Blow That Load For Mommy Ch. 05

Chapter 5

Heather stood barefoot on the landing in nothing but a thin satin robe. Hair still loose from sleep. One ear an inch from Charlie's bedroom door.

Nothing.

Not the soft rasp of a sheet shifting. Not the creak of a mattress under a hand that couldn't help itself. Not even the slow drag of his breath. The boy slept like the dead. Or maybe he wasn't sleeping at all and was lying flat on his back staring at the ceiling. Willing his cock to behave the way it had been ordered to.

She pressed her palm flat against the door. Felt the cool wood under her hand. She pictured him on the other side of it. Sprawled across his single bed. Stomach tight. Jaw set. Refusing his own body the only thing it wanted.

Twenty minutes she'd stood there. Twenty.

Heather pulled away from the door and padded back down the landing. The satin slid against her thighs. Her cunt still felt swollen from last night. She hadn't fallen asleep until almost three. Fingers buried in herself. Biting the pillow to keep from making noise. Two orgasms. One of them so strong her toes had locked up and she'd had to bite the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood.

And the little fucker upstairs had just gone to sleep.

She made coffee in a haze of irritation. The kettle hissing. Her bare feet cold on the tile. The robe gaped at the front and she didn't bother to fix it. No one to see her yet anyway. Outside the kitchen window the garden looked grey. Dew on the grass. The bikini she'd worn yesterday still draped over the back of the lounger like a flag of war.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

She picked it up. Jules.

Anything?

Heather thumbed back. Day two. He's tougher than he looks. Slept like a baby.

The reply came inside ten seconds.

You need to step it the fuck up. Mia's all over me. She had her hand down my pants in the car last night. I had to make her stop. I'm dying here, Heather.

Heather smiled into her coffee. She didn't believe a word of it. Mia Coleman was a sweet girl who blushed when you said the word bra. The idea of her sticking her hand down Jules Hartley's joggers in the front of a Vauxhall Corsa was the kind of story a desperate nineteen year old told himself at four in the morning when his balls were screaming.

She tapped back. Calm down. Tonight. I've got an idea.

What idea?

Don't worry about it.

Heather.

She put the phone face down on the counter and ignored the buzzing that followed.

The plan had come to her in the small hours. Between the second orgasm and the half-sleep that followed. She'd been pushing too hard. That was the problem. Outfits and yoga and bananas. He'd built up a defence against it. He was nineteen and stubborn and stupid and he'd dug in like a tick. Push harder and he'd just dig deeper.

So she'd stop pushing.

She'd let him breathe. Let his cock go soft for the first time in a fortnight. Let his shoulders come down from around his ears. Let him be her son again. Just for a day. Long enough for the rope to go slack.

And then she'd cut it.

She heard him moving overhead a little after eleven. The toilet flushed. Water ran. The pipes shuddered the way they always did when the shower in the small bathroom kicked in. She listened for the change in the sound. The slowing. The long pause that would tell her he was doing what every other nineteen year old in England would have done by now.

Nothing. Just the steady hiss of water. Then the squeak of the tap turning off.

She actually laughed. Out loud. Alone in the kitchen. The sound bouncing off the tiles. Stubborn little prick.

He came down the stairs heavily. The way he did when he hadn't slept properly. Dragging each foot up to meet the next. He shuffled into the kitchen in joggers and the same hoodie he'd worn yesterday. Hair flat on one side from the pillow. Eyes pink and pouched.

She let her eyes rest on his face just long enough to see the damage. There. Right there. The bags under his eyes. The slight grey to the skin. The way his mouth hung a little open like he didn't have the energy to keep it shut. He looked wrung out. He looked like he'd spent the night in a war with himself and lost every battle.

Heather felt a kick of something warm and dark low in her belly. She turned to the cooker before her face gave her away.

"Morning, sleepyhead. Sit down. Mummy's doing breakfast."

He paused in the doorway. Wary. Eyes flicking to her then away. The way he always did now. Trained like a dog that had been swatted on the nose too many times.

She made a point of pulling the robe closed at the front and tying the belt. Not tight. Just decent. The hem still showed a long stretch of bare thigh but the cleavage was tucked away. She wanted him to register the difference.

"What's the catch?"

She looked over her shoulder. Frying pan in hand. She gave him a look of soft hurt confusion. "What do you mean?"

"You. Cooking. Robe done up."

"Charlie."

"What."

"Sit down, sweetheart. You look knackered. I'm making you a proper fry up. No catch."

He stood for another long moment. Then his shoulders dropped a fraction and he slid into one of the kitchen chairs. Put his elbows on the table and dragged both hands down his face.

She put bacon in the pan. The fat hissed. She cracked four eggs into a bowl and started whisking. Back to him. Robe brushing the backs of her thighs as she moved.

"Sleep alright?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Liar."

He huffed out something that might have been a laugh. "Bit restless."

"Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

She kept her voice light. Mild. Mum voice. The voice she used to use when he was twelve and had had a bad day at school and didn't want to say why. The pan spat. She moved the bacon around with the wooden spatula. Steam rose. The kitchen filled with the smell of frying fat and butter. Behind her she heard him let out a long slow breath.

That was the sound. That right there. The sound of a boy putting his guard down.

She poured the eggs into the other pan and let them set without stirring. The way he liked them. Soft in the middle and folded over. She buttered four slices of toast. Poured him a glass of orange juice and set it in front of him without comment. She moved around him the way a mother moves around a son who's had the flu. Quiet. Efficient. Touching his shoulder once when she set down his cutlery. A brief warm squeeze. Then gone.

"Eat."

He looked at the plate. Bacon. Two eggs. Beans. Toast. Mushrooms. He looked up at her. Her face was already turned away. Busy at the sink. Sleeves of the robe pushed up to her elbows as she rinsed the pan.

"Mum."

"Eat your breakfast, baby."

He ate. She heard him tear into the bacon and grunt low in his throat the way he did when he was eating something he hadn't realised he was starving for. She kept her back to him. Let him have a moment that didn't have her tits in it.

When she finally turned around with her own coffee he was halfway through the plate. Head down. Working through the food like a labourer. She sat opposite him and stirred her coffee and watched him eat and said nothing for a full two minutes.

He looked up eventually. Mouth full. "What."

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I'm allowed to stare. You're my baby."

"I'm nineteen."

"Still my baby."

She reached across the table and brushed his fringe back from his forehead with two fingers. Slow. Maternal. The way she'd done it a thousand times when he was small. He flinched. Then settled. Her fingers traced down the side of his face and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. Dropped away.

She leaned in and kissed him on the temple. A proper kiss. Lips pressed to the skin just above his eyebrow. Held there for a beat. Then gone.

"You alright, sweetie?"

"Yeah."

"Sure?"

"Yeah, Mum."

"You'd tell me if something was wrong. You know that."

He hesitated. Just a flicker. Then nodded into his eggs.

"Yeah."

"Good boy."

She watched him swallow. Watched his throat work. Watched the colour rise faintly in his cheeks at the words good boy. She felt a small private thrill go through her. Kept it off her face entirely.

She got up and refilled his juice without asking and put the glass back in front of him. Sat down again. Went back to her coffee. He kept eating. The kitchen filled with the small sounds of a normal Sunday morning. Cutlery on plates. The kettle resettling. A blackbird outside the open window.

Five minutes passed. He pushed the plate away. Empty. Wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Mum."

"Mm."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it, baby. You looked like you needed it."

"Yeah."

"Mummy's going to look after you today. Alright? You don't have to do anything. Sit on the sofa. Play your game. Watch telly. I'll feed you. I'll bring you drinks. Just relax."

He looked at her. Properly this time. Eyes a little narrow. Like he was checking the offer for hidden wiring.

"Why?"

"Because you look like shit, sweetheart, and you're my son, and that's what mums do."

He nodded slowly. Said nothing.

"Go on. Shoo. Sofa. I'll bring you a tea in a bit."

He stood. Stretched. The hoodie rode up an inch and showed a flat strip of stomach. The dark line of hair under his navel. She kept her eyes on her coffee cup. He padded out of the kitchen. Joggers loose. Bare feet quiet on the tile. She heard the living room door open and the soft thump of him dropping onto the sofa and the bleep of the Xbox waking up.

Heather let out a long slow breath through her nose.

Stage one.

She washed up. Took her time. Wiped the counters. Made a fresh cafetiere. Found a tea towel and folded it and put it back. The robe stayed tied. She moved through the house in it like a woman who had nothing to prove. When she walked into the living room half an hour later carrying a mug of tea for him and a coffee for herself she had on a pair of loose grey jersey shorts and a baggy grey t-shirt with paint on it from when they'd done the spare room two years ago. No make up. Hair tied up in a messy knot on top of her head. A blob of moisturiser still drying on her jaw.

She looked like his mother.

She set the tea down on the coffee table next to him. He looked at it. Looked at her. Did a small double take.

"You look different."

"I look like a normal human."

"Yeah."

"Drink your tea, sweetheart. It'll go cold."

She curled up on the other end of the sofa. Knees tucked under her. Mug cradled in both hands. Watched him play FIFA without comment for the next forty minutes. She didn't lean. She didn't stretch. She didn't position. She sat the way a sister would sit. Or an old friend. Or a mum who genuinely just wanted to be in the same room as her boy for a Sunday morning.

He kept checking her. She could feel it. Brief flicks of his eyes between possession changes. Checking. Recalibrating. Trying to work out what game she was playing.

She wasn't playing one. Not visibly. Not yet.

After a while he stopped checking. His shoulders dropped. They had been up by his ears when he sat down. His jaw unclenched. He laughed at his own miskick when he sent a shot over the bar. A real laugh. Not the tight bark he'd been doing yesterday. He even said "Mum, look at this prick, he's been on six all match" and angled the screen towards her so she could see the heat map of some midfielder who'd apparently done nothing all game.

"Looks like your dad," she said.

He laughed again. The room felt like a room for a minute.

She got up at one point to put a load of washing on and came back to find him sprawled across the sofa. One leg up on the cushion she'd vacated. Head back against the armrest. Controller resting on his stomach. He looked at her.

"Sorry. I'll move."

"Don't be silly. Stretch out. I'll go in the chair."

She took the armchair by the window. Curled into it. Picked up her book. The next hour passed in companionable quiet. The only sounds the squeak of his thumbs on the controller and the soft turn of her pages and twice the gurgle of the kettle when she got up to make them both another drink.

By midday his cock had been soft for the longest stretch in two weeks.

She could see it. Not crudely. She wasn't staring. But she could see in the way he sat that nothing was straining at the front of his joggers anymore. He'd been carrying himself for days the way a man carries himself when he's hiding a hard on. Subtle. The slight forward hunch. The cushion in the lap. The crossed leg. All of it gone now. He sat sprawled and easy. Belly soft. Hand scratching idly at his stomach. The body of a boy who for the first time in days wasn't fighting it.

Heather watched him from behind her book. She felt the same warm dark kick she'd felt earlier in the kitchen.

Good. Stay there, baby. Stay nice and soft for Mummy. Few more hours.

She made them grilled cheese for lunch. Brought it through on a tray. Sat next to him on the sofa this time but at a polite distance. They watched twenty minutes of some cooking show together while they ate. She made jokes about the contestants. He made jokes back. She laughed at one of them so hard a bit of cheese came out of her nose. He howled and called her disgusting. They both wiped their eyes.

She thought briefly about not doing this. About just letting today be today. About telling Jules to fuck off and keeping the ten grand fantasy as a fantasy. About being the mum that her boy clearly desperately needed for a Sunday.

The thought lasted maybe four seconds.

Then she remembered the way he'd looked at her bikini bottoms the first morning. The long second where his jaw had locked and his eyes had cut away. The way her own cunt had clenched watching him try not to look. And she remembered her hand inside her own knickers at three a. m. last night. Two fingers deep. Her face buried in the pillow. Picturing the bulge in his joggers from the film.

The fantasy wasn't the money.

She took the plates to the kitchen and rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. Stood at the sink for a moment with her hands on the counter and breathed.

Tonight.

She went upstairs around four and showered. Properly. Shaved her legs. Shaved her cunt smooth. Top to bottom. A thing she hadn't bothered with in months. Stood under the water and ran her hands over herself. Felt every inch of her own skin. Tried not to think about why she was doing it.

She didn't put on an ounce of make up. Just moisturiser. The plan was Mum not minx. She brushed her hair out and let it dry loose down her back. Pyjamas. Real ones. The set Charlie had bought her for Christmas and had no idea how to shop for his mother. Had panic-grabbed something from M&S. Soft cotton. Long sleeved button-up top with a pattern of little blue flowers on a white background. Matching shorts ending mid-thigh. An elasticated waist that sat above her hipbones. The kind of pyjamas a woman wore to a hen do sleepover when she was forty-five.

She looked at herself in the bedroom mirror. No bra under the top because she never wore one in pyjamas. The cotton was thick enough that her nipples didn't show unless she got cold. She buttoned the top to her collarbone. Frowned. Undid one button. Then another. Settled on the third button down. A modest V. No cleavage. Just a small triangle of bare chest. Mother of the year.

She added one tiny thing. Just one. A pair of plain white cotton knickers under the shorts. Cotton not lace. Not a thong. The kind of pants you wore on a long flight. Because tonight if he ended up where she planned to put him he was going to be able to feel her through the shorts. And she wanted there to be only two layers. Two thin layers. Not three.

She came downstairs at seven.

"Film night," she said before he could say anything. "I've picked one. Move up."

He looked her over. She watched his eyes register the pyjamas. The hair down. The bare face. The decent V at the throat. She watched the small internal calculation happen behind his eyes. The oh this is fine this is just Mum. She watched his shoulders drop another half inch. They had been creeping up again towards evening.

"What we watching?"

"That spy one. The one with Charlize Theron where she beats everyone up."

"Atomic Blonde."

"That's the one. Sit."

She turned the big light off and the lamp on. The room went soft and yellow and shadowed. The way it had last night. She arranged herself on the sofa exactly the way she had the night before. Cushion behind her back. Mug of tea on the side table. Feet up on the pouffe. He hesitated for a second in the doorway. Controller in his hand. Then crossed the room and sat down at the far end of the sofa. Leaving a clear two feet of cushion between them.

She didn't comment. She started the film.

She let twelve minutes pass before she moved.

She let Charlize beat up two men in a hotel corridor and let the soundtrack do its thing. Let Charlie settle. Only when she felt his weight properly committed to his end of the sofa did she sigh. A small sigh. She shifted and said "Why are you all the way over there?"

"What?"

"You're miles away. Come and cuddle Mummy. You used to love cuddling Mummy."

It was the same line. The exact same line as the night before. She used it deliberately. Because last night it had worked. Because tonight she wanted him to recognise it. To feel the comfort of the repetition. To slot it into the normal Sunday with Mum file instead of the something's wrong here file.

He hesitated. She held out her arm. Lifted it from the back of the sofa and held it open and waited.

"Come on. I'm cold."

He shuffled across the cushions. Not all the way. Most of the way. He stopped with a polite three inches still between her hip and his and tucked himself against the inside of her open arm. She dropped it around his shoulders and pulled him the last three inches in. Pressed a quick kiss into the side of his head.

"There. Better. Mummy's happy."

He smelled like his shower gel. Lynx Africa. She wanted to laugh.

"Better," she said again.

He laid his head after a moment against her shoulder. Tentative. Not committed. She could feel the tension in his neck through her own bones. But he laid it there. And she didn't move. And after a minute slowly the weight got heavier. He let his head rest on her properly. She turned her cheek and laid it gently on the top of his hair. Watched the film over the top of his head. Did absolutely nothing else for the next ten minutes.

Just held him. Just held her boy.

He breathed against her collarbone. She felt the slow even rise and fall of him. She could feel through the thin cotton of her pyjama top the heat of his cheek on her bare skin in that little V at the throat. She felt her own pulse in that spot. Was very glad he couldn't feel it back.

The film went on. Charlize threw someone through a window. Charlie laughed quietly into her shoulder. A small puff of warm breath against her neck.

Heather waited.

She waited a full twenty minutes. Long enough that he had stopped flinching every time her hand drifted on his shoulder. Long enough that his weight had committed itself to her completely. Head heavy. One of his hands resting unselfconsciously on the cushion beside her hip. Long enough that when he shifted to scratch his nose he didn't pull away when he settled back. He tucked in deeper.

Then she sucked a small breath in through her teeth.

"Ah. Fuck."

"What."

"My back. From yoga yesterday. Hang on, baby, I just need to."

She sat up. Pulled herself out from under him. He sat up too. Looking at her. Concerned. The way she'd known he would. She rolled her shoulder. Winced. Pressed the heel of her hand into the small of her back and made a small unhappy noise.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, no, I just, I shouldn't have done that crow pose, I'm not nineteen anymore. Sorry, sweetheart, can I just."

She shifted. Tried to find a position. Leaned forward. Sat back. Pulled a cushion behind her and pushed it away again. Sighed loudly. He watched her helpless. The way men always watched women complaining about pain they couldn't fix.

"You want me to get you some Nurofen?"

"No, baby, no, it's fine, I just."

She paused. Looked at him. Looked at the sofa. Looked at the gap of cushion between them. Looked at his lap.

"Sorry. Sorry, this is going to sound mental. Can I."

"What."

"My lower back, it just needs a different angle. Can I, um."

She made a vague gesture. A half-mime of sitting sideways across his lap. Legs up the sofa. Back propped against the armrest on the far side of him.

"Just for a bit. I can prop my back against the arm and it takes the pressure off. I used to do it with your dad. Sorry, I know it's weird, just."

His mouth opened. Closed. He looked at his own lap then at the armrest then at her face.

"Yeah. Yeah, fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, course, Mum, it's fine."

She didn't give him time to reconsider. She swung her legs up onto the sofa and pivoted and lowered herself down sideways across his lap. Hip first. The white cotton shorts settling onto his thigh. Her legs stretching out along the cushions. Her back coming to rest against the padded armrest of the sofa. Her bare feet tucked themselves comfortably against the far cushion. She squirmed her hips a little. Finding the spot where the armrest hit her lumbar at the right angle. Then sighed. An actual genuine sigh of relief.

"Oh god. Oh, that's better. Sorry, baby. Thank you."

His hands had gone up off the cushion when she'd sat down. They hovered now. One near her shoulder. One near her thigh. Neither of them touching her. He held them like a man surrendering to police.

"There you go," she said.

She reached up and took his left hand at the wrist. Brought it down and placed it deliberately on her hip. The flat of his big warm palm settled on the curve where her waist met the swell of her hip. The cotton of the pyjama shorts thin under his fingers. The heat of his skin going straight through it.

"Relax, sweetie. It's only me."

She picked up his other hand and brought it across her body. Laid it on her shin. Palm down. Fingers loose. His grip on both was uncertain. Polite.

"There. Now we're comfy."

He didn't speak. She felt his chest rise and fall under the side of her ribs. Quick. Quicker than it had been a minute ago. She didn't look at him. Eyes on the screen. Charlize was on a rooftop now doing something with a rope.

"What did I miss," she said.

"Uh. Nothing. Some, I dunno, she. There's a key."

"A key."

"Yeah."

"Right."

She let his hand sit on her hip for a full minute and didn't move. She let him adjust. Let him understand that this was happening. That it was normal. That his mother had sat down in his lap because her back hurt and that was the end of the analysis required. She let the film play. She let the silence between them settle into something he could mistake for ease.

Then she shifted.

Just a little. Just a settling-in adjustment. The kind anyone makes when they've been still for a minute. Her hips moved a quarter inch towards him. Her arse which had been balanced on the meat of his thigh just above the knee slid one notch up his leg. Closer to his groin. The cotton of her shorts dragged against the cotton of his joggers. The friction quiet but real.

He didn't move.

She shifted again half a minute later. Another notch. Her hip pressed now against the soft slope of his lower belly. She felt against the small of her back where it met the armrest the muscles in his stomach tighten.

"Sorry," she murmured. "Pins and needles."

"Fine."

His voice came out lower than usual. A note of gravel in it.

She lay against him and watched the film and did not move for another full five minutes. She let him think the worst of it was over.

Then she yawned. A big one. Stretched her arms above her head. Both at once. Which arched her back and pushed her tits up under the cotton of the pyjama top. The buttons straining for a second before she dropped her arms again and settled. The yawn jostled her hips. They slid another inch up his thigh in the settling.

And there. There.

She felt it.

Through the cotton of her shorts. Through the cotton of his joggers. Just under the swell of her arse where it rested on the top of his thigh. Something thick and warm twitched against her.

Just once. A small involuntary jump. Like a muscle going off without permission.

She didn't react. She kept her face turned to the screen and her breathing even and her eyes on Charlize Theron. Inside her chest her heart kicked so hard she thought he must have felt it through her back.

There you are, sweetheart. There's Mummy's boy.

She let another minute pass.

Then she shifted again. A small wriggle. The kind of fidget a woman does when her phone is in her back pocket and she needs to dig it out. The kind nobody could possibly object to. Her hips rolled a fraction against him.

The thing under her arse twitched again. Bigger this time. A definite swell. The unmistakable feel of blood moving where blood shouldn't be moving when one's mother was sat in one's lap.

His hand on her hip tightened. Then forced itself to loosen. She felt the conscious effort of it.

"Babe," he said. His voice cracked halfway through the word. He cleared his throat. "Mum."

"Mm?"

"I don't."

"Don't what, sweetheart."

She turned her face to him for the first time since she'd lowered herself down. Sleepy eyes. Half-lidded. Genuinely affectionate. She reached up and traced one fingertip down the side of his cheek. Slow. The way a mother soothes a fevered child. Let it settle under his chin.

"What's wrong, baby?"

He looked at her. Then at the screen. Then back at her. His eyes were huge. The pupils were blown out so wide the green of his irises had gone to a thin ring.

"Nothing."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Good boy."

She turned her face back to the film. The hand he'd had on her shin had crept unconsciously up to her knee. He noticed. Snatched it back down to her ankle. Tried to look like that had been on purpose.

She fought for a second the urge to laugh.

She let another ten minutes pass.

By the end of those ten minutes the thing under her arse was no longer a thing that twitched occasionally. It was a thing. A presence. A heavy hot demanding presence pressed up against the underside of her cheek and the back of her thigh. Straining the cotton of his joggers. Throbbing in slow steady beats she could time against her own pulse. She could feel the ridge of it. The whole length. It ran from the join of his leg up under her arse and kept going and going and finished somewhere up against her lower back. She had to make a small private effort to keep her breathing steady.

Jesus Christ.

Jules's voice came back to her from the conversation in the garden the morning before. The one she had not quite let herself remember in detail. He's got the biggest cock out of all of us. We had a measure once. Year nine. Lad's like a horse.

She'd dismissed it. Teenage boys talked shit about each other's cocks the way they talked shit about everything else. It hadn't been a real piece of data. Just background noise.

It was real data now.

She shifted her hip slowly. A quarter inch up the length of him. Felt the ridge slide under her. Felt a definite distinct throbbing pulse against the meat of her arse cheek. She heard him swallow.

"Charlie."

"Yeah."

"My back's seizing up like this. Sideways isn't working either. Hang on."

She sat up. Made a small unhappy noise as if rolling out a kink in her spine. He started to slide his hands back to give her room and she caught both of them. One in each of hers. Held them.

"No, baby, don't get up. I've got an idea. Just."

She swung her legs round. The shift took two seconds. Before he could open his mouth she had one knee planted on the sofa beside his hip and then the other knee beside the other hip. She lowered herself down and sat in his lap properly. Straddling him. Face to face. Her arse settling square in his crotch. The long thick ridge of him running up the seam of her pyjama shorts. Pressing along the entire length of her cunt through two thin layers of cotton. The very tip of him pushing up against the waistband of her shorts at her lower belly.

She heard the sound he made.

It wasn't quite a word. It was a small broken-off involuntary thing that started in his throat and stopped at his teeth. The sound of a man who has just been hit in the solar plexus and is trying to pretend he hasn't.

She arranged her knees comfortably. Settled her weight. Looped her arms loosely round his neck. Smiled at him.

"That's better."

"Mum."

"My back's killing me, sweetheart. This is the only position that doesn't hurt. Just for a bit. I just need a cuddle. Is that okay?"

"I."

"Charlie."

"Yeah. Yeah. It's. Yeah."

"Good boy."

She watched the words good boy land on him. Watched the small flare in his eyes. Watched the hand he'd had hovering near her waist clench into a fist and drop deliberately onto the sofa cushion beside his thigh. He gripped the cushion. Both hands. Like a man on a roller coaster. Hands not on her. Hands anywhere but on her.

She smiled.

"Watch the film, baby."

"Yeah."

She didn't watch the film. She didn't pretend to. She rested her forehead lightly against his temple. Eyes half closed. Let her body sit on his. And she shifted. Tiny. A settling. A getting-comfortable. Her hips rolled a half inch forward. The ridge of his cock dragged along the lips of her cunt through the cotton. A slow firm pressure. She felt it catch on her clit for a fraction of a second and then ride past. She felt her own wetness flood the inside of her shorts.

She gave it three seconds. Then she did it again. The same tiny circle. The same not-quite-grinding motion. Settling. Settling. Just getting comfortable.

His chest under her tits rose and fell faster.

"Mummy missed cuddles like this," she murmured. Lips an inch from his ear. "You don't cuddle me anymore. You used to be so cuddly when you were little. Climbing in my bed. Falling asleep on my chest. You remember?"

"Yeah."

"You're so warm, sweetie."

She shifted again. Another small circle. This time she let her clit catch on the ridge of him and stay there. Just for a beat. A longer beat. Before she rolled past.

A noise came out of him. Small. Hurt.

"Mum."

"Shh."

She lifted her head. Looked at him. His face was inches from hers. His mouth was open. His pupils were enormous. There was a faint sheen on his upper lip.

She brought one hand up from his shoulder and cupped his jaw. Stroked her thumb along his cheekbone. Looked at his mouth.

"You know I love you, don't you?"

"Mum, I."

"Shh. Yes or no."

"Yes."

"Good boy."

She leaned in. Slow. She gave him a full half-second to turn his head away. He didn't. She pressed her mouth to his.

Not a peck. She kissed him the way she would kiss a man she'd brought home from a bar. Lips soft. Slow. Parted. She felt him freeze under her. Every muscle. His whole body went board-stiff. Hands clenched around the sofa cushion. Mouth closed against hers. She didn't push. She didn't demand. She just stayed there. Lips on his lips. Breathing him in. Letting him decide.

She tilted her head a fraction. Brushed her lips against his. Just brushed. Once. Twice. She felt his lips part involuntarily. Just a sliver.

She pressed in. Slid the very tip of her tongue along the inside of his bottom lip.

And he broke.

His mouth opened against hers and she felt his tongue. Tentative. Terrified. Push back. She licked into him slow and easy and tasted toothpaste and tea and underneath that the warm clean taste of her boy's mouth. He kissed her back. He kissed her back. Sloppy at first. Then less sloppy. His head tilted. His hand left the sofa cushion and came up and hovered again useless before settling against her ribs just under her tit. He didn't grope. Didn't squeeze. Just laid his palm there like he had to put it somewhere.

She rolled her hips.

A full slow grind. Not a settling adjustment. A grind. Her cunt pressed firmly down the length of him through two layers of cotton. Slid up. Slid back down. Her clit dragged along the ridge of him and the wet patch in her shorts smeared against the wet patch in his joggers. She felt the head of his cock push up into her belly through the waistband.

He moaned into her mouth.

A full open helpless moan. The sound went down her throat. She drank it. Her hand tightened on his jaw and she ground down again. Harder. Felt him buck just once. His hips lifting up off the sofa to meet her. An involuntary jolt that was over before he could stop it.

She broke the kiss.

She broke it laughing.

A small breathy laugh. Intimate and warm. Like they'd just shared something silly. She pulled back two inches. Looked at him. His mouth hung open. His lips were wet. His eyes were the eyes of a man who had been hit in the head with a brick.

"Sorry," she whispered. "Sorry, sorry. Got carried away."

"Mum."

"Shh."

"Mum, I."

"It's alright, sweetheart. It's alright. Mummy got carried away. You're just such a good boy. You're such a good cuddler. Mummy hasn't kissed anyone in such a long time."

She kissed him once more. A soft small one. Closed mouth. A peck almost. Then she climbed off him.

She did it slowly. She let her cunt drag along the entire length of his cock one final time as she lifted off. A long slow grinding withdrawal. She watched his face as it happened. The way his eyes squeezed shut. The way his jaw locked. The way the muscles in his neck stood out like cables.

She stood up. Stretched. Both arms above her head. The pyjama top rode up an inch and showed a strip of bare belly above the waistband of her shorts. She arched her back and groaned softly. A satisfied pleased-with-herself sound. Looked down at him.

He was sat exactly where she'd left him. Hands still gripping the sofa cushions. Legs spread. His joggers were not hiding what had happened to him. The cotton tented obscenely. The long thick outline of him running up from his groin towards his hip. A darker wet patch the size of a fifty pence piece just under the apex where the head was. His chest was heaving. His mouth was still open.

She bent and ruffled his hair.

"Right. Bed for me, sweetheart. Work tomorrow."

"Mum."

"Night, baby."

"Mum, wait."

"Mm?"

He looked at her. Helpless. The single word he wanted to say was right there in his eyes and his mouth couldn't make it. She watched him fail to ask the question. Watched him swallow it down.

"Nothing."

"Sleep well, sweetie."

She bent and kissed him on the forehead. A proper kiss. Long. Maternal. Her hand cupped the back of his neck and she held him there for a beat. His hair smelled like Lynx Africa. His breath came hot and fast against her collarbone.

"Mummy loves you."

She straightened. Padded out of the room. She didn't look back. She knew if she looked back she'd laugh or climb back onto him or do something that finished the job tonight. Tonight was not the night to finish the job.

She closed the living room door behind her with a soft click.

She stood for a second on the other side of it. Listened.

Nothing. Not a sound from inside. He was sat there. Hard as a railway spike. Mouth still wet from her tongue. Cock still pulsing inside his ruined joggers. And he was not moving. He was not going upstairs. He was not putting his hand down his pants. He was sitting on that sofa paralysed because if he so much as breathed wrong he'd lose twenty grand and four months of his own stubborn pride.

She climbed the stairs.

She did not go straight to bed.

She went to her room. Closed the door. Locked it just in case because she did not trust herself tonight. She didn't trust what she might do if her boy lost his nerve and came up the stairs.

She lay down on top of the duvet in her pyjamas without undressing. She slid one hand inside the cotton shorts and inside the cotton knickers and through the slick mess of her own cunt. Pressed her middle finger against her clit and lay there in the dark for a long long minute. Not moving. Just feeling.

Wet. So wet the inside of her thighs was sticky. Her shorts were a write-off.

She moved her finger.

Slow. Then faster. Her other hand came up and tugged the buttons of the pyjama top open. One. Two. Three. Her hand closed over her left tit and squeezed and pinched the nipple hard. The way a man would. The way he would have done if he'd ever taken his hand off the sofa cushion.

She closed her eyes.

She didn't picture him. Not yet. She pictured the outline. The long thick ridge under her arse. The throb she'd timed against her pulse. The way his cock had pushed up into the waistband of her shorts and pressed against her belly. The size of him. The weight. The thought that her son her boy the polite little thing who said thanks Mum for breakfast had been carrying that around between his legs.

She came in under ninety seconds.

She bit down on her own knuckles to keep quiet and her back lifted clear of the duvet. Her cunt clenched and clenched and clenched around nothing. Just air. She lay there afterwards with sweat at her temples and her chest heaving and her hand still inside her ruined knickers. Stared at the ceiling.

He didn't cum. The little bastard didn't cum.

She'd been so sure. So sure he'd go in his pants. A nineteen year old boy. Fifteen days locked. His mother grinding on him in pyjamas. His mother's tongue in his mouth. His mother's tits in his face. She'd had it timed. She'd had it scripted. She'd been ready to feel the warm wet pulse of him through the cotton and to climb off and pretend not to notice and to leave him sat there knowing he'd lost.

And he hadn't.

He'd held.

Heather pulled her hand out of her shorts and brought her fingers to her face. Looked at them glossy in the moonlight from the window. Licked them clean one at a time.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow she stopped playing.

She rolled onto her side and pulled the duvet over herself and closed her eyes and listened. From somewhere down the landing very faint very distant very muffled she heard the sound of a grown man screaming into a pillow.

She smiled into the dark.

Goodnight, sweetheart.