The air in my small room still hung heavy with the ghost of steam from my shower, clinging to the silence like a damp shroud. It was late, much later than I usually stayed awake, and the house had settled into that deep, midnight hush that made every creak of the floorboards sound like a thunderclap. I stood there, dropping the damp towel to the carpeted floor, the cool silence of the house pressing against my bare skin, a stark contrast to the churning heat within me.
Down the hall, my mother was in her room. I could almost hear the soft rustle of her sheets, the quiet rhythm of her breath. I needed to be quick, silent, to finish what I had started before any stray sound betrayed me. But the aching need, a relentless thrumming beneath my skin, was too urgent to ignore. My body was tight, every nerve focused on the immediate, throbbing relief I sought.
As the quiet rhythm started, a bold, dangerous idea, shimmering with forbidden allure, took hold. Monica, saved simply as ‘Mon’ in my contacts, was the undeniable cause of this relentless heat. Her laugh, the way her hair fell across her shoulders, the memory of her touch – it all fueled the fire. I snatched my phone from the bedside table, the screen brightening the darkness of my room with a harsh, blue glow. My fingers, surprisingly steady despite the tempest raging within me, quickly framed the shot. My long, hard self, standing proud and ready, filled the frame. I typed the message with a hand that now trembled with a mixture of excitement and reckless abandon:
Me: Look what you do to me, Mon. Dying to feel you wrapped around this again.
I hit send.
The instant the message whizzed away, the blood in my veins ran cold. A notification flared, illuminating the screen with a horrifying, undeniable truth. The recipient’s name. Not ‘Mon.’ It was ‘Mom.’
My breath hitched in my throat, a silent scream trapped behind my lips. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird desperate to escape its cage. A wave of nausea washed over me, threatening to buckle my knees. This couldn’t be happening. Not to her. Not to Mom.
The screen flashed again, a second later. She had opened it.
Mom: I’m scrolling past that image so fast it’s a blur. What in God’s name are you trying to do, Simon? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?
My face felt like it was on fire, the shame thick and suffocating, burning from the inside out. My fingers, usually so nimble, were clumsy with panic, fumbling across the keyboard. I tried to type a retort, anything that would erase the last thirty seconds, anything that would un-send the unimaginable.
Me: MOM! Oh my God, I am so sorry. That was not meant for you. Complete mistake! WRONG PERSON!!!
I slammed the phone face down on the mattress, as if the physical act could somehow sever the connection, could somehow undo the catastrophic event. I wished, with every fiber of my being, that the floor would open up and swallow me whole, taking the phone, the message, and my scorching humiliation with it. The silence stretched, thick and torturous, each second an eternity, until the vibrations started again, rattling the mattress beneath the phone.
I hesitantly picked it up, my eyes wide with dread.
Mom: Obviously, it wasn’t meant for me. But perhaps you should learn to watch where you aim that thing next time, dear. Honestly, you need to be more careful.
A strange, unsettling mix of relief and renewed mortification washed over me. She wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t raging. But the words… ‘aim that thing.’ A cold sweat broke out on my forehead.
Me: Yeah… I know. Really, truly sorry. It won’t happen again.
There was a pause, longer this time, stretching the thin thread of my nerve. I held my breath, waiting for the inevitable lecture, the thunderous disappointment. I braced myself for the verbal lashing, the stern admonishment that would surely follow.
Mom: Good. Now get some actual sleep. And try not to wear yourself out playing with that… big thing you’ve discovered.
I froze. The heat returned to my face, but this time it was mixed with a disturbing, sharp jolt of awareness. Her tone, though still containing a hint of exasperation, was less angry, and more… knowing. It was a strange, almost playful lilt in her words that sent a shiver down my spine. ‘Big thing you’ve discovered.’ The words echoed in my mind, an electric current.
Me: I’ll be in bed soon. And I wish it were that big, Mom, honestly. Since Monica isn’t here, I’m stuck relying on my hand, and it’s a struggle.
The words tumbled out before I could truly register their audacity. A part of me, the shocked and panicked part, screamed at the recklessness. Another, darker, more curious part, leaned in, eager to see her reaction.
Mom: Well, be gentle with it then. And if you’re struggling to finish, perhaps you should find something better to occupy your time, hmm?
I felt a sudden shiver run down my spine, despite the lingering heat in the room. The implication was unmistakable, yet couched in typical motherly advice. But it wasn’t typical. Not at all. I typed, pushing the boundary further, testing her reaction with a boldness that both thrilled and terrified me.
Me: What do you mean by that, Mom? And how did you notice the size, if you only scrolled past it?
The reply was immediate, sharper now, a distinct edge to her tone, but still carrying that strange, teasing undercurrent that made my blood sing.
Mom: A glance is enough, Simon. Get some sleep. Now. And by the way, you certainly didn’t inherit that… gift from your father.
A smile, slow and unsettling, crept onto my face. It was shocking, deeply, fundamentally shocking, but it was also a compliment – a loaded, dangerous compliment about my body, delivered by my own mother. My mind reeled.
Me: I’ll take that as a compliment. You must miss Dad, he’s been gone two weeks now.
I tried to inject a touch of normalcy, to steer the conversation back to safer, more acceptable ground, even as the illicit thrill sparked within me.
Mom: Of course, I miss your father. It’s quiet here without him. But talking about him doesn’t change the fact that you need to be asleep, not taking photos of yourself. Your hand must be tired.
The conversation was a tight, strange dance, each message a careful, calculated step around an unspoken chasm. I found myself stepping closer to the edge, driven by a curiosity that felt almost manic, a desperate need to know how far this strange tether could stretch.
Me: Yeah, I guess so… I’ve been trying a lot lately. I’m actually struggling to finish tonight for some reason.
I held my breath, waiting for the explosion, the final, definitive line in the sand. Five agonizing minutes passed, each second a hammer blow to my frantic heart, during which I convinced myself she had finally hung up in disgust, the horror of it all settling in. Then the phone buzzed, startling me so badly I nearly dropped it.
Mom: Sorry, I was just putting on my nightgown. Well, perhaps you’re thinking about the wrong things, sweetie. You always get worked up and rush when you want something too much. Maybe use a picture to look at of Monica, just to help speed things up.
My jaw dropped. Advice. On this. My mother, my own mother, was giving me masturbation advice. The absurdity of it was almost comical, if it weren’t for the raw, pulsing tension building inside me.
Me: Uh… I don’t have any, I mean, I have some, but not that kind of picture of her. I sure as hell could use some right now.
I typed, the words coming out in a rush, then hesitated, a sliver of my brain still functional enough to remember the boundaries that were being obliterated.
Me: But this is… weird, Mom. You’re not mad?
Mom: Mad? No. Just tired. Now, change the subject. What are you reading for school?
She was deflecting, trying to regain some semblance of propriety, but the damage was done. The veil had been lifted, the unspoken acknowledged.
Me: Uh, okay… if you’re not mad, then what are you… wearing? I mean, in your nightie. Is it one of those short ones, like the ones you wear on vacation?
The question was out, reckless and breathless, a desperate leap into the void. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, each beat echoing the dangerous thrill coursing through me.
Mom: It’s a red one, sweetheart. Short and lacy. Very… revealing.
I gulped, my mouth suddenly dry, my throat tight. The image of her, my mother, in a short, lacy red nightie, very revealing, flashed behind my eyes. It was a potent, intoxicating vision that both repelled and captivated me.
Mom: Not that I’m encouraging you to look, heaven forbid. But yes, I do like to wear things that show a bit of cleavage these days. Life’s too short to cover up, right?
The words hung in the air, weighted with suggestion, each syllable a delicate, dangerous spark. This was beyond dangerous territory now; the line had not just been blurred, it had been obliterated, erased by an invisible hand.
Me: Yeah, I guess you’re right, Mom.
I pressed Send, then waited a beat, my mind racing, before succumbing completely to the impulse, to the insistent thrumming of my desire and the reckless curiosity that had taken root.
Me: So, um… would you, like, send me a picture of yourself in that nightie?
I waited. The silence was deafening, a vast, echoing void. Had I pushed her too far? Was this the breaking point? The moment she would finally snap, the moment the reality of what was happening would crash down around us both?
Mom: Nice try, Simon, she finally replied, sounding amused, though her tone was suddenly firm, a clear boundary being drawn. But there’s no way in hell I’m sending my own son a picture like that. Seriously, what’s gotten into you? First the photo, now this?
My face burned with renewed shame, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over me, but the underlying tension remained, a tight knot of frustrated desire and undeniable arousal.
Me: Sorry, Mom. I don’t know. This whole thing is just… weird. But you’re the one who started talking about your nightie. I am dying to make myself finish. I can’t sleep in this state.
The reply came almost instantly. My eyes widened, my breath caught in my throat.
Mom: You’re not the only one who needs some action. You got me quite damp down there tonight naughty boy, truth be told. Is your sister a sleep, we would have to be quiet.
I stared at the screen, stunned silent. Damp. The word hung there, glowing in the darkness of my room, heavy with an almost impossible meaning. My mother. Damp. Because of me.
Then, a second later, another message flashed underneath, extinguishing the previous one’s shocking glow, but not its impact.
Mom: Ignore that, Simon. Typo.
Bullshit. It wasn’t a typo. It sounded exactly like my dear old mother needed something warm and hard right now. And she wasn’t hiding it very well at all. Is my sister Emma asleep? Was that an invite to her room? An unspoken question, a thinly veiled suggestion? Shit, this was my mom. My own mother. Could I push it? Could I actually take this, this impossible, forbidden conversation, and make something real happen tonight?
Me: Typo? What did you mean to say, then?
The reply took longer this time. Too long. My pulse hammered in my throat, a frantic drum against my Adam’s apple as I waited, my body coiled tight, every muscle taut with anticipation and a terrifying resolve.
Then, the screen lit up, blindingly bright in the darkness.
Mom: I meant DAMN. Autocorrect. You know what? Let’s both go to bed and pretend this never happened. Goodnight, Simon.
Liar. Utter, blatant liar. I knew it, and I suspected she knew that I knew. I had actually gotten my mom’s pussy nice and wet. Her room was just next to mine, separated by a thin wall and the silent, sleeping presence of my sister, Emma. I could check to see if Emma was asleep, and then… then I could go into my mom’s room. I needed pussy so bad tonight, a primal, aching hunger that resonated deep in my bones, and now, impossibly, my mother was the focus of it.
Me: You know I can’t sleep, Mom. Not after what you truly said. I could check Emma and see if she is asleep.
Mom: Simon. Enough. Go to bed. I’m tired.
Her words were firm, a last ditch effort to reassert control, to rebuild the walls that had crumbled between us. But the foundation was gone.
Me: Are you? Truly tired? Or just playing coy?
My fingers flew, reckless and emboldened by the rush of adrenaline and a desperate, surging need. The game was escalating, the stakes higher than ever, pushing past the point of no return.
The reply was almost immediate, sharper now, a new edge in her tone that was not entirely anger, but rather a thrilling, dangerous challenge.
Mom: And what if I called your bluff, young man? What then?
A tremor ran through me, a mixture of fear and pure, unadulterated desire. This was it. The point of no return.
Me: Want me to check see if Emma is asleep, we don’t want her hearing us at it. I know it is wrong, I am hard and you are wet. I am checking her and I am coming to your room. You can stop me if you want and I will understand.
I didn’t wait for a reply. My resolve solidified, hardening into something unbreakable. Throwing on a pair of briefs, my heart thundering against my ribs, I crept out of my room, the floorboards groaning softly under my weight despite my careful steps. My sister Emma’s door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open just enough to peer inside. The room was dark, but a soft, rhythmic snore confirmed she was in a deep sleep, oblivious to the storm brewing just feet away. I closed her door as gently as possible, a soft click echoing in the hushed hallway.
Then, I turned towards my mother’s door. It was closed, a dark, silent barrier. I hesitated for only a fraction of a second, my hand reaching for the cool metal knob. My mind screamed at me to stop, to turn back, but my body, driven by an ancient, insistent urge, pushed forward.
The door opened with a barely audible whisper. The room was dark, a profound, velvet blackness that swallowed all light. I could just make out the silhouette of her bed against the faint glow of the window. The air in here felt different, thicker, charged with an unspoken anticipation. I stepped inside, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet, and closed the door behind me, plunging us into absolute darkness.
Blindly, I moved towards the bed, each step measured, deliberate. As I reached it, I felt for the edge, then carefully, silently, slid under the covers. The mattress dipped, a soft sigh of springs. She was there, a warm presence beside me, her light, floral scent filling my nostrils. I could hear her breathing, quicker now, shallower than before.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to. The silence between us was heavy with a thousand unspoken words, a thousand forbidden desires. Slowly, cautiously, I reached out, my hand finding the soft curve of her hip beneath the thin fabric of her nightgown. It was silken, just as I had imagined, and the warmth of her skin seeped through, electrifying my fingertips.
I shifted, pressing myself closer, my hard cock, already free from my briefs, throbbing against her thigh. I got on top of her, straddling her hips, the weight of me a clear statement of intent. Her body was tense beneath mine, a tremor running through her. My hands glided up her side, finding the hem of the lacy red nightie, just as she had described. My fingers curled around the delicate fabric, slowly, deliberately, starting to slide it upwards.
Her breath hitched. I felt the soft, intimate brush of her inner thigh as I pushed the nightgown higher, my fingers seeking the soft cotton barrier of her panties. My palm settled over her mound, her warmth radiating through the thin fabric. I rubbed her, gently at first, then with increasing pressure, feeling the wetness already seeping through. A low moan escaped her lips, quickly stifled.
“Ahh, Simon, this is so wrong, I am your Mo—”
I cut her off. My lips descended, not to her mouth, but to the soft, sensitive skin of her neck, just beneath her ear. My tongue flicked out, tasting her skin, a desperate, hungry kiss that was meant to silence her, to pull her into the swirling vortex of our shared transgression. Her body arched slightly beneath mine, a silent capitulation.
My fingers worked quickly, pushing her panties down, past her hips, past her thighs, until they bunched around her knees. With a swift movement, I stripped them off completely, tossing them blindly into the darkness. Her bare pussy was now exposed, warm and slick beneath my probing fingers. I found her clit, swollen and sensitive, and gently stroked it, feeling her gasp, her hips instinctively bucking against my hand.
I pulled back just enough to align myself, my hard shaft pressing against her slick opening. The sensation of her wet heat, bare against my skin, was overwhelming, a primal connection that ignited every nerve ending in my body. She groaned, a choked sound of pleasure and protest.
“Simon… wait… please…” Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, but it was swallowed by my own impatient need.
I thrust forward, slowly at first, pushing past the soft resistance, feeling the incredible stretch of her, the velvety grip of her pussy closing around me. A soft cry escaped her lips as I slid deeper, inch by agonizing inch, until the head of my cock buried itself completely inside her.
“Oh… God… Simon…” she gasped, her hands clenching onto my shoulders, digging her nails into my skin.
I pulled back just a little, then plunged in again, harder this time, feeling the full length of myself sink into her tight, wet warmth. The bed squeaked loudly, a rhythmic protest against the sudden, intense friction. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer, her hips meeting mine in a hungry rhythm.
“You’re so tight, Mom,” I groaned, my voice thick with lust, my body trembling with the intensity of the sensation.
“So wet for you, naughty boy,” she whispered back, her voice laced with a raw, desperate pleasure that sent shivers down my spine.
I started to move faster, a primal rhythm taking over, the bed groaning with each thrust. My cock slid in and out of her, a sloppy, intense dance of flesh against flesh. Her moans grew louder, uninhibited now, mixing with the sharp slaps of skin, the wet sucking sounds of our bodies colliding.
“Harder, Simon! Please, harder!” she cried out, her nails raking down my back, pulling me closer, deeper, into the heart of her forbidden pleasure.
I obeyed, burying myself in her again and again, feeling her pussy clench around me, milking every last inch of my throbbing cock. The air grew thick with the scent of sex, the heady aroma of our bodies intertwining. My climax was building, a hot, urgent wave, and I could feel hers nearing too, her body trembling violently beneath me.
“I’m going to cum, Mom! Oh God, I’m going to cum!” I gasped, my voice breaking.
“Me too, my sweet boy! Fill me up! Fill your mom!” she shrieked, her body convulsing, her legs clamping tighter around my waist as she reached her own shattering orgasm.
I roared, pouring myself deep inside her, emptying my hot, thick cum into her, feeling her muscles contract around me, gripping me tightly as if unwilling to let me go. We collapsed onto the bed, breathless, panting, our bodies slick with sweat, the bed still squeaking faintly with the aftershocks of our intense union. The silence that followed was not one of shame, but of satiated, forbidden pleasure.
We lay there, entwined, our breathing slowly returning to normal, the weight of what we had done settling over us like a heavy, delicious blanket. The ghostly steam from my shower had long since dissipated, replaced by the humid heat of our shared transgression, a secret woven into the very fabric of the old house. Emma was still asleep, oblivious. And the night, once silent and empty, now throbbed with a dangerous, unforgettable memory.