her own skin. It was a simple, motherly gesture, but beneath Sharon’s words, it felt tainted, a signal. “You look after me so well.”
The words were a direct hit, a final push over the edge. You look after me so well. Sharon’s “do what you have to, for her sake” echoed in my head. My dick, already a thick, throbbing rod, now felt like a desperate animal trying to break free from my jeans. It pressed hard against her pubic bone as I hugged her tightly, almost crushing her. Her huge, soft breasts squished completely against my chest, the warmth of them seeping into me. I felt the familiar weight of her ass in my hands and squeezed her fat ass, my fingers digging into the yielding flesh. My mouth found her neck, the soft skin there, and I started kissing it, a desperate, clumsy trail of wet heat. “Let’s get you in bed,” I whispered, the words barely a rasp.
She murmured something in response, unintelligible, but she didn’t pull away. More than that, she leaned into my touch, her body pliant and warm. I eased her onto the bed, her heavy legs almost buckling as I lowered her. Her auburn curls, a mess from the wine and the struggle up the stairs, spread out like a halo against the crisp white pillow. She smiled up at me, eyes heavy-lidded and trusting, completely oblivious, or so it seemed, to the seismic shift happening inside me, and to the thick cock that now threatened to burst from my fly.
My heart hammered in my chest, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. I reached for the hem of her jumper, my fingers shaking so badly I almost fumbled it. I hesitated, a split second where a hundred alarms screamed in my head, a hundred reasons to stop. But then I heard Sharon’s voice again, sly and knowing, and my hand moved, pulling the jumper slowly up and over her head.
She lay there, exposed in her bra, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting intimate shadows over the gentle swell of her stomach, the lush curve of her hips. She was beautiful, my mum. Soft and warm and real. The sight of her, vulnerable and trusting, sent a jolt through me that was half terror, half pure, unadulterated lust. My breath caught in my throat, a ragged gasp. My thick cock was a rigid column, burning against my denim.
With shaking hands, I unhooked her bra, the metal clasp yielding with a soft click. It fell away, revealing her heavy breasts, tipped with rosy, dark nipples. They were bigger than Sarah’s, softer too, fuller, spilling slightly to the sides as she lay there. I trailed a finger along the underside of one, feeling the weight of it, the incredible softness of her skin, the warmth. My thumb brushed her nipple, and it tightened instantly, a tiny, hard bud.
“Adam… what… what are you doing… ” she breathed, her voice a little clearer now, a fragile question in the quiet room. She arched slightly into my touch, a small, involuntary movement of pleasure that shot straight to my already throbbing dick. Her eyes, still hazy, flickered open fully for a moment, meeting mine. There was confusion there, a dawning awareness struggling against the wine.
I leaned down, pressing my mouth to the tops of her breasts, inhaling the scent of her skin, a mix of her perfume and something uniquely Mum. At the same time, my free hand went to my jeans, fumbling with the button, the zip sliding down with a quiet rasp. My thick shaft sprang free, hot and eager, thick and hard, almost painfully so. The head was slick even before I touched her.
Her confusion turned to a soft moan as I kissed lower, tracing a line of wet heat towards her cleavage. My other hand drifted down, finding the waistband of her knickers. They were cotton, a simple faded floral pattern, stretched comfortably over her hips. I pulled them down, slowly, deliberately, over her stomach, her thighs, until they bunched around her ankles. Then I tugged them free, throwing them to the floor with a soft thud that sounded loud in the otherwise silent room.
I looked at her, fully exposed now. Her pubic hair was a soft, dark tangle, a damp, curly bush. And beneath it, her cunt, plump and wet, the pink labia slightly parted, glistening. It was more beautiful, more real, than anything I’d ever imagined. My thick cock, now fully released, bounced slightly against my belly, eager, demanding. I didn’t hesitate. I lined up my throbbing hard cock with her tight, wet hole. It was slick, welcoming. I pushed, slowly at first, feeling the resistance, then the give.
Mum’s eyes fluttered closed as I slid into her, a soft, breathless moan escaping her lips. She was so warm, so incredibly tight. My balls slapped against her backside as I pushed deeper, the friction like fire. It felt impossibly wrong and impossibly right all at once. I moved slowly at first, wanting to savour every inch of the feeling, the incredible sensation of her wrapped tightly around my shaft. Her hands came up, almost unconsciously, to grip my shoulders, her nails digging in slightly as I picked up the pace, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“Yes… ” she breathed, her voice a thin, reedy sound, almost lost beneath my grunts. Her hips arched, meeting my thrusts, a subtle movement that pushed my thick cock deeper still. “Oh God, Adam… Ahh you… shouldn’t be fucking… me.” The words were a protest, but her body was telling a different story, clinging to me, pulling me in.
I kissed her deeply, swallowing her moans, tasting the wine on her lips as I fucked her harder. The bed creaked beneath us, the old springs groaning under the strain, the headboard thumping against the wall in a steady, relentless rhythm. Each thud was a testament to our illicit dance, a loud, undeniable beat. I reached between us, my fingers finding her clit, swollen and sensitive, and I rubbed it in tight, insistent circles.
“Fuck… ” she gasped, her hips bucking wildly now, no longer subtle, but urgent and demanding. “Don’t stop… please don’t stop… your poor mummy needs this… ahhhh baby.” Her voice was raw, broken, entirely lost to pleasure. The drunken haze had burned away, replaced by pure, desperate need.
I couldn’t have stopped if I wanted to. The feeling of her, the way her body clenched around my shaft, was too good, too right. My balls slapped hard against her as I pounded into her relentlessly, the bed shaking with every thrust. “I ain’t stopping… ahhh mum… fuck… ” I grunted, my own voice rough with effort and pleasure.
Her pussy clenched around me, a hot, wet glove, as I thrust deeper, faster, chasing my own release. The wet sounds of our fucking filled the room, a rhythmic squelch of flesh on flesh, punctuated by her moans and my guttural grunts. I could feel her getting close, her inner muscles fluttering around my thick cock, drawing me in further, milking me.
“Yes, yes, YES!” she cried out, her back arching off the bed, a scream of pure, unadulterated ecstasy as she came undone. Her body convulsed around me, her legs wrapping even tighter around my waist. “Please keep going, don’t cum yet.”
“Yes mum… take it… take my cock… ” I grunted, sweat dripping down my face, stinging my eyes. My vision blurred, focusing only on the rise and fall of her breasts, the frantic thrashing of her hips.
I kept fucking her hard and fast, my hips slapping against hers with a loud, wet smack as I drove into her over and over. She was a mess beneath me, her hair wild, plastered to the pillow, her face flushed crimson, eyes squeezed shut, tits bouncing with every powerful thrust. The sight of her like that, completely taking all of my thick cock, her body opened wide to me, was almost too much to bear. My own orgasm coiled in my gut, a furious beast. But I had willpower, and I pushed through it, pulling back just enough, then sliding my dick back in and out of her puffy pussy, teasing her, making her beg.
“Ahhh my fanny… oh honey… ah fuck we shouldn’t…. be doing this, ahhh,” she moaned loud again, but her hips kept bucking, urging me on, denying her own words. Her nails dug into my back now, leaving red welts, a primal claim. The headboard thumped a frantic rhythm against the wall, echoing Sharon’s words, a soundtrack to our forbidden act. I could feel her pussy clenching, desperate for more, desperate for me, and I gave it to her, plunging my thick cock deep, twisting it inside her, feeling her slick wetness coat my shaft.
I pulled back, almost out, then slammed back in again, hard enough to make her gasp. Her legs clamped tighter around my waist, pulling me closer still, trying to absorb every inch of me. The air was thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and cheap wine. My own release was building, a tidal wave threatening to crash. I could feel the hot pulse of blood in my balls, a primal ache that demanded satisfaction.
“Mum,” I groaned, my voice barely recognizable even to myself, hoarse and animalistic. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna cum.”
“No… no, not yet… wait… ahhhh, please, just a little longer…” Her voice was a desperate plea, her body arching up, trying to take more, greedier now than ever. She squeezed her pussy muscles tight around my shaft, trying to hold me back, to prolong the exquisite agony.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. My dick was too full, too hard, too close. I gave one last, deep thrust, burying my thick cock completely inside her, feeling her wet inner walls grab and clench one final time. And then, with a choked cry, my body convulsed. A wave of pure, hot cum shot from my shaft, filling her tight, wet hole, pumping deep inside her. My balls slapped hard against her as I emptied myself, groaning into her neck, feeling the tremors run through her body as well.
We lay there, panting, tangled together, sweat dripping from my forehead onto her flushed face, our chests heaving. The bed springs slowly quieted, the thumping against the wall fading to an echo in the ringing silence. Her body was still wrapped around mine, her legs still locked around my waist, her cunt slick with my come.
I pulled out slowly, the wet suction sound loud in the quiet room. Her body shuddered as my thick cock slid free, leaving her suddenly empty. I collapsed beside her, rolling onto my back, my chest still heaving, my eyes staring up at the ceiling, seeing nothing.
Mum let out a soft whimper, a small, lost sound. She didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes. Her fingers, which had been digging into my back, now lay limp on my skin. The silence stretched, heavy and filled with unspoken things. The smell of our sex, raw and potent, lingered in the air.
And then, very faintly, I heard it. A small, almost imperceptible creak from downstairs. A floorboard. Sharon. She’d heard the bed springs. She always did. And she wasn’t disappointed.
I closed my eyes, the reality of what I’d done crashing over me like a cold wave. The warmth of Mum’s body next to mine, the sticky feeling between my legs, the phantom ache of her tight pussy around my cock. It was done. And the weight of it, the terrible, exhilarating, damning weight, pressed down on me. I didn’t know if I could ever look her in the eye again. Or if I would even want to. The night was far from over. And I knew, with a sickening lurch in my stomach, that Sharon would be waiting.