Blow That Load For Mommy Ch. 07

Chapter 7

Charlie lay on his back with his eyes open. The ceiling was grey. Not dark grey, not the grey of proper night, but the washed out thin grey of a summer morning that had started without him. Birds outside. Loud ones. Pissed off ones. He hated them.

He rolled onto his side. His cock pressed against the mattress and he sucked a breath through his teeth and rolled onto his back again. Stared at the ceiling. Rolled onto his other side. Same problem. Back again.

Seventeen days.

He did the maths for the hundredth time. Four grand each from five lads. Twenty thousand in the pot. Winner takes all. Seventeen days of nothing. No wanking. No porn. No wet dreams because he'd trained himself to wake up before they got that far, which meant he hadn't slept more than two hours straight in over a week.

His balls ached. Not the dull ache of a knock during training. This was deeper. Heavier. A swollen rolling pressure that sat low in his gut and pulsed when he moved. When he breathed. When he thought about anything at all.

He thought about last night.

His mother's hand inside his joggers. Her fingers wrapping around his cock. The sound she'd made when she'd felt how thick he was. The way she'd stroked him, slow at first then faster, her thumb smearing his precum around the head, her breath hot against his neck, her voice low and strange and not his mum's voice at all. Cum for Mummy. Those words. That voice.

He'd stopped her. Grabbed her wrist and begged her to stop and cried like a child and she'd held him and stroked his hair and gone upstairs.

His cock twitched against his stomach. Rock hard. Leaking. The joggers were wet where the tip pressed against the fabric. He hadn't been soft in three days. Not fully soft. He'd get down to a semi and then a breeze would come through the window or he'd shift position or he'd think about her hand, her fingers, the weight of her breast against his arm, and he'd be right back to iron.

He wondered if you could do actual damage this way. Real permanent medical damage. Burst something. Rupture something. Die of backed up cum in the middle of the night in your childhood bedroom and have the paramedics find your rigid cock pointing at the glow in the dark stars you stuck on the ceiling when you were nine.

He got up. The floor was cold under his bare feet. He crossed the hall to the bathroom and locked the door and turned the shower on. Not to get in. For the noise. White noise. Cover.

He sat on the edge of the bath and picked up his phone. Scrolled to Jules. Hit call.

It rang four times.

"What." Jules's voice was thick with sleep. Or something pretending to be sleep.

"Mate."

"It's... Charlie, it's stupid o'clock, what do you..."

"I'm done."

Silence on the other end. Charlie pressed the phone tighter against his ear. The shower hissed behind him.

"What d'you mean, done?"

"Done. I'm tapping. You win. Have the money. Have all of it. I don't care anymore. I'm tapping out."

More silence. Then a sound. A weird choked gulping sound that Charlie thought for a second was Jules crying. Jules Hartley crying on the phone at dawn, and who could blame him, this bet had broken all of them, every single one.

Jules was laughing.

Full proper belly laughter. The phone rustled and scraped like he'd dropped it and picked it up and dropped it again.

"Fuck off. Fuck. Off." Jules was wheezing. "You rang me to... you actually rang me to..."

"Jules."

"Sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry, that's just... oh my God mate." More laughing. Quieter now, petering out into hitched breathing. "You had me going there."

"I'm not joking."

"Neither am I. Listen." Jules coughed. Cleared his throat. Put on his serious voice, the one he used when he wanted people to think he knew things they didn't. "Listen to me. Don't tap. Mate. Don't do it."

"You don't understand. I can't..."

"Can't what? Can't not wank? Charlie. Mate. I had Mia over last night. She was in my bed. She was wearing this little... look, point is, I managed. I'm fine. I'm golden. The bet is about willpower at this point yeah? Pure willpower. And you've got more of it than anyone I know."

Charlie pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets. His cock was still hard. Poking through the fly of his joggers like it wanted to listen in on the conversation. "You're not close?"

"To tapping? Mate, I just woke up and she's still here." Sheets rustled. Jules performing the sound of rolling over in a bed that contained another person. "I'm golden. This is free money for me at this point. You're the one struggling. So tap if you want, it's your call, but twenty grand. That's a car mate. That's six months travelling. That's..."

"I know what twenty grand is."

"Do you? Because you sound like a bloke about to throw away twenty grand because he can't keep his hand off his dick for another week."

Charlie's jaw tightened. His spine straightened. He caught himself in the bathroom mirror and looked away. "I'm not throwing anything away."

"Good."

"I'm fine."

"Good."

"Forget I called."

"Already forgotten." A pause. Charlie could hear Jules grinning through the phone. "Same time tomorrow if you need a pep talk yeah? Uncle Jules is always here."

Charlie hung up. Sat on the edge of the bath with the shower running and the steam collecting on the mirror and his cock throbbing in his joggers and his pride doing its stupid reliable infuriating work of locking his spine into place.

Twenty grand. He wasn't losing to Jules Hartley. Not a chance. Not even if his mother stripped naked and laid herself across his bed and begged him to fuck her, he wasn't going to lose to that ginger smug prick and his imaginary girlfriend.

He stood up. Splashed cold water on his face. Looked at himself in the mirror. Dark circles. Hollow cheeks. Jaw set tight. He looked like a man who'd been through something. He supposed he had.

He went downstairs.

Heather stood at the kitchen counter with her back to him. Silk robe. Dark green, the colour of wine bottles. It stopped at mid thigh and the silk clung to the curve of her arse and the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips. Her hair was up in a loose twist held in place by a single clip. No makeup. Bare feet on the tile floor. She was spooning coffee grounds into the French press and she didn't turn around when she heard him.

He stood in the doorway. She turned.

Her eyes. Green and red rimmed and bruised underneath with lack of sleep. She looked fragile in a way he'd never seen her look. Not when Dad died. Not during the funeral. Not during any of the nights she'd thought he couldn't hear her crying through the wall. This was different. This was a woman who'd crossed a line in the dark and woke up on the other side of it and didn't know the way back.

She looked at him. He looked at her. The kitchen was very quiet. Steam from the kettle. The tick of the clock above the fridge.

Neither of them said a word about last night.

"Coffee?"

"Yeah."

She poured it. Slid the mug across the counter. He reached for it. His hand shook. Not much. Just enough that the dark liquid sloshed over the rim and puddled on the counter between them. They both looked at the spill. Neither moved to wipe it up.

"Baby."

"Mum, don't."

"You're a wreck sweetheart." She put the French press down. Turned to face him fully. The robe gaped at the throat and he could see the tops of her breasts and the valley between them and the shadow where the silk fell away from her skin. "Look at you. You haven't slept. You can't hold a cup. What is going on with you? You can tell me anything. I promise. Whatever it is."

He opened his mouth.

The words were right there. The bet. The money. The lads. The seventeen days without cumming. His mother on her knees on the kitchen floor at six in the morning, explaining everything, taking control, making it all make sense the way she'd always made everything make sense. He could tell her and she'd laugh and call him an idiot and make him breakfast and everything would go back to normal.

Except it wouldn't. Because she'd had her hand around his cock last night and she hadn't been laughing then and nothing was going back to normal, not ever again.

He closed his mouth.

"It's nothing. Stress. Exams."

"You finished your exams in May baby."

"Results."

She watched him. He watched the coffee stain spreading on the counter. He could hear both of them breathing. He could hear the fridge humming. He could hear his own pulse.

She came around the counter. Slow. Bare feet on tile. The silk robe swayed against her thighs and her breasts moved under it, free, heavy, the silk catching on her nipples and releasing and catching again. She stopped in front of him. Close. Close enough that he could feel the warmth coming off her skin.

She reached up and cupped his face in both hands. Her palms were warm and soft and they smelt like the cocoa butter she put on at night. Her thumbs rested on his cheekbones. She tilted his face down until he was looking at her.

"Listen to me." Her voice was different. Quiet. Steady. The voice she used when he was ill or hurt or frightened. Mum voice. The real one. "I don't care what the secret is. I don't care what you've been doing or not doing. I just need you to breathe."

He breathed. In. Out. His ribs expanded against the hoodie he'd slept in. Her thumbs stroked his cheekbones.

"Why don't you have a long hot shower. A proper one. Then come downstairs and let Mummy look after you." Her eyes held his. Steady. Green. Warm. "Whatever you need. Anything. Okay?"

"Okay."

She pressed up on her toes and kissed his forehead. Light. Dry. Maternal. Not last night's kiss. Not even close. Just his mum kissing his forehead, the way she'd done ten thousand times before. He closed his eyes and felt her lips and breathed in the cocoa butter and wanted to cry again.

"Go on then."

He went upstairs.

The bathroom was still steamy from when he'd turned the shower on to cover his phone call. He stripped off the hoodie and the joggers and the boxers that were stiff in the front with dried precum. He stood naked in the steam and looked down at himself.

His cock stood up against his stomach. Thick. Veined. The head flushed dark and swollen and slick with the fresh clear fluid that hadn't stopped leaking for days. It pulsed with his heartbeat. He could see it pulsing. Could count his own heart rate by watching the tip bob against his skin.

He got in the shower.

Hot water. He turned it up until it stung. Let it pound against the back of his neck, his shoulders, the tight knots in his upper back. Steam billowed around him. He put his head against the tiles and closed his eyes.

His cock didn't care about the hot water. It stood there rigid, pointing at the ceiling, thick enough that he could feel its weight when he shifted his hips. He reached for the cold tap. Turned it. The water went from hot to lukewarm to cold to freezing.

Nothing.

His cock stood there. Unmoved. Unimpressed. Seventeen days of backed up cum thrumming through his balls and his shaft and the cold water was a joke, an insult, a thing that happened to other parts of his body but not to the part that mattered.

He turned the water back to hot. Gave up on the cold trick. It hadn't worked yesterday. It hadn't worked the day before. It wasn't going to work today.

He put his forehead against the wet tiles and closed his eyes and stood there. Water running down his back. Steam in his lungs. Cock throbbing against his stomach. The sound of the shower filling the bathroom. The sound of his breathing filling his head.

He heard the door open.

Not a creak. A click. The latch turning. The hinges were old and they made a high thin sound that he'd heard ten thousand times. The bathroom door opening.

He didn't turn around.

"Don't turn around baby."

Her voice. Close. Just inside the door. Quiet, but not a whisper. A voice that was choosing each word carefully, laying them down like stepping stones across a river.

"Just listen."

He pressed his forehead harder against the tiles. The water ran over his ears and muffled everything and he heard every word she said.

"Whatever this is. Whatever secret you're keeping from me. I don't care. I'm not going to ask you again. I'm not going to tell anyone. About any of it."

He heard her breathing. Heard it catch and restart.

"I just need to see you baby. I just need to look. That's all." Her voice dropped. Got thicker. Unsteady at the edges. "You don't have to do anything. You don't have to touch me. You don't have to let me touch you. I just need to see."

He stood very still. Water running down his body. His cock pressed against his stomach so hard the head was touching his belly button.

"Please baby."

Silence. The shower. His breathing.

"Please."

He heard the sound of fabric sliding against skin. Not a quick sound. A slow one. Deliberate. Silk against her shoulders, down her arms, slithering off her body the way water slides down glass. The soft heavy sound of it landing on the tile floor.

His mother was naked behind him.

He could feel her. Not touching him. Not close enough to touch. But he could feel the change in the air, the displacement, the warmth of another body in the steam. His skin prickled. Every hair on his arms stood up.

"Turn around sweetheart."

He didn't move. The water ran. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it over the shower.

"Please."

He turned around.

She stood three feet away from the shower. Naked. Steam curling around her body like something alive. Her hair was still up but strands had come loose and clung to her neck, her collarbone, the tops of her shoulders. Water vapour beaded on her skin.

Her breasts. Full heavy round, the kind that defied gravity through some genetic miracle. Her nipples were hard and dark pink and they stood out from the smooth skin of her chest and the water vapour had turned her skin dewy, gleaming, each droplet catching the bathroom light. The curve underneath each breast. The shadow between them. They rose and fell with each breath she took.

Her stomach. Flat enough. Not a girl's stomach. A woman's stomach, with a softness to it, a give, a faint line running down from her navel that was the only remaining evidence she'd carried a child in her body twenty years ago. Her waist nipped in and her hips flared out and the bones of her hips caught the light.

Between her legs. Bare. Smooth. Pink. He could see everything and he saw it all in one second and in that second his cock twitched so hard it slapped against his stomach with an audible sound.

Her thighs. Toned. Tan lines where her bikini had been. A strip of pale skin across her hips. The muscles in her legs were defined from years of spin class and they tensed as she stood there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

She was looking at his cock.

Not at his face. Not at his chest or his arms or any of the parts of him that a mother might look at and think, my boy has grown into a man. She was looking at his cock and her face was doing something he'd never seen it do before.

Last night she'd had her hand around it. Inside his boxers in the dark on the sofa with the television still going. She'd felt it. She'd stroked it. She'd told him to cum. But she hadn't seen it. Not like this. Not in the light, in the steam, standing rigid against his stomach, ten inches of thick veined swollen leaking cock pointing at the ceiling.

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

"Oh."

That was all. One syllable. Small. Stunned. The sound a person makes when they round a corner and walk into a wall they didn't know was there. A hurt sound. A bewildered sound. A sound that came from the back of her throat without her permission.

She stared. Her eyes tracked down the length of it, from the base where the dark hair was trimmed short, up the thick veined shaft that curved slightly to the left, to the swollen purple head that glistened with precum and shower water. Her eyes went wide. Wider.

She said very quietly to herself, like Charlie wasn't there at all, "Oh you have got to be fucking joking."

She stepped back. Half a step. Not away from him but like she needed perspective. Like she was looking at a painting in a gallery and she'd been standing too close and needed the distance to take in the full scale of it.

"Charlie."

"Mum."

"Charlie." She shook her head. Her hand came up to her mouth. Dropped. Came up again. "Sweetheart. How..." She laughed. High. Brittle. The laugh of a woman losing an argument with her own sanity. "How are you walking around with this? How am I only just... how does anyone..." She made a vague helpless wave at his cock. "I had it in my hand last night. I thought... I thought I was being dramatic. I thought it was the dark and the... and the angle and the..." She laughed again. Shorter this time. "I wasn't being dramatic."

Charlie stood in the shower with hot water running down his body and his mother naked in front of him and his cock pointing at her like a compass finding north. He couldn't speak. His brain had gone. White noise where thoughts should have been. Steam where his higher functions used to live.

He watched her face. Watched the plan die on it. Whatever she'd been doing this past week, whatever game she'd been playing, whatever strategy had put her in the kitchen in that sundress and on the yoga mat in those shorts and on the sofa with her hand down his joggers, it was gone. He watched it go. Watched her face change from a woman who was in control of something to a woman who was not in control of anything at all.

Her body moved before her brain gave permission. She took a step forward. Stopped. Took it back. Stepped forward again. Stopped again. Her hands were shaking. He could see them trembling at her sides, her fingers opening and closing. Her nipples were so hard they could have cut glass and her chest was flushing pink, the colour spreading from her sternum up to her neck, up to her jaw.

"It can't be..." She trailed off. Stared at it. "That's not... I mean, your father wasn't..." She cut herself off and closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose and opened them again and his cock was still there, still massive, still throbbing, still very much real.

She stepped into the shower.

Hot water hit her hair and flattened it against her skull, against her neck, against her back. Water ran down her face and into her eyes and she blinked it away and didn't care. It ran down her tits, over the curves of them, dripping off her nipples. It ran down her stomach and between her legs. She was close enough now that he could feel the heat of her body on top of the heat of the water.

She went to her knees.

The tile was hard and wet and she went down on both knees at once, graceless, unplanned, the way a person kneels in church when something bigger than them demands it. The water pounded on the top of her head and ran in streams down her face. Her hands found his thighs. Gripped. Her fingers dug into the muscle and she looked up at him.

From this angle his cock was inches from her face. The head was level with her mouth. Precum and water mixed together and dripped from the tip and landed on her collarbone and rolled down between her tits.

"Mummy needs to put this in her mouth."

The words came out hoarse. Raw. Not seductive. Not planned. Not the teasing suggestive Mummy voice she'd used on the sofa last night. This was different. This was a woman on her knees in the shower making a statement of fact the way another person might say I need air or I need water. A base need. A survival need.

"Baby. Listen to me." Her fingers tightened on his thighs. Her nails dug in. "I don't care about your silly bet."

His stomach dropped. She knew. She knew about the bet. How long had she known? How much did she know? The questions formed and dissolved and it didn't matter, none of it mattered, because she was on her knees and her mouth was open and her tits were wet and his cock was twitching an inch from her lips.

"I don't care," she said again. "I won't tell anyone you came. I won't tell anyone we did anything. I won't tell a soul Charlie. Not Jules. Not Debbie. Not anyone. I swear." Her voice cracked. "I swear on your father's grave."

The words hit him like a fist. She'd never sworn on his father's grave. Not once. Not in four years. Not when she'd promised him they'd be okay. Not when she'd promised him she'd never leave. Not for anything, because his father's grave was sacred ground and she didn't invoke it for small things or medium things or even big things.

She was invoking it now.

"I will take this to my grave baby. But you have to let Mummy have this." Her eyes were wet. Not from the shower. Her chin was trembling. Her hands on his thighs were shaking. "You have to let me. Mummy needs it. Please." She tilted her face up and the water ran down it and her lips parted and she was so close to his cock that her breath fogged against the wet skin of his shaft. "Please baby. I promise I won't tell anyone you came and lost the bet. Just let Mummy have your cock in her mouth. Please."

Charlie looked down at her.

His mother. Heather Jones. Thirty six years old. On her knees on the wet tile floor of the bathroom he'd shared with her for nineteen years. Water running down her body. Tits heavy and gleaming. Nipples hard and dark. Mouth open. Hands on his thighs. Shaking. Begging. Not performing. Not teasing. Not playing a game.

Begging.

The first promise she had ever sworn on his father's grave. The words still hung in the steam between them. She meant it. Every word. She would take it to her grave. She would never tell a soul. Nobody would ever know.

The bet. Twenty grand. Jules. His pride. His discipline. Seventeen days of white knuckled teeth gritting ball aching sleepless trembling miserable discipline.

He looked at her mouth. Her full wet trembling mouth. Inches from the head of his cock.

He didn't care anymore.

"Yes."