[Note - Once again, horny ahhh- chapter. R-18?]
"Thanks, baby."
I'm going to die. This is how I die. My tombstone will read: "Here lies Adam Gray. Cause of death: helping his mom with yoga."
I walk toward her on legs that feel like they're made of jelly, my heart pounding so hard I'm surprised it's not visible through my chest. The room feels even warmer, almost hot now, that pleasant scent of exertion and perfume thick in the air.
"What do you want me to do?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Kneel down behind me and grab my calves, then try to guide my legs outward. Gently though! I need you to help me deepen the stretch."
I position myself behind her, kneeling on the yoga mat. From this angle, I have an unobstructed view of her entire back: the elegant line of her spine visible through the cutout in her leggings, the way her emerald hair cascades down, the slimness of her shoulders and the crossing straps of her sports bra.
I reach forward and place my hands on her calves.
The sensation is immediate and overwhelming. Even through the leggings, I can feel the firmness of her muscles, the warmth of her skin beneath. The fabric is slightly damp with perspiration, clinging to her like a second skin, and my hands slide into position easily.
"Okay," I say, my voice cracking slightly. "I'm going to start pulling now."
"Mmhm, go ahead, sweetheart."
I take a deep breath, immediately regretting it as her intoxicating smell fills my lungs, and begin to apply gentle pressure, guiding her legs outward. She's tense at first, her muscles resisting the stretch.
"You'll need to get closer," she says. "Lean forward for better leverage."
I lean forward, shifting my weight, and—
Oh no.
My groin presses directly against her ass.
Time stops.
The sensation is... I don't have the words to describe it adequately. The softness is unreal. Her ass is like nothing I've ever felt, yielding and pliant, but with firmness underneath. It warps around me, the thick flesh accommodating my presence, molding to my shape like her body is welcoming me in. Even through my jeans and her leggings, I can feel everything, the warmth, the pressure, the way she completely conforms around me.
I freeze completely, my hands still on her calves, my body pressed against hers in the most inappropriate configuration possible. I can feel every curve of her, every soft inch. My teenage brain hasn't been capable of rational thinking for a while now, neurons are firing randomly, thoughts are scattering like startled birds.
Her scent is overwhelming me, I'm close enough that I can smell everything. The clean, slight musk of her sweat from her workout, the sweetness of her perfume, the lavender from her detergent, and underneath it all, her warm and inherently feminine natural scent. It's making me lightheaded, dizzy, like I've been drugged.
And I'm hard. Fully, completely, undeniably hard.
There's no hiding it. The evidence of my lust is pressed directly against my mother's ass, and she can definitely feel it.
"Sorry," I mumble, my face burning so hot I'm surprised it's not melting off.
"Aww, that's okay, baby," Fiona says. Her voice has changed, it's breathy now, slightly strained from the stretch, but also somehow sultry. Warm and maternal but with this husky undertone that goes straight through me. "It's natural, don't worry about it."
Natural. Right. Because that makes this nightmare scenario even a fraction better.
"You can start now, baby," she continues in that same breathy, sultry tone. "Try to push me harder and deeper so I can get a really good stretch."
My mouth goes dry, I didn't think it was possible to get harder, but I prove myself wrong.
I carefully begin to guide her legs outward, my hands sliding up from her calves to get better grip. The sensation of her body beneath my touch is incredible, even through the leggings, I can feel the softness, the slight give of her flesh. She's tense at first, and I can feel her muscles trembling slightly as they resist the stretch.
"That's it," she encourages, her voice breathy. "Keep going."
I apply more pressure, leaning further into her, and, fuck, my body presses fully against her back. My chest against her spine, my cock flush against her ass, our bodies aligned in a way that feels obscenely intimate. She's so warm, radiating heat that seeps through our clothes. I can feel her back rising and falling with her breathing, feel every small shift of her muscles.
And then she moans.
It's a small sound, just a little exhale of relief as her muscles start to release, but it goes through me like an electric shock. The breathy, satisfied quality of it makes my hands tighten involuntarily on her calves.
"Mmm, yes," she breathes, her voice husky and warm. "Stretch me deeper, baby. That feels really good."
…
Attention, the brain has officially exited the body. I repeat. My body is now brainless. There's nothing left but primal panic and the overwhelming sensory input of this situation.
I pull her legs apart more, trying to follow her instructions, and my hands slide up to her thighs for better grip. The moment my palms make contact with her thighs, I nearly lose it. They're so, incredibly, soft, even through the compression fabric, I can feel how thick and pliant they are. My fingers sink slightly into the flesh, the muscle firm underneath but wrapped in layers of softness that compress gently under my touch. The leggings are slightly damp, clinging to every contour, and I can feel the warmth of her skin radiating through.
To get proper leverage, I have to press more of my body weight against her. My chest flattens further against her spine, my hips, fucking hell, my raging hard-on grinds harder against her ass. She completely wraps around me, her body accommodating mine like we're pieces of a puzzle designed to fit together. The softness of her backside warps against the solid hardness of my erection, molding around it, creating this perfect, terrible pressure.
I can't stop looking at where we're making contact. My eyes are drawn there like gravity, watching the way her body yields to mine, the way the fabric of her leggings stretches even more taut across the impossible roundness of her ass. I can see every detail, the way the seams strain, the way the subtle sheen of the fabric catches the light, the way everything jiggles slightly with our combined breathing.
"Mmm, hold me like this," she says, and there's another small breathy moan in her voice. "This feels so good."
We're nearly fully pressed together now, almost no space between us at all. I can feel every inch of her back against my chest, feel the expansion of her ribs with each breath, feel the way her body moves and shifts. My hands are splayed across her thighs, feeling the thickness, the softness, the slight trembling of her muscles as they struggle with the stretch. The flesh compresses under my grip, yielding and warm and impossibly soft.
Her ass completely envelops my hardness. It's warped around me, wrapping and conforming, creating pressure and friction that's making me lose my mind. I can feel her body heat even through both layers of fabric, feel the way she accommodates me so perfectly it seems intentional even though I know it's not.
"Mmm, you're such a good boy for helping me with this."
Those words, good boy, combined with that breathy, sultry tone, nearly destroys the last shreds of my sanity.
I can hear her breathing now, close enough that every exhale is audible. Soft, slightly labored from the exercise and the stretch, with little catches and sighs that sound far too similar to—
No. Stop. Do not complete that thought.
But I can't help it. My mind is supplying unhelpful comparisons, drawing connections to sounds that occur only during the most passionate of lovemaking, and my body is responding accordingly.
I can feel her heartbeat. Or maybe that's mine. Or both. Our bodies are so close, so aligned, that I can't tell where I end and she begins. The warmth, the softness, the scent, the sound of her breathing, it's all overwhelming, drowning me in sensation.
Her thighs are trembling slightly under my hands now, the muscles fatigued from holding the stretch. I can feel the vibration traveling through her body, feel the way she shifts minutely trying to find relief. Each small movement creates friction between us, her ass sliding slightly against me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
"A little more," she breathes, her voice strained but satisfied. "Push me just a little deeper, baby."
I adjust my grip, my hands sliding higher on her thighs, dangerously high, close enough to her hips that my thumbs brush against the curve where her thighs meet her pelvis. The flesh here is even softer, more yielding, and I can feel the way it compresses under my touch, warm and impossibly smooth even through the fabric.
I lean forward fully, using my full body weight to apply pressure, and the movement grinds me harder against her. The sensation is overwhelming, that perfect, terrible pressure as her ass accommodates me completely, wrapping around solid hardness with yielding softness. My jeans are getting uncomfortably tight, the fabric straining, and I'm acutely aware that there's barely anything between us. Just thin leggings and denim, and the heat bleeding through both layers is making me dizzy.
"Ohh," she sighs, another breathy, satisfied sound that makes my hands tighten involuntarily on her thighs. "Yes, just like that. Hold me here."
We hold the position, and every second is exquisite torture. Her hair is right in front of my face, those long emerald strands cascading down her back, and I can smell her shampoo mixing with everything else, something floral and expensive that I can't identify. A few strands have stuck to the dampness at the nape of her neck, and I can see the perspiration glistening on her skin in that little exposed section where the cutout reveals her lower back.
My eyes trace down the line of her spine, following the elegant curve through the cutout, watching the way her skin gleams slightly with moisture. That little window of exposed flesh seems more intimate than it should, like I'm seeing something private, forbidden. The leggings frame it perfectly, the high waistband cutting across just above, and I can see the subtle movement of her muscles beneath the skin as she breathes.
"Mmm, you're doing so well," she murmurs, her voice still breathy and warm. "You're such a good boy."
There it is again. Those words. That tone. The combination is lethal, I feel like I'm about to pass out.
I can feel my pulse everywhere, in my temples, in my throat, in my chest, and especially where I'm pressed against her. Each heartbeat sends a throb of pressure and heat.
I'm sweating now too. I can feel it on my forehead, down my back, making my hoodie stick uncomfortably to my skin.
"Hold me just a little longer," she says softly, and I swear there's a slight tremor in her voice now. "This stretch is... mmm... really hitting the right spot."
I can feel her body starting to relax into the position, the tension slowly leaving her muscles. Her thighs feel less rigid under my hands, more pliant, and she settles back against me slightly, which means more pressure, more contact, more of her softness enveloping me.
My hands are fully splayed across her inner thighs now, fingers spread wide to get maximum grip. The fabric is so thin here, stretched so tight by the position, that I can feel almost everything, the texture of her skin, the slight variations in temperature, the way her thick flesh yields under my grip.
Every breath I take brings more of her scent, and I'm drowning in it now. It's in my nose, my mouth, my lungs, coating everything. It's making me feel drunk, disconnected from reality, like I'm floating in some kind of sensory overload dream.
I can see her profile from this angle when I turn my head slightly: the elegant line of her jaw, the curve of her cheek, the way a few strands of emerald hair have escaped to frame her face. Her eyes are closed, her expression one of concentration and satisfaction, her full lips slightly parted as she breathes. There's a flush on her cheeks, a healthy pink glow from the exercise, and a thin sheen of perspiration on her temple that catches the morning light.
She looks beautiful. Ethereally, impossibly beautiful. And I'm pressed against her in the most inappropriate way imaginable, feeling things I absolutely should not be feeling, thinking thoughts that are going to condemn me to whatever special hell is reserved for people like me.
"Okay," she finally says, her voice soft and satisfied. There's a small sigh in it, breathy and warm. "That's perfect. Thank you, sweetheart. You can let go now."
I release her immediately, too quickly, probably, yanking my hands away like her thighs are made of fire. I push myself backward, breaking contact, and the sudden loss of warmth and pressure is almost jarring. Cool air rushes in where our bodies were joined, and I can finally breathe something other than her scent.
"That was wonderful," she says, slowly bringing her legs together and shifting into a new position. "You're so helpful, darling. I really appreciate it."
Her voice is returning to normal now, losing that breathy, sultry quality, and I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed. Both, maybe. I'm too confused and overwhelmed to know what I'm feeling beyond sheer mortification.
I stand up on shaky legs, my entire body trembling slightly from the adrenaline and tension. I can still feel her, the phantom sensation of her softness, her warmth, the way she wrapped around me. It's imprinted on my body, burned into my memory with perfect clarity that I know is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
"I need to... I'm going to do my workout," I stammer, backing toward the stairs. "My daily workout. Right now. Immediately."
Fiona smiles at me, warm and maternal and completely oblivious to the psychological damage she's just inflicted. "That's great, honey! I'm glad you're keeping up with your exercise routine. I'm proud of you."
I flee.
There's no other word for it. I turn and practically run to my room, taking the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding and my face burning and my dick still painfully, obviously hard.
I throw myself into my workout routine with desperate intensity. Ten normal pushups. Fifteen knee pushups. Fifteen squats. Ten assisted squats. Thirty-second plank. Thirty jumping jacks. Three sets. I push myself harder than usual, trying to exhaust my body, trying to redirect all this energy and adrenaline and horrifying teenage arousal into something productive.
The physical exertion helps. The burn in my muscles, the ache in my lungs, it gives me something else to focus on besides the sensation of my mom's body pressed against mine, the scent of her, the sound of her breathing, the way she felt so soft and warm and—
No. Stop. Pushups. Focus on pushups.
Ding!Your Willpower has increased by 1
By the time I finish my third set, I'm drenched in sweat and gasping for air, but at least my brain has stopped its continuous replay of the last fifteen minutes. Mostly stopped. It's still there in the background, like a video on loop, but I can at least think about other things now.
Ding!Your Strength has increased by 1
I grab my phone and head out for my five-kilometer run, pushing myself even harder than the workout. I sprint when I should be jogging, push through the burning in my legs and lungs, trying to outrun the memory of what just happened.
The morning air is cool and clean, a sharp contrast to the warm, scent-heavy atmosphere of the living room. Each breath feels like it's clearing out my lungs, replacing that intoxicating perfume-and-sweat mixture with something neutral and safe.
Ding!Your Endurance has increased by 1
By the time I get back home, I'm completely exhausted, my legs trembling, my shirt soaked with sweat. But my head is clearer. The physical exertion has burned through most of the adrenaline and given me enough distance to start processing.
I head straight for the bathroom, turning the shower to cold, as cold as it goes. The icy water hits my overheated skin like a shock, and I gasp, but I don't adjust the temperature. I need this. I need to freeze out every lingering sensation, every inappropriate thought, every moment of that encounter.
I stand under the spray for a long time, letting the cold water cascade over me, washing away the sweat and the heat and hopefully some of the memory. My body eventually stops being aroused, it's hard to maintain that when you're actively experiencing hypothermia, and I can finally think with some semblance of clarity.
What the hell just happened?
I helped my mom with yoga. That's all. That's the official story, and I'm sticking to it. She needed assistance with a stretch, I provided it, and if my body had some involuntary reactions, well, that's just biology. Hormones. Teenage nonsense. Nothing to read into.
It doesn't mean anything.
I turn off the shower finally, my skin numb from the cold, and dry off mechanically. My reflection in the mirror looks shell-shocked, eyes wide, face still slightly flushed despite the cold shower.
"You're fine," I tell my reflection. "This is fine. Everything is fine."
My reflection doesn't look convinced.
I head back to my room, change into clean clothes, and collapse onto my bed, staring up at my roommate.
"You saw that, didn't you, Abe?" I mutter. "You're judging me right now."
The water stain, as always, offers no comment. But I swear it looks more disapproving than usual.
I pull up my System interface, desperate for distraction. Maybe looking at my stats will make me feel better. Maybe seeing my progress will remind me that I'm working on self-improvement, that I'm trying to be better, that I'm—
Nope. Still thinking about it. Still feeling the phantom sensation of her softness, still smelling that intoxicating scent, still hearing that breathy voice.
I'm doomed.
Monday can't come fast enough. I need to start this job, throw myself into work, learn from Mr. Vale, and fill my brain with so many new experiences that this morning becomes a distant, hazy memory.
Yeah. That's the plan.
I'm going to be fine.
Everything is going to be fine.
[Author's Note]
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