Blow That Load For Mommy Ch. 06

Chapter 6

Heather woke up angry.

Not the slow, creeping kind. Not the kind that builds over a cup of tea and a scroll through Facebook. This was the kind that sat bolt upright in her chest the second her eyes opened. Already formed. Already sharp. Already personal. She lay in the tangled wreck of her sheets and stared at the ceiling and thought about the night before. About straddling her son on the sofa. About kissing him until her lips were swollen. About the feel of him underneath her, all that rigid muscle and that impossible cock pressed against her through two thin layers of cotton. The way he'd gripped the cushions like a man clinging to the edge of a cliff.

And he hadn't cum.

Sixteen days. Sixteen days of nothing. Sixteen days of no porn, no wanking, no release. She'd ground on him. She'd put her tongue in his mouth. She'd pressed her tits into his face. She'd done everything short of reaching into his pants and finishing the job herself.

And. He. Hadn't. Cum.

She pulled the duvet off and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Sat there for a second, bare feet on the carpet, knickers still damp from the night before. From the four orgasms she'd given herself while her son lay in his room three doors down, probably biting his pillow.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Jules.

Two more dropped out last night. It's just me and Charlie now. He cracks today or I'm done, Heather. I can't last another night. Mia's been sending me photos and I'm losing my mind.

Heather read the text twice. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She could picture Jules perfectly. The ginger hair. The freckles. The smug little smile he wore every time he thought he was cleverer than everyone in the room. Debbie's son. Charlie's mate. The boy who'd leaned over her garden fence and offered her ten grand to break her own child.

You said that two days ago, she typed back.

I mean it this time. Today. Please. Whatever you're doing, do more of it.

I'm working on it.

Work faster.

She put the phone down. Pressed her palms against her eyes. The remnants of last night's mascara smeared across her fingers in grey crescents.

Two of them left. Charlie and Jules. Twenty grand sitting between them like a live grenade. Her son was apparently made of granite from the waist down.

Fine.

Fine.

She stood up and went to the mirror. The woman who looked back at her had raccoon eyes and bed hair and pillow creases on her left cheek. She was still, even like this, stunning. She knew it the way she knew the sky was blue. Not vanity. Just fact. Thirty six years old and she could still walk into any pub in this town and pull the best looking man in the room inside fifteen minutes.

And her nineteen year old son had held out against her for two straight nights.

She peeled off the knickers. Stepped out of them. Left them in a ball on the carpet. Stood naked in front of the full length mirror and looked. Really looked.

The honey blonde hair fell past her shoulders, tangled from sleep, catching the morning light in streaks of gold. Her breasts sat heavy on her chest, full and round and natural, the kind you couldn't fake with a surgeon because no surgeon could replicate the weight of them, the way they moved when she breathed. Pink nipples, soft now, slightly puffy from the way she'd pinched them last night. Her stomach was flat with the faintest suggestion of softness below her navel. The spin classes had carved her waist narrow and her hips wide and her arse into something that belonged in a rap video.

She turned sideways. Looked at herself in profile. Tits. Waist. Arse.

Legs.

I'm going to get my hands on that cock today, she thought. The clarity of it surprised her. No hedging. No pretending this was about the money or about Jules or about the bet. She wanted to touch her son's dick. She wanted to wrap her fingers around it and feel the weight and the heat and the pulse of it.

That was the thought she'd been running from since the yoga mat. Since the bikini. Since the first time she'd caught him looking away from her and realized he'd been looking in the first place.

She walked to the bathroom. Brushed her teeth. Washed her face. Applied moisturizer. A touch of concealer under her eyes. Mascara, but light. A brush of colour on her lips, the kind that looked like she wasn't wearing anything at all. She dried her hair with her fingers, letting it fall in loose, natural waves.

The outfit mattered. Not too much. Not the lace. Not the see through anything. She needed to look like she'd just thrown something on without thinking about it. Like she'd reached into the top drawer and grabbed whatever was closest.

She opened the drawer.

The pink shorts were right on top. Cotton. Tiny. The kind she'd bought from a sportswear site three years ago for working out in the garden. Which she had never once worn to work out in the garden because they were obscene. They rode up if she so much as shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Two steps and the fabric would bunch into the crease of her arse. The front was cut low enough that she had to be completely shaved or she'd be showing hair. She was completely shaved, because she always was, because she liked the way it felt.

She pulled them on. Checked the mirror. The fabric stretched across her hips and hugged the curve of her backside. There it was, the soft outline of her pussy visible through the thin cotton when the light caught it right. She turned around. The shorts had ridden up on one side already. A quarter of each cheek was exposed, the tanned skin smooth and firm.

The vest top was white. Ribbed cotton. Thin enough that she could count the ridges of the fabric if she looked closely. She pulled it on without a bra. Her nipples pressed against the material immediately, two distinct points, the dark circles of her areolas visible if you cared to look. The vest was a size too small. It stopped an inch above the waistband of the shorts, leaving a strip of her flat stomach bare. The neckline scooped low enough to show the swell of her cleavage.

She looked at herself.

Casual. Just a mum pottering about the house on a summer morning. Nothing deliberate about it. Nothing at all.

She smiled at her reflection. The smile of a woman who had decided something.

Downstairs, the house was quiet. Charlie's door was shut when she'd passed it on the landing. She pictured him in there, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with his cock pointing at the light fixture, every nerve in his body on fire. Poor baby.

She made tea. She made toast. She put the radio on low, just background noise. Sat at the kitchen table and ate her breakfast slowly and thought about her plan for the day.

The mistake had been escalation. Two nights of pushing, two nights of kissing and grinding and pressing herself against him. She'd come at him like a wave and he'd braced against it. He was his father's son, stubborn in that quiet, teeth clenched way that Richard used to get when someone told him he couldn't do something. The more Heather pushed, the more Charlie planted his feet.

So today she would not push.

Today she would be normal. Kind. Maternal. She would make him lunch and sit beside him and let him breathe. She would let the shorts and the vest top and the body underneath them do the work. No yoga. No banana performance. No grinding on his lap. Just his mother, in his peripheral vision, all day long, in the tightest little outfit she owned, acting like nothing in the world was wrong.

And tonight, when his guard was down, when he'd convinced himself that the last two nights were an aberration, when he'd relaxed just enough to sit beside her on the sofa without gripping the cushions.

Tonight she would put her hand down his pants.

She finished her tea.

Charlie came downstairs sometime before noon.

He looked awful. Hollowed out. The shadows under his eyes were the colour of old bruises. The eyes themselves were bloodshot. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscles jumping in his cheeks. He wore joggers, because he always wore joggers now, and a loose t shirt. He walked into the kitchen with the careful, measured gait of a man trying not to jostle anything below his waist.

"Morning, sweetheart."

"Morning."

One word. He went to the kettle. Filled it. Put it on. Stood with his back to her, hands braced on the counter, head hanging between his shoulders.

"I'm making sandwiches in a bit. Want one?"

"Yeah. Please."

"Ham and cheese?"

"Whatever."

She let him be. He made his tea and took it to the living room. She heard the television come on. Some sports show. She didn't follow him. She stood at the kitchen counter and made the sandwiches, took her time with them, cut the crusts off the way he'd liked since he was a kid, arranged them on a plate with some crisps on the side. She brought them through to the living room and set the plate on the coffee table next to him.

"There you go."

"Thanks, Mum."

She sat down next to him. Not on top of him. Next to him. A few inches of space between their legs. She picked up a sandwich half and ate it, watching the television, commenting on whatever match recap was playing. Easy. Normal. The kind of afternoon they'd had hundreds of times before his dad died and before the bet and before she'd lost her mind.

Her thigh pressed against his. Bare skin on joggers. Just the lightest contact. Not deliberate. Not obviously. Just two people sharing a sofa. She didn't lean into him. Didn't touch him. Didn't draw attention to any part of herself. She ate her sandwich and watched the screen and let the pink shorts and the white vest top exist in his peripheral vision.

Charlie ate his sandwich. He didn't look at her. Not directly. But his leg didn't move away from hers. Twice she caught the very edges of his eyes drifting left, down, toward the strip of bare skin between her vest and her shorts, before snapping back to the television.

She stayed for fifteen minutes. Then she stood.

"Right, I've got laundry. Shout if you need anything."

She left. She heard him exhale behind her. Long and shaky. Like he'd been holding his breath the entire time she'd been sitting there.

She did laundry. She cleaned the kitchen. She watered the plants in the back garden, bending over each pot in a way that no one could see from inside the house but that she practiced anyway, just to keep the muscle memory fresh. She sat in the garden for half an hour with a book she didn't read, thinking about the way his joggers had tented when she'd set the plate down.

She came back inside. Charlie was still on the sofa. Still watching television. The plates were empty. Good boy.

"Want a cup of tea, love?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

She made tea. Brought it to him. Their fingers touched on the handover. His were trembling. Barely perceptible. A vibration more than a shake. She pretended not to notice. Went back to the kitchen and drank her own tea standing at the counter, scrolling through her phone, looking at absolutely nothing.

The afternoon stretched. She gave him space. Popped in and out of the living room. Picked up his mug. Asked if he wanted a biscuit. Stood in the doorway for a moment, hip cocked against the frame, one leg crossed over the other, the pose accidental and devastating. Chatted to him about whether they needed milk from the shop. She watched his eyes. They stayed on her face. On her face. On her face. Then, fast as a blink, down to her chest and back up.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

"I'll go tomorrow. We're fine for today."

"Okay."

"You alright, sweetheart? You look knackered."

"Didn't sleep great."

"Poor thing. Early night tonight?"

"Maybe."

"We could do a film? Nothing heavy. Just something on the sofa. Bit of a cuddle. Might help you relax."

Silence. She could see the battle happening behind his eyes. The last two nights on the sofa had nearly killed him. She knew it. He knew it. They both knew that the sofa had become a battlefield and that she had the advantage there, in the dark, with the television covering the sounds, with the closeness making escape impossible.

"Yeah. Alright."

She smiled. Maternal. Warm. Not a trace of anything else.

"Lovely. I'll sort dinner. Something easy."

She cooked pasta. Simple. Quick. They ate at the kitchen table and she kept the conversation light. Work. Friends. Whether he'd heard from anyone at uni about next term's housing. Normal mum things. She did not mention the previous two nights. She did not mention the kissing. She did not mention the way she'd straddled him or the sound he'd made when she'd ground against him.

But the shorts did their work. Every time she stood up from the table, every time she walked to the counter for more parmesan or a glass of water, they rode higher. The fabric bunched between her cheeks and she didn't fix it. She turned to walk back to the table and caught Charlie staring at her legs. He looked away so fast his neck cricked.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

They finished dinner. She washed up. He dried. Domestic. Easy.

"Go on then. Pick a film. I'll be two minutes."

She went upstairs. Brushed her teeth. Spritzed perfume on her wrists and throat and the valley between her breasts. She looked at herself in the mirror one more time. The vest, the shorts, the hair, the bare legs, the soft V of her cleavage where the cotton scooped down. She adjusted the vest, pulling it just slightly lower so that the top edge of her areola peeked above the neckline on the left side if she leaned forward.

Last chance, Charlie.

She went back downstairs.

The living room was dark. He'd put the big light off and the lamp on, turned low, the way she liked it for films. The television cast a blue wash across the room. He was on the sofa. Sat in the middle, which meant he'd been thinking about positioning, trying to figure out where to sit so she couldn't pin him into a corner.

She paused in the doorway.

"Budge up."

He moved to the right. She sat on the left. Close. Not close enough. She patted the cushion next to her thigh.

"Come here."

"I'm right here, Mum."

"You're a mile away. Get here. Cuddles."

"Mum..."

"Don't Mum me. You've had a face like a smacked arse all day and I'm going to give you a cuddle whether you like it or not. Come here."

He slid closer. She took his arm and lifted it and ducked under it, placing it around her shoulders. She tucked herself into his side, her cheek against his chest, her body pressed along the length of his. Warm. Solid. She could feel his heart going. Fast. Too fast for a boy sat on a sofa watching a film.

"There. That's better, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Moody little sod."

"I'm not moody."

"You are. You're a moody little sod and Mummy's going to fix it."

He didn't respond. She felt his arm stiffen around her shoulders. The word Mummy hung in the air between them like smoke.

The film started. Something he'd picked. She didn't look at the screen. She looked at the strip of his stomach visible where his t shirt had ridden up, the ridge of muscle above his hip, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing below his waistband.

She placed her hand on his stomach.

Just resting there. Casual. The way she'd touched him a hundred times. Her fingertips on the warm skin just under the hem of his t shirt, feeling the ridges of his abdominal muscles, the slight rise and fall of his breathing.

He twitched. She felt it. A tiny jump of the muscle beneath her fingers. She didn't react. She started tracing. Lazy, aimless circles on his stomach. Her fingertip barely grazing the skin. Light enough to tickle. Light enough to make him crazy.

His breathing changed. Deeper. Slower. Controlled. The breath of a man who was concentrating very, very hard on something.

She nuzzled closer into his side. Turned her face into his chest and breathed him in. Soap. Clean t shirt. The faint salt of a body running warm. Her hand kept moving. Circles on his stomach. A trace along the line of his hip bone. A dip below his navel, following the trail of hair for an inch before coming back up. Each circuit taking her fingers a fraction lower than the last.

His arm tightened around her shoulders.

She shifted her position. Drew her right leg up and laid it across his thigh, her knee on his quad, her calf draped over his leg. The movement was smooth and natural, just a woman getting comfortable, but it brought her body closer to his. Her hip pressed against his side. Her inner thigh rested on his leg. The thin cotton of her shorts was all that separated her cunt from the side of his hip. She was wet. Already wet. Had been wet since she'd walked downstairs.

"Better." Her mouth against the cotton of his t shirt.

He said nothing. His thigh was rigid under her leg. Every muscle locked.

She tilted her face up.

His jaw was clenched. Eyes on the television but not seeing it. A muscle twitching in his cheek. Neck flushed pink.

She brought her hand up from his stomach and laid it against his jaw. Turned his face toward hers.

"Hey."

His eyes met hers. Dark. Glazed. Desperate.

She kissed him.

Not soft. Not the tentative brush of the previous night, not the playful mum just giving you a kiss performance. This was her mouth opening against his, her tongue finding his, her hand gripping the back of his neck and pulling him down into it. She kissed him like she meant it. Like she'd been thinking about it all day. Because she had.

He made a noise against her mouth. Small. Strangled.

She pulled back. One inch. Her lips wet. His breath on her face.

"Kiss me properly, Charlie."

His name. Not baby, not sweetheart. His name.

Something shifted in his face. Tightened. Broke.

He kissed her back.

Properly.

His hand came off the sofa cushion and went to her waist and pulled her closer. His mouth opened against hers and his tongue found hers and he kissed her like he was drowning and she was the surface. Messy. Urgent. Teeth catching her bottom lip. The sound of it, wet and hungry and nothing like a son kissing his mother, filling the dark room.

The bet. She knew the bet was in there somewhere, screaming at him from the back of his skull. She could feel it in the way his fingers dug into her waist, the tension in his grip, the way he kissed her like a man at war with himself.

She let her right hand slide down from his jaw.

Slow.

Down his neck. Over the hard swell of his chest. Her palm flat against his pectoral, feeling the pounding of his heart beneath his ribs. Down. Over the ridges of his stomach, which clenched and jumped under her touch. Down. To the waistband of his joggers.

She paused.

Her fingers rested on the elastic. Just sitting there. His stomach rose and fell against her knuckles.

She broke the kiss. Looked down.

"Oh."

The joggers were tented. That was the wrong word. Tented implied a peak, a pole holding up canvas. This was something else. His cock had risen from the leg of the joggers and pressed up against the waistband, the head trapped beneath the elastic. The entire length of it lay against his stomach like a forearm. The fabric was pulled taut over the shape of it. She could see every detail through the thin cotton. The ridge of the head. The thickness of the shaft. The way it pulsed, a visible throb that moved the fabric with each heartbeat.

"Oh, baby."

Her voice came out different. Lower. Breathier. She hadn't meant it to. She was supposed to be in control, supposed to be the one running this, but the sight of it. The size of it. She'd felt it through fabric before, grinding on it, pressing against it. She'd known it was big. She hadn't known it was this.

Her palm settled over the bulge. Just resting there. His cock pushed up against her hand through the joggers, hot, impossibly hot, and so hard that the shaft didn't give at all under her touch. Like touching something made of heated steel.

Charlie's hips jerked. His whole body bucked once, involuntary, and a sound came out of him that she would remember for the rest of her life. Not a moan. Not a groan. A whimper. High and broken and helpless.

"Shhh." She kissed the corner of his mouth. "Shhh shhh shhh. It's alright."

She started moving her hand. Slow. A long drag of her palm down the length of him through the joggers, from the head trapped at his waistband down the shaft to the base where his cock met his body. She felt every inch. Thick. Rigid. The vein on the underside a raised ridge beneath her palm.

He hissed. Air through clenched teeth.

"Mum. Mum, don't."

"Shh. I'm just making you feel better, sweetheart. Look at you. You're so tense. You're wound up so tight I'm worried about you."

"Mum, you can't..."

"I can." She said it gently. Firmly. The way she'd said eat your vegetables and do your homework for nineteen years. "I'm your mum. I can see you're suffering. Whatever this is, whatever you're doing to yourself, you need to let go of something, Charlie. You need to relax."

Her hand dragged back up. Slower. Her fingers walking up the shaft through the cotton, feeling the ridge of the head, her thumb circling over the tip. The fabric there was damp. She pressed her thumb into it and he bucked again.

"My poor boy. So worked up."

She kept her hand moving. Long, even strokes over the joggers. Her palm flat on the underside, her fingers curved around the shape of him, working the fabric back and forth against his cock. She could feel the heat of him radiating through the cotton and into her skin. She could feel each pulse, each throb, the way his cock twitched and jumped at every pass of her hand.

The wet patch was spreading. A dark bloom on the grey cotton, right where the head of his cock pressed against his waistband. She rubbed her thumb into it, grinding the damp fabric against his slit. His entire body went stiff. Every muscle. Like touching a live wire.

"When did you last cum, sweetheart?"

"Mum..."

"Tell me." She kissed his jaw. Her hand kept working. "When was the last time?"

He didn't answer. His breathing came in short, sharp bursts. His hands gripped the sofa cushions on either side of his thighs, white knuckled, veins standing out in his forearms.

"That long? Oh, baby. No wonder you're in such a state. Your poor cock. Look at it."

She squeezed him through the joggers. Firm. He made a sound that wasn't a word.

"And your balls. God, Charlie." Her other hand came down and cupped him through the fabric, feeling the weight of him, the fullness. He was swollen. Hot. She could feel his balls tight and heavy in her palm, packed full, and when she applied the lightest pressure he flinched like she'd touched a burn.

"They must be aching so much. All that cum with nowhere to go. That's not good for you, sweetheart. That's not healthy."

"Please. Mum. Please."

He didn't know what he was pleading for. She could hear it in his voice. Stop or don't stop. Let me go or finish me. The word please hanging between two meanings and neither one winning.

She kissed him again. Deep. Wet. Her tongue pushing into his mouth and finding his. This time he kissed her back immediately, desperately, his mouth open and hungry and sloppy with need. She sucked his bottom lip between her teeth. Bit down. Not hard. Hard enough.

Her hand kept stroking him through the joggers. The friction of the cotton against his cock. She could feel how slick the fabric had become where his precum soaked through it, and she used that. Pressed the damp fabric against his shaft and worked it up and down, a cruel imitation of what her hand would feel like on bare skin.

"Look how wet you are." She pulled back from the kiss. Looked down at the dark patch spreading across his joggers. "You're leaking so much, sweetheart. You need this so badly, don't you?"

A nod. Tiny. Almost imperceptible.

"Yeah, you do. I can tell." She kissed his cheek. The corner of his eye. His temple. Her lips soft against his burning skin. "Mummy's going to help. Mummy's going to make it better."

She looked into his face. His eyes were closed. Screwed shut. His lips parted, each breath a shallow pant, and there was a flush spreading from his neck up to his cheeks and into the roots of his dark hair.

"I'm going to put my hand inside, okay? Just my hand. Just Mummy's hand. You don't have to do anything. You don't even have to think about it. Just let me take care of it."

His eyes opened. Glassy. Wet. Lost.

"No one has to know, Charlie. It's our secret. Just you and me."

He didn't say yes.

He didn't say no.

His hands stayed on the cushions. His chest rose and fell. His cock throbbed in his joggers, the wet patch glistening in the blue light of the television.

Heather hooked her fingertips under the waistband of his joggers. The elastic stretched. She felt the heat rising from beneath the cotton before she even touched skin. She slipped her fingers under the waistband of his boxers. Down. Into the warm dark.

The first thing she felt was the hair. Coarse and thick at the base of his cock. Then the shaft. Her fingers trailed along it. Up. Up. Up. The sheer length of it. Her wrist was bent at the jogger waistband and her fingers were walking up his cock and it just kept going.

She wrapped her hand around him.

Her face changed.

She couldn't stop it. A flicker of something raw and unscripted. Her fingers closed around his shaft and her thumb strained toward her middle finger and they didn't meet. Not close. There was a gap. A significant, unmistakable gap. The girth of him stretched her hand open and she squeezed and felt the iron hardness of it, the heat that was beyond warm, beyond hot, a feverish pulsing throb against her palm. The weight. Heavy. So heavy that when she lifted the shaft slightly it sank back against her grip like something dense and alive.

She blinked.

She swallowed.

She did not let him see.

His eyes were closed again. His head tipped back against the sofa, throat exposed, and he hadn't seen the look on her face. Hadn't seen the way her lips had parted. Hadn't seen her pupils blow wide or the way her thighs had squeezed together against a sudden, vicious pulse of heat between her legs.

Jesus Christ.

She'd been with six men. Richard, and five before him, and two since. She knew what cocks felt like. She knew what big felt like. This was not big. This was something that would make a woman reorganize her plans for the evening.

She started moving.

Not stroking. Not yet. Exploring. Her fingertips traced the topography of him inside his boxers. Up the shaft, which was thick enough that her hand slid over the surface of it rather than around it. The skin was silk over steel, smooth and burning. She could feel the veins raised along the sides, mapping the blood that kept him this hard, that had kept him this hard for days. She reached the head. Swollen. Broader than the shaft. Her thumb traced the ridge where the head met the shaft, that sensitive band of flesh, and he bucked hard into her hand and a noise tore out of him.

"Nnh."

"Shhh. Baby. Shhh. Mummy's got you."

She circled the head with her fingertip. The tip was slick. So slick. Precum coated him in a viscous glaze and her finger slipped over the slit and he jerked again and more leaked out, warm and thick against her thumb. She cupped the head in her palm and squeezed gently and felt it pulse against her, a heartbeat in her hand, and brought her slick fingers back down the shaft.

His balls. She reached lower. Cupped them in her fingers. Full. Heavy. Tight against the base of his cock, drawn up in their sack, and they were bigger than she'd imagined. Swollen with sixteen days of cum that he refused to spill. She rolled one between her fingers, gentle, careful, and he hissed through his teeth and his thigh jumped.

"Mum. Oh God."

"It's okay."

She came back to the shaft. Wrapped her hand around it properly. Let the weight of it settle in her palm. Adjusted her grip, fingers spread wide to accommodate the thickness. She started stroking.

Slow. One long pull from base to head. Her thumb pressed against the underside ridge, the vein that ran from root to tip, and she dragged it along the length of him. The angle was wrong. Her wrist was kinked inside two layers of waistband and the fabric bunched around her forearm and she didn't care. She made it work. She gripped tighter. Pulled up. Her fist rising along his cock, stretching the foreskin up over the swollen head, and she felt it gather and bunch in her grip before she reversed direction and slid back down.

The precum made it easy. There was so much of it. Slick and warm and constant, leaking from his slit in a steady pulse that kept her hand gliding. She spread it down his shaft with her thumb on the next upstroke, coating him, and now the friction disappeared and there was only heat and pressure and the wet sound of her fist working his cock inside his boxers.

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Mum."

"That's it, baby. Just let go. Just relax."

She found a rhythm. Long, even strokes. Not fast. Not yet. She had all night. She had the rest of his life if she wanted it. Slow and firm and deliberate, her hand squeezing on the way up, loosening slightly on the way down, and on every upstroke she twisted her wrist. Just a quarter turn. Enough to change the angle, enough to make her palm rotate over the head, enough to make his cock jerk and pulse and leak a fresh wave of slick into her grip.

He was making sounds. Not words. Sounds. Tiny, broken, helpless sounds that came from the back of his throat with every breath. Short, strangled noises that he tried to hold in and couldn't. His teeth were clenched. She could hear them grinding. His hands were fists in the sofa cushions and the tendons in his neck stood out like cables and he was losing.

"My poor boy." Her mouth was at his ear. Her breath hot against his skin. "So worked up. So full. You've been holding it in for so long, haven't you?"

"Uh huh." Barely audible.

"I know, sweetheart. I know. Mummy can feel it." She squeezed him. Firm. Her fingers dug into his shaft and his cock flexed in her grip and she felt a throb that was almost violent, the blood pumping through him, keeping him hard, keeping him on the edge of something enormous. "You're throbbing so hard, Charlie. Can you feel that? Can you feel how hard you are in Mummy's hand?"

"Yeah."

"Good boy. Such a good boy." She stroked faster. Not much. A notch. The wet sound filled the dark living room, obscene and rhythmic, and she felt his cock getting slicker as more precum poured from the tip. Her hand was coated in it. Warm. Sticky. She squeezed it down the shaft, creating a tight, slippery sleeve with her fist, and pumped him through it.

Her free hand slipped under his t shirt. Flat palm on his stomach. She felt the muscles clench and ripple under her touch. Her nails dragged up his abs. Over the ridges. Over the hard plane of his chest. She found his nipple and pinched.

He gasped. Loud. His hips bucked up off the sofa, driving his cock through her fist, and she gripped tighter and let him fuck up into her hand.

"You like that? You like Mummy touching you?"

"Fuck. Mum."

"Language." She twisted his nipple. Gentle but firm. He made a sound like he'd been punched. "Of course you do. You deserve this, Charlie. You've been such a good boy. So tense. So wound up. You deserve to let go."

She kissed his neck. Open mouthed. Tongue against his pulse point, tasting salt. She sucked the skin and felt the blood pounding beneath her lips and her hand kept working, kept stroking, a relentless rhythm inside his boxers that was pushing him somewhere he couldn't come back from.

"You're going to cum so much, baby. Mummy can feel it. Your cock is so hard. Your balls are so tight." She cupped them with her free hand, reaching down past his waistband alongside the hand that was stroking him, and she felt them. Drawn up. Rock hard. Full to bursting. She rolled them in her palm, gentle, and he whimpered. Actually whimpered. A thin, high, desperate sound that a nineteen year old man should never make.

"You've got so much in there for Mummy. Don't you? So much cum that you've been saving up. I bet it hurts. I bet it aches so much, sweetheart."

"It does." The words came out cracked. Raw. Like he'd been screaming.

"I know, baby. I know. That's why Mummy's helping. That's why Mummy's stroking your cock. Because you need it. Because you've needed it for so long and you've been so brave and so strong and Mummy's so proud of you but you need to cum now, sweetheart. You need to let it out."

She stroked faster.

Her grip tightened. Her wrist pumped, quick and smooth, the wet friction of her hand on his cock filling the room with a slick, rhythmic sound that was nothing like a film playing on a television. She could feel him swelling in her grip. Getting thicker. Harder. The head of his cock was engorged, almost angry feeling, and it pushed through the ring of her thumb and forefinger on every upstroke and she squeezed over it and rubbed the flat of her palm across the tip before plunging back down.

He was close. She could feel it building. His cock was a living thing in her hand, pulsing and straining, and his balls had drawn up so tight they were pressed against the base of his shaft. His breathing had gone ragged. Each exhale a small moan. Each inhale a gasp. His hips were moving, twitching up in tiny involuntary thrusts that matched her rhythm.

"That's it. That's it, baby. You're close, aren't you? Mummy can feel it. You're so close, sweetheart."

"Mum. Mum. Oh God. Oh God."

"Cum for Mummy, Charlie." She breathed it into his ear. Her lips brushing the lobe. Her hand pumping his cock, fast now, really fast, tight and slippery and relentless. "Cum in your boxers, baby. Make a mess for Mummy. No one has to know. It's just us. Just Mummy and you. Cum for me. Give it to me. Give Mummy what she wants."

He was bucking. Off the sofa. Driving himself through her fist. His hands were fists on the cushions and his jaw was clamped shut and the cords in his neck were standing out and his whole body was rigid, every muscle locked, balanced on the razor edge of the biggest orgasm of his young life.

"Please, baby." She heard her own voice crack. She meant it. Not the game. Not the bet. Not the ten grand. She wanted him to cum. She wanted to feel it. She wanted to feel his cock erupt in her hand and coat her fingers and fill his boxers with sixteen days of saved up cum. "Please cum for Mummy. Mummy needs it. Mummy needs to feel you cum. Please. Charlie. Please."

Both hands working. The right one stroking, pumping, squeezing his cock. The left cupping and rolling his balls, pressing them up, applying gentle pressure that she knew from experience would push a man over the edge. Her mouth on his neck. Her body pressed against his side. Her nipples hard against his arm through the thin cotton of her vest.

"Look at me."

He opened his eyes.

Her face was right there. Inches away. Lips parted. Swollen from kissing. Green eyes huge and dark and desperate. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, his mother, staring into his eyes and telling him to cum on her hand.

"It's okay, sweetheart. It's just my hand. Just Mummy's hand. Nothing has to change. We never have to talk about it. Just let go. Just give it to me."

Her hand pumped faster.

"Cum."

Faster.

"Cum."

Her grip locked around his shaft, knuckles white, and she jerked him with short, vicious strokes, fast and tight and brutal.

"Cum, Charlie. Cum. Cum. Cum."

He was there. One stroke. One more stroke. She could feel it in the way his cock swelled impossibly thicker, the way his balls pulled up into his body, the way his whole frame went rigid and began to shake.

The bet.

It hit him like a bucket of ice water. Jules Hartley's smug ginger face. The group chat. Twenty thousand pounds. The handshake in the pub car park four months ago when they'd all pulled out their phones and transferred the money into the escrow app and agreed on the rules and shook hands and said may the best man win.

His hand shot down and grabbed her wrist.

Not gentle. Firm. His fingers locked around her forearm and he stopped her hand mid stroke.

"No."

It came out wrong. Not a word. A sound. A sob with consonants in it. His voice cracking on the single syllable like glass breaking.

"No. Mum. No. Stop. Please stop. Please."

Heather froze.

Her hand was still wrapped around his cock. She could feel it pulsing against her palm. Could feel the very tip of his orgasm right there, right at the crest, one movement away. His grip on her wrist was iron. His body was shaking. Not trembling. Shaking. Full body, uncontrollable shaking, the kind you get from hypothermia or shock or holding off the most intense orgasm of your life through sheer force of will.

She looked at his hand on her wrist. Looked at his face.

He was crying.

Silently. Tears running from the corners of his eyes and down his flushed cheeks and into the collar of his t shirt. His jaw was clenched so tight she could hear his teeth creaking. His cock throbbed in her hand, straining, leaking, begging for the finish that his brain refused to allow.

For one long, still second, she considered carrying on.

He couldn't stop her. Not really. His grip on her wrist was strong but her hand was already around his cock. Three strokes. Maybe two. One firm squeeze and a twist at the head and he'd cum whether his hand was on her arm or not. She could feel it. He was so close that the slightest movement would set him off. A squeeze of her fingers. A roll of her thumb over the slit. Even just holding still and letting his own pulse do the work.

She didn't.

Something in his face. The tears. The plea. The way he'd said please like the word cost him something vital.

She loosened her grip. Slowly. Let her fingers uncurl from around his shaft. Drew her hand back up the length of him, feeling every inch slide through her palm one final time. Her fingers emerged from his waistband trailing a thin, glistening string of his precum that caught the television light and stretched between her palm and the fabric before breaking.

She looked at her hand. Slick. Coated. The light caught the fluid on her fingers and it gleamed.

She looked at him.

Wrecked. There was no other word. His cock was a visible ridge in his joggers, throbbing, the wet patch enormous now, spreading from the waistband halfway down his thigh. His chest heaved. His fists were white on the cushions. Tears tracked down his face and he didn't wipe them away.

She kissed his forehead. Soft. Her lips lingering on his burning skin.

"Okay, baby."

She kissed his cheek. Tasted salt.

"Okay."

She kissed the corner of his mouth. His lips were swollen and trembling.

"Good boy. Such a brave, strong, good boy. Mummy's so proud of you."

She wrapped her arms around him. Pulled his head against her chest. Held him while he shook. Her hand came up and stroked his hair, fingernails running gently over his scalp, and she rocked him slightly. Back and forth. The way she'd rocked him when he was small and frightened and something in the dark had woken him.

"Whatever this is, sweetheart. Whatever you're doing. I'm not angry with you. I'm not going to ask."

She stroked his hair. He was still shaking.

"Mummy got carried away. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you."

His breathing was slowing. The shaking subsiding in increments. His forehead pressed against her collarbone and she could feel the dampness of his tears soaking through the thin cotton of her vest.

"Take your time, okay? Stay here as long as you need to."

She held him for a long time. The film played on, unwatched, filling the room with colour and meaningless sound. She stroked his hair and pressed her lips against the top of his head and breathed in the smell of him and felt his heartbeat gradually slow against her body.

"I'm going to go up to bed now, baby. You stay here. Rest. Come up when you're ready."

She kissed his head one more time.

"Mummy loves you."

She stood. Her legs were weak. Her knees trembled. The insides of her thighs were slick and the crotch of her shorts was soaked through and her hands were shaking and her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her fingertips.

She walked to the door.

Didn't run. Every cell in her body screamed at her to turn around. To go back to the sofa. To pull his joggers down and climb on and fuck him until neither of them could think or speak or remember their own names. The image of it flared through her mind, vivid, searing: her on top, his hands on her hips, that cock stretching her, filling her, the sounds he'd make, the sounds she'd make, the absolute ruinous beautiful wrongness of it.

She walked through the door and up the stairs and into her room and closed the door behind her and leaned against it with her eyes shut.

Her right hand came up. Glistening. His precum. She brought it to her mouth. Extended her tongue and licked a long, slow stripe from the base of her palm to the tip of her middle finger.

The taste of him.

Salt. Bitter. Sweet underneath. Thick. Young. Alive.

She closed her lips around her index finger and sucked it clean. Then her middle finger. Her ring finger. Her thumb. Her pinky, which had barely touched him but still carried the ghost of his heat. She licked between each finger. She licked her palm. She cleaned every trace of him from her hand with her tongue and swallowed it and stood there in the dark with the taste of her son's cock in her mouth.

She was on the bed in seconds. Shorts pulled aside, not even down, just yanked to the left. Two fingers buried in her cunt before her back hit the mattress. She was so wet that there was no resistance. Just slick heat and the obscene sound of her fingers pumping into herself.

She came in under a minute. The first time. Her hips lifting off the bed, stomach clenching, mouth open in a silent scream. The orgasm tore through her like something with teeth. Her cunt clamped down on her fingers and she felt herself gush, actually gush, soaking her hand and the shorts and the duvet beneath her.

She didn't stop.

She pulled her fingers out and rubbed her clit, fast, rough, grinding the heel of her palm against herself. The second orgasm chased the first. Building on it. Layering over it. She bit down on her forearm to keep from crying out and her eyes rolled back and her thighs clamped shut around her hand and she came again, harder, longer, her whole body curling in on itself.

The third time she used three fingers. Fucked herself with them, imagining his cock, the thickness of it, the weight. Her fingers were nothing. A poor imitation. He would stretch her. He would fill her in a way that no one had since Richard, and Richard hadn't been this big, hadn't been close to this big, and the thought of Charlie's cock inside her was enough to push her over the edge again, a sharp, bright burst of pleasure that left her gasping.

The fourth time took longer. She was sensitive now. Raw. She lay on her side with one hand between her legs and worked herself slowly, lazily, replaying every moment. The sound he'd made when she'd first touched him. The way his cock had filled her hand. The way his body had shaken when he'd stopped her. The tears on his face. The twenty thousand pound bet that she didn't give a single solitary fuck about anymore.

She came. Quieter. Deeper. A long, rolling wave that pulled a moan from her throat that she muffled in the pillow.

She lay there after. On her side. Knees drawn up. Hand still cupped between her legs, fingers slick and pruned and aching. The duvet was a disaster. Her shorts were soaked. Her vest top was twisted up around her ribs, one breast exposed, the nipple swollen and tender.

She stared at the wall.

The ten grand. Jules. The bet. She tried to care about any of it. She tried to think about the hot tub and the bills and the money sitting in the escrow app waiting for a winner.

She couldn't.

She could only think about the gap between her thumb and middle finger when she'd wrapped her hand around her son's cock.

She didn't sleep.