I woke up hard.
Not the lazy morning stiffy of a normal eighteen-year-old. No. This was a full, brutal erection that had my cock wedged painfully against the waistband of my boxers, the head already slick and pulsing like it had its own heartbeat. I lay there on my back, sheets kicked to the foot of the bed, staring at the ceiling while the memory of yesterday slammed into me again and again.
Mom's eyes.
That whispered "Jesus."
The way her nipples had stabbed through her robe like they were trying to reach me.
I groaned and rolled onto my stomach, grinding slowly against the mattress just to take the edge off. The friction made it worse. Within seconds I was leaking, the wet spot spreading warm under my hips. I could've finished myself right there; two, maybe three strokes and I'd have painted the sheets. But I didn't. Something sick and hungry inside me wanted the ache to stay.
I wanted her to see what she'd done.
Eventually I forced myself up. The clock read 6:47 a.m. Sunday. No school. No reason to rush. I pulled on the same baggy sweatpants from yesterday; anything tighter was impossible; and a loose T-shirt. My cock swung heavy with every step, half-hard and impossible to ignore. I caught my reflection in the mirror and almost laughed. I looked like I was smuggling a forearm under the fabric.
Downstairs smelled like coffee. Mom was already up.
I paused at the bottom of the stairs, listening. The soft clink of a spoon against ceramic. The hiss of the kettle. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. My pulse hammered anyway.
When I stepped into the kitchen she was standing at the island, back to me, pouring coffee into two mugs. She'd changed again: soft pink cotton shorts that hugged the curve of her ass and a white tank top, no bra. Her nipples were dark shadows under the thin fabric, already peaked from the morning chill or something else. Her hair was down, auburn waves spilling over her shoulders, still damp from a shower.
She knew I was there; I saw it in the slight stiffening of her spine; but she didn't turn around.
"Morning," I said. My voice came out rough.
"Morning, honey." Too bright. Too quick. She kept her eyes on the mugs. "Coffee?"
"Sure."
She slid one across the island without looking up. I took it, letting my fingers brush hers. She jerked like I'd shocked her, nearly spilling the coffee. The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
I leaned against the counter opposite her and drank. The coffee was strong, almost bitter. Perfect. It gave me something to do with my mouth besides say all the filthy things crowding my tongue.
Mom busied herself with toast, dropping slices into the toaster, pushing the lever down harder than necessary. Her hands were trembling. When she reached for the butter knife her tank top shifted, and I saw the inner curve of one breast, the soft weight of it swaying free. My cock thickened instantly, pressing a blatant ridge up the left leg of my sweats.
She noticed. Of course she did.
Her gaze flicked down for half a second, then snapped back to the toaster like it had burned her. Color flooded her cheeks, bright and guilty. She pressed her thighs together; I heard the faint rustle of cotton; and took a shaky breath.
"Sleep okay?" she asked the wall.
"No," I said honestly.
She swallowed. "Me neither."
The toast popped. She jumped a little, then laughed under her breath, a small, broken sound. Turning to grab a plate gave me her profile: the delicate line of her throat, the way her lower lip was swollen like she'd been biting it all night. I wanted to bite it too.
I set my mug down and took one step closer. Not threatening. Just closer. The air between us changed temperature.
"Mom."
She froze with the butter knife in her hand.
"We should talk about it," I said quietly.
Her shoulders curled inward. "There's nothing to talk about, Daniel. It was an accident. I overreacted. Let's just… forget it."
But her voice cracked on the last word, and I saw her nipples tighten even further, so hard they must have ached. She wasn't wearing anything under those shorts either; I could see the faint shadow of her through the fabric when she shifted her weight.
"I can't forget it," I said. My own voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone darker. "I close my eyes and I see the way you looked at me."
She made a small wounded sound and put the knife down. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
"I'm your mother," she whispered.
"I know."
"This is wrong."
"I know that too."
Silence again. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere outside a dog barked once and stopped. I took another step. Close enough now that the heat of her body reached me.
She still wouldn't look at me. Her breathing was shallow, rapid, lifting her breasts in tiny jerks. I could see the pulse in her neck racing.
I reached out slowly; telegraphing every inch; and brushed a strand of hair off her shoulder. She flinched but didn't pull away. My fingers lingered against the warm skin just above her tank top strap.
"I'm sorry I scared you," I said.
"You didn't scare me," she breathed. Then, softer: "That's the problem."
My cock throbbed so hard I felt it in my teeth. Precome welled at the tip, soaking into the waistband of my sweats. The scent of it; sharp, musky; mixed with coffee and the faint lavender of her skin. I wondered if she could smell it too.
She turned then. Finally. Her eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide. Up close I could see the faint lines at the corners, the freckles across her nose I used to count when I was little. She looked terrified and starving at the same time.
"Daniel," she said, and it sounded like surrender.
I didn't move. I let her look. Let her take in the obscene tent in my sweats, the wet spot spreading near the head. Her gaze traveled down and lingered there, lips parting on a soft exhale.
"We can't," she said, but her body leaned forward a fraction, like gravity had shifted.
"I'm not asking for anything," I lied. "I just… I can't pretend it didn't happen."
Her hand lifted; hesitant, trembling; and hovered an inch from my chest. I could feel the heat of her palm through my shirt. She didn't touch me. Not yet.
"I dreamed about it," she confessed in a voice so low I barely heard. "All night. I woke up… wet. Aching. I had to…" She stopped, cheeks flaming darker.
My throat was sandpaper. "Had to what?"
She shook her head, hair falling across her face like a curtain.
"Tell me," I said. It wasn't a request.
Her eyes flicked up to mine, wide and pleading. "I touched myself," she whispered. "Thinking about… that." Her gaze dropped again to the bulge straining toward her. "I came twice and it still wasn't enough."
The air left my lungs in a rush. My hips rocked forward without permission, searching for friction, for her. The head of my cock brushed the drawer pull on the island; cold metal against burning skin; and I hissed.
Mom's hand finally landed on my chest. Palm flat over my heart, feeling it thunder. Her fingers curled slightly, nails scraping fabric.
"I hate myself," she said, voice cracking.
"Don't."
"I'm soaked right now, Daniel. My own son did this to me."
I covered her hand with mine, pressing it harder against my chest. "I'm so hard I can't think. My own mother did this to me."
Something broke open in her eyes then; shame and relief and raw, animal want. A single tear slipped down her cheek. I caught it with my thumb, smeared it across her skin.
"We're already damned," I said softly.
She laughed, a wet, desperate sound, and leaned her forehead against my collarbone. Her breath fanned hot across my throat. I felt her tremble, felt the war inside her body.
The toast was cold now. The coffee forgotten. We stood there for a long minute, maybe ten, breathing each other in. My cock throbbed between us, a living thing, inches from the soft belly that had carried me. Her nipples grazed my chest every time she inhaled.
Finally she pulled back just enough to look up at me. Her lips were swollen, parted. I could see the tip of her tongue resting against her teeth.
"I need to go upstairs," she said shakily. "I need… space. Just for today. Please."
I nodded, even though every cell in my body screamed to drag her to the floor right there among the crumbs and coffee rings.
She slipped past me, careful not to brush against the front of my sweats. At the doorway she paused, one hand on the frame.
"Daniel?"
"Yeah?"
Her voice was barely a thread. "Lock your door tonight. Please."
Then she was gone.
I stood in the kitchen a long time after her footsteps faded, cock aching, heart raging, the taste of her shame and my own hunger thick on my tongue.
I didn't lock my door that night.