Moms plan for the quarantine cum to fruition

Mom and son are both frustrated after 3 weeks of quarantine

The laundry basket had been sitting in the corner of my bedroom for three days. Normally, I’d never let things pile up like this—spring-cleaning was practically a religion in our house—but the quarantine had scrambled my routines. The third week of isolation felt like the third month. Eric was restless, pacing the apartment like a caged animal, and I was running out of ways to keep him occupied.
I sighed, tossing another pair of socks into the hamper. Then I saw it.
The red silk panties.
My face flushed. They weren’t supposed to be here. I’d worn them yesterday, just for me, just to feel something other than the suffocating monotony of lockdown. A little secret. A small rebellion against the sweatpants and oversized t-shirts that had become my uniform.
I snatched them up, the fabric cool between my fingers. The lace trim was delicate, almost sinful. The kind of thing you buy when you’re trying to remember what it feels like to be wanted.
The bathroom door clicked shut, and I froze—Eric must’ve just woken up. I shoved the panties into my robe pocket, but not before catching my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes, hair piled in a messy bun. When was the last time I’d bothered with makeup?
The faucet hissed as he pissed, the sound uncomfortably intimate through the thin walls. I busied myself folding a towel, pretending not to hear the rustle of his phone, the absent-minded tap of his thumb against the screen. Then—silence. Too long.
A soft groan.
My spine stiffened. I knew that sound. Knew it from late-night movies muffled behind his bedroom door, from the hurried creak of his mattress when he thought I was asleep. Heat prickled up my neck.
The silence stretched like a wire pulled taut. My fingers clenched around the folded towel, the terrycloth rough against my skin. Another groan, lower this time—strained. A wet, rhythmic sound followed, unmistakable even through the door.
I should walk away.
But my feet stayed rooted.
The panties in my pocket suddenly felt heavier, the silk whispering against my thigh like a secret.
The dripping faucet echoed like a metronome, marking the seconds I stood frozen outside the bathroom door. My pulse hammered in my throat—not from panic, but something hotter, darker. The kind of warmth that pooled low in my belly when Eric’s basketball shorts clung to his thighs after practice.
“Stop this.” She thought.
But the wet slap of skin, his choked gasp—God, that sound—sent a jolt through me. My nipples hardened beneath my bra. The silk in my pocket might as well have been on fire.
Then silence.
The towel slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor with a muffled thump. My breath came too fast—shallow, uneven. The air smelled faintly of soap and steam, thick with something else I refused to name.
Eric’s voice, rough and raw: "Fuck, the panties aren’t here."
I pressed a hand to my mouth. His fantasy had been mine—red silk wrapped around his cock, my name bitten off between his teeth. The realization twisted inside me, equal parts horror and hunger.
Then—water running. The sharp inhale when cold hit heated skin. I stumbled back, heart hammering.
The sound of Eric clearing his throat snapped me back to reality. I snatched up the fallen towel just as the bathroom lock clicked. Three seconds—that’s all I had to pivot toward the linen closet, my hands trembling as I pretended to reorganize shelves that didn’t need it.
The door creaked open behind me. Steam curled into the hallway, carrying the scent of his body wash and something muskier underneath. My nails dug into a stack of hand towels.
“Mom?” His voice cracked mid-syllable, the way it still did when he was tired.
I turned too quickly, the silk in my pocket brushing against my thigh like a brand. Eric stood there, damp hair tousled, wearing only boxers that clung to his hips. A flush darkened his neck—not from the shower.
I forced a smile, gripping the towel in my hands like a lifeline. "Morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep okay?" The words came out too bright, too brittle.
Eric rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand—the same gesture he'd had since toddlerhood. "Yeah. Whatever." His gaze flicked past me to the rumpled sheets visible through my half-open bedroom door. "You're up early."
"Laundry day," I lied, shifting to block his view of the hamper where my red silk still rested. The memory of his groan behind the bathroom door pulsed between my thighs.
He yawned, stretching arms overhead. The motion pulled his boxers tighter across the outline of his— Oh god. I looked away so fast my neck twinged.

The refrigerator hummed too loudly as I busied myself with breakfast—scrambling eggs with excessive focus, willing my pulse to settle. Eric slouched at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other idly scratched his stomach. His bare foot tapped against the stool leg in a restless rhythm I knew well.
"You're jumpy today," I said, aiming for casual as I slid his plate across the counter. The eggs trembled slightly—my fingers weren’t steady yet.
Eric snorted without looking up. "Bored out of my skull. Can we at least go for a drive later?" His knee bounced now, the hem of his boxers riding up. A faint red mark streaked across his inner thigh—friction burn. My throat went dry.
"Maybe." I turned back to the stove, gripping the spatula too tight. "If you finish your assignments first."
The bacon grease popped louder than my heartbeat when Eric suddenly stood behind me. I felt the heat of him first—that restless teenage energy radiating through his thin t-shirt—before his hands landed on my hips.
"Mom," he said, voice rough in a way that made my spatula clatter against the pan.
My breath hitched. The word wasn't a question—it was a statement. An acknowledgment of the electricity that had been arcing between us all morning. His thumbs pressed into the dip of my waist, and I swore I could feel the ridge of his erection against the small of my back.
Three weeks trapped together. Three weeks of stolen glances at shower-steamed mirrors and laundry piles smelling unmistakably of him. Three weeks of biting my tongue when he stretched shirtless on the couch, the waistband of his boxers slipping dangerously low.
His breath hit the nape of my neck—warm, uneven—and every rational protest dissolved like sugar in hot tea. The spatula clattered into the pan as my fingers went slack.
"You dropped something," Eric murmured, but neither of us moved to retrieve it. His palms slid around my waist, fingers splaying wide over my stomach. The hem of my shirt rode up beneath his touch, exposing a sliver of skin that hadn't seen sunlight in weeks. His thumbs pressed into the softness there, kneading in slow circles that sent traitorous heat pooling low in my belly.
The stove clicked off on its own—some safety feature I'd never noticed—but the silence it left was worse. All I could hear was the wet part of his lips as he exhaled against my shoulder blade, the rustle of cotton as his chest pressed flush against my back.
"Eric," I managed, but it came out strangled, half-breath. His name tasted like surrender.
Eric's hands—those restless, too-big hands that had once clumsily stacked alphabet blocks—slid higher, tracing the underside of my ribs with terrifying precision.
"Your heart's going crazy," he murmured into my neck. I could feel the vibration of his words through my spine, down to my toes curling in my slippers.
The rationalizations came rapid-fire: “He's just touch-starved. Teenage hormones. Needs comfort” His teeth grazed my earlobe.

The last coherent thought evaporated when his palm cupped my breast through my bra—the good one, the black lace set I'd worn hoping the delivery guy might glance too long. Eric made a rough sound in his throat, his thumb circling my nipple. His hands—those wide palms that used to pat my cheeks with toddler clumsiness—now kneaded my breast with a confidence that liquefied my knees.
"Eric," I gasped, but his name tangled in my throat when he pinched my nipple through the lace. The sharp pleasure-pain arched my back, pressing me harder against the ridge of his erection. His ragged exhale against my neck smelled of orange juice and mint toothpaste—so ordinary, so devastatingly familiar.
His other hand slid down, fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans. The button popped with a sound like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen.
"You've been watching me," he muttered—not an accusation, but a revelation. His palm burned through the silk of my panties, fingertips pressing just there, where I'd been throbbing since I heard his groan through the bathroom door.
I meant to say stop—really, I did—but what came out was a choked whimper as his fingers dipped beneath silk. Eric made this low, triumphant noise that sent heat spiraling through my belly. His touch was clumsy but determined, the way he'd approached everything from bike rides to algebra homework.
"You're so wet," he breathed, dragging his fingers through slickness that betrayed me. His other hand still worked my breast, twisting the nipple now in a way that made my vision blur. "All this time I was jerking off to your panties... you were thinking about me?"
His words were a lit match tossed onto gasoline. Three weeks of stolen glances, of catching him adjust himself in those damn sweatpants, of pretending not to notice when he lingered in doorways watching me bend over—all of it condensed into this single, incandescent moment where I arched into his touch instead of pulling away.
The oven timer beeped. Scrambled eggs hardened in the pan. None of it mattered because Eric was yanking my jeans down my hips with the same impatience he'd once ripped open Christmas presents. The cool kitchen air hit my thighs just before his palm slapped against my ass—hard—making me yelp.
The sting of his slap radiated through me—sharp, unexpected, delicious. I gasped, my nails digging into the counter's edge as Eric's fingers slid between my thighs from behind.
"Fuck, Mom," he growled against my neck, his breath ragged. "You're dripping."
His fingers circled my clit with none of the hesitation I expected from a boy who'd only ever touched himself before. I bit my lip to stifle a moan, but it escaped anyway—high, desperate. His hips jerked against me in response, his erection pressing into the small of my back.
The logical part of my brain screamed that this was wrong, that I should push him away, but that voice drowned under the rush of blood in my ears. His fingers moved faster, rougher, like he'd studied exactly how I touched myself during those lonely nights when I'd pretended the vibrations weren't from my own hand.
His fingers found a rhythm that short-circuited all rational thought—too firm, too fast, just the way I liked it when I was alone. The realization that he knew sent a fresh wave of slickness between my thighs.
"Jesus, Mom," Eric groaned, rubbing his palm against me now, the heel of his hand grinding in circles while his fingers worked lower. "You're—fuck—you're even wetter now."
I should've been mortified. Should've stopped him. Instead, my hips rolled back against his hand, chasing the pressure. The counter dug into my stomach as I braced myself, my breath coming in ragged bursts.
His other hand slid up my ribs, dragging my blouse with it. Cool air kissed my bare back just before his mouth did—hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing up my spine. When he bit down where my neck met my shoulder, I cried out, arching like a bowstring pulled too tight.
The countertop dug into my hips as Eric's fingers worked me with a confidence that should've been impossible for a boy his age. His palm pressed hard against my clit while two fingers sank into me—too fast, too deep—and my knees nearly buckled.
"God, yes—" The words tore from my throat before I could stop them, ragged and broken.
Eric's answering groan vibrated against my shoulder blade. His teeth scraped skin as he muttered, "Knew you'd sound like this." His fingers curled inside me, dragging over that spot that made my vision whiten at the edges. "Heard you through the wall last week. Touching yourself thinking about me."
My stomach clenched. He'd heard. Of course he'd heard—the thin walls, my breathless whimpers, the way I'd choked on his name when I came.
His fingers twisted inside me—that perfect, unforgiving curl—and I came undone against the kitchen counter. My thighs trembled, slick with arousal, as pleasure ripped through me like a live wire. Eric didn’t slow down, didn’t let me catch my breath. He pressed harder, dragging his palm in rough circles until I whimpered, oversensitive and shaking.
"Fuck," he growled against my ear, his other hand fumbling with his jeans. "Look at you. All wet for your son."
The words sent another jolt through me. I should’ve been horrified. Should’ve shoved him away. Instead, I turned my head, catching his mouth in a messy, desperate kiss. His tongue slid against mine, tasting of mint and the orange juice he’d had at breakfast. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as his hips jerked forward, his cock—hot and heavy—grinding against my ass.
He broke the kiss with a sharp inhale. "Mom—"
Eric's fingers were still buried inside me when I felt the blunt pressure of his cock pressing against my thigh. My breath hitched—not just from the sensation, but from the realization that I was guiding his hand between my legs like some shameless teenager. His lips crashed back into mine, rough and unpracticed, but God, the hunger in it made my pulse throb.
"Wait," I gasped, pulling back just enough to see the frustration flash in his eyes. My fingers trembled as I reached between us, wrapping my hand around him. The heat of his skin surprised me. So did the way his hips jerked forward, his breath stuttering against my neck.
"You're—" I swallowed, stroking him slowly, thumb brushing over the slickness at his tip. "You're bigger than I thought."
Eric made a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. "Been watching me shower, Mom?"

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through me—equal parts shame and thrill tightening low in my stomach. I should’ve denied it. Should’ve slapped his hand away. But the way his breath hitched when I tightened my grip made my own pulse flutter.
"Maybe," I murmured, dragging my thumb over the swollen head of his cock again, savoring the way his hips bucked into my touch. His fingers flexed inside me, curling in that cruel, perfect way that had my knees nearly giving out.
Eric groaned, forehead pressing against my shoulder. "Fuck, Mom—your hand feels—" His voice cracked, rough with want. I could feel the tension coiled in his body, the way his thighs trembled when I stroked him slower, teasing.
He wasn’t patient.
Eric’s fingers twisted deeper inside me—that relentless curl that had me gasping against his shoulder. I tightened my grip around his cock instinctively, rewarded by the sharp jerk of his hips and the ragged sound torn from his throat.
"Mom—" His voice was strained, fingers stilling inside me as he pressed his forehead to mine. "If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last."
The admission sent a thrill through me—that I could unravel him this fast. That after weeks of stolen glances and aching denial, he was just as desperate as I was. My thumb swiped over the head of his cock again, smearing the wetness there.
"I don’t care," I murmured, watching his breath hitch. His pupils were blown wide, dark with want. "I want to feel it."
The moment stretched between us—his breath ragged against my lips, my fingers slick with his arousal. Every rational thought screamed for me to stop, but the ache between my thighs drowned them out.
"Turn around," Eric growled, his voice deeper than I'd ever heard it.
I obeyed without hesitation, bracing my hands against the countertop as his body pressed flush against my back. His cock nestled hot and heavy between my thighs, the tip brushing against damp silk. A shudder ripped through me.
His hands slid up my sides, fingers dragging my blouse higher until cool air kissed my bare stomach. "You've been torturing me," he murmured against my ear, teeth grazing the lobe. "Wearing this shit knowing I could see."
His hands were everywhere at once—rough and impatient as they shoved my blouse up my ribs, fingers skating over my bra like he already knew the clasp would give with one sharp twist. The fabric fell away, and his groan vibrated against my spine. "Fuck, Mom."
I gasped as his palms closed over my breasts, thumbs rubbing my nipples into stiff peaks. The counter dug into my hips as he ground against me, his cock a hot, insistent pressure between my thighs. Every rational thought shattered when his teeth sank into my shoulder.
"You kept pretending," he panted, one hand sliding down to rip my panties aside. The silk tore with a sound that made my stomach clench. "Acting like you didn’t want this." His fingers slid through my wetness, circling my clit with a precision that betrayed how long he'd imagined this.
I arched into his touch, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Eric—"
His fingers dug into my hips as he thrust against me—not inside yet, just the rough drag of his cock through my wetness, teasing in a way that made my knees buckle. The torn silk of my panties clung to one thigh, ruined beyond repair. A stupid, fleeting thought about laundry day dissolved when his palm smacked my ass—sharp enough to make me yelp.
"You kept wearing these," Eric breathed against my neck, rolling my nipple between his fingers. "Every fucking morning, bending over the dishwasher where I could see." His teeth scraped my shoulder. "You wanted me to snap."
I whimpered as his fingers slid lower, tracing the swollen heat between my legs. Two fingers plunged into me without warning, curling just right—the spot only I knew about until now. My hips jerked forward, slamming against the counter. "Christ—how did you—?"
His laugh was dark, uneven. "Heard you. Every night for weeks." His fingers crooked deeper, dragging a moan from my throat. "Same rhythm. Same little gasp when you came." His free hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back. "Say it."
"Say it," Eric growled again, his fingers working me with cruel precision. The counter dug into my hips, the cold granite a sharp contrast to the heat flooding my body. His breath hitched when I clenched around him—deliberately this time—and I felt the tremor run through his arms where they caged me in.
I swallowed, my throat dry. "I wanted you to—ah—see." The admission tore out of me between panting breaths. "Wanted you to—fuck—to touch—to fuck your mother."
His fingers withdrew abruptly, leaving me empty. Before I could protest, his palm pressed flat against my lower back, shoving me down until my cheek smeared against the countertop. The first thrust of his cock punched the air from my lungs. No teasing this time—just sheer, brutal possession.
"You let me hear," he accused, hips snapping forward. My vision whited out at the stretch. "Let me smell your fucking hand every time you came out of your room." His teeth sank into my shoulder blade as he bottomed out, drawing a ragged cry from me. "Acted like you didn’t notice me hard for you at breakfast."
My nails scraped against the countertop as Eric's hips drove into me—each thrust punctuated by the slick slap of skin and the creak of the kitchen cabinets rattling against the wall. I bit down on my own wrist to stifle the moans threatening to spill out, but Eric wrenched my arm away, pinning it behind her back. "No," he panted against her ear, his breath scorching. "I wanna hear it."
His free hand tangled in my hair, yanking just enough to arch my spine into him—forcing me to take him deeper. The angle was punishing, delicious, and I sobbed his name as his cock dragged against that spot inside me that made my toes curl.
"Tell me," he demanded, voice ragged. "Tell me you planned this."
I shook her head wildly, but his fingers tightened in her hair. "Liar," he growled, thrusting harder. "All those mornings in your robe—leaning just so over the coffee maker—fucking dripping in that perfume—" His hips stuttered, and I felt him twitch inside me, his control fraying.
The accusation burned hotter than his cock inside me. I could feel every ridge, every pulse of him as he fucked me with a rhythm that bordered on violent—yet somehow, impossibly, right. Like his body had been made to fit mine all along. The thought alone sent another surge of wetness around him, and Eric groaned, his forehead dropping between my shoulder blades.

"You knew," he panted, his grip on her hip tightening hard enough to bruise. "Jesus Christ, Mom—you knew exactly what you were doing to me."

My breath hitched when his thumb found my clit, rubbing rough circles just as I liked—exactly as I liked—proving his point. I arched back into him instinctively, chasing the friction, and Eric snarled something filthy into her skin. His pace turned erratic, hips jerking forward like he couldn't decide whether to fuck me deeper or pull out entirely.

"Say it," he demanded again, voice cracking.

The words tore from my throat before I could stop them—raw and honest in a way that should have terrified me. "Yes," I gasped, nails scraping against the countertop as Eric's cock slammed into me, hitting that perfect, devastating spot again. "God, yes, I knew. I wanted you to look."
His groan vibrated through my back, his fingers tightening almost painfully in my hair. I expected him to slow down, to tease me—but instead, he fucked me harder, his hips pistoning with a desperation that matched my own.
"You—" His voice broke as his thumb pressed harder against my clit. "You fucking tormented me."
I didn't deny it. Couldn't. Not when every ragged thrust dragged another confession from my lips. "The pink nightgown—the one with the lace—I wore it for you—"
Her breath hitched as Eric's hips stuttered against her, his cock twitching deep inside. The counter dug into my stomach, but I barely noticed—not when his fingers were tightening in my hair, dragging my head back further.
"Say it again," he growled, his voice rough with something darker now.
I swallowed, my throat dry. "I left my panties on purpose." The admission burned worse than his grip. "After my shower. I—I knew you'd find them."
Eric's laugh was sharp, almost disbelieving. His thumb circled her cliss ruthlessly, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. "All those times you bent over right in front of me—"
Eric's grip tightened in my hair, pulling just shy of pain—the way I’d secretly fantasized he would. "And the robe," he hissed, hips driving into her with brutal precision. "You knew it gaped open."
My breath stuttered as his cock dragged against that perfect spot inside me. The countertop rattled beneath them, the sound swallowed by her gasp when his free hand slid around her throat—not squeezing, just holding, the threat of control more intoxicating than I’d ever admit.
"Answer me."
I whimpered, pressing back against him. "Yes. Yes. Every fucking morning—"
His fingers tightened around my throat—not choking, just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm. The counter dug deeper into my stomach with each thrust, but I barely registered the discomfort. Not when his cock hit that spot inside me again, sparking white-hot pleasure up my spine.
"You left them there," Eric growled against my ear, his voice rough with disbelief and something darker. "You wanted me to use them."
The admission clawed its way out before she could stop it. "I wanted you to smell me. To fuck me."
His hips stuttered at that, his cock twitching deep inside me. The sound he made—half groan, half curse—sent heat flooding straight to her already oversensitive clit. I could feel his breath ragged against my neck, his grip on my hair tightening as he fucked me harder, faster, like he was trying to carve the memory of me into his skin.
His fingers dug into the flesh of my hips, anchoring me against him as his rhythm grew frantic. The slap of skin against skin filled the kitchen, each thrust punctuated by her choked whimpers. I could feel the tension coiling in his body—the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers trembled against my skin.
"You knew," he accused again, voice ragged. "You knew I'd fucking lose it."
I didn't deny it. Couldn't. Not when his cock was buried inside me, not when every ragged breath I took was laced with the scent of my own arousal. Instead, I arched back, pressing my ass against him, silently begging for more.
Eric groaned, his grip shifting from her hip to the swell of her ass, kneading the flesh roughly. "Fuck, Mom—" His voice broke as he drove into her harder, his hips pistoning with desperate, uneven strokes.
Eric didn't ask—just hooked an arm around my waist and hauled me backward, my bare thighs squeaking against the laminate floor as he dragged me toward the hallway. The sudden movement made me gasp, hands scrambling for purchase against his forearm as he marched them past the scattered evidence of our first coupling—my discarded panties near the fridge, his shorts pooled by the toaster—like breadcrumbs leading to this inevitable conclusion.
Her bedroom door hit the wall with a thud that rattled the framed baby photos still lining the hallway. The irony wasn't lost on me, not when Eric's grip on my hipbones left fresh fingerprints over the stretch marks he'd once grown beneath. He pushed me onto the quilted bedspread I’d bought last spring—the one with embroidered roses I’d thought pretty, never imagining it would witness this—and my elbows sank into the duvet as he climbed over , his cock glistening with my arousal.
"Look at you," he breathed, dragging his palm up the back of my thigh with rough possessiveness. "All spread out where you belong." His fingers traced the crease beneath my ass, following the wetness that had trickled down my inner thighs. The shudder that ran through me had nothing to do with the AC vent blowing cold air across my flushed skin.
I turned my head, cheek pressed to the rose pattern, and caught sight of myself in the vanity mirror—hair wild from his grip, lips swollen, the indentations of his teeth still visible on my shoulder. The woman staring back looked nothing like the one who'd packed Eric's school lunches three weeks ago.
Eric followed my gaze, his smirk blooming as he palmed my ass. "Like what you see?" He shifted, wedging a knee between my thighs to spread them wider, his erection bobbing against the back of her thigh. "Bet you never thought you'd watch your son fuck you from behind."
The quilted fabric bunched beneath my fingers as Eric shoved into me again—harder this time, his hips snapping forward with a wet slap that drowned out the hum of the air conditioner. I gasped, my back arching instinctively, pressing my breasts against the bedspread. The scent of sex clung to the sheets—their sex—and the realization sent a fresh wave of heat between my thighs.

“This quarantine is going to be fun.”
The thought bubbled up, unbidden, as Eric’s hands gripped my hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above my ass. He’d been right—I had known. Known the way his eyes lingered when I bent to pick up a dropped spoon. Known how his breath hitched when I leaned too close, the neckline of my robe gaping. I’d cataloged every stolen glance, every suppressed groan from behind his bedroom door. And now, with his cock buried inside me, I couldn’t pretend anymore.
Eric pulled out almost entirely, teasing me with just the tip before slamming back in, drawing a sharp cry from my lips. "Fuck—Mom, your cunts so good" he growled, his voice rough with want. His fingers traced the curve of her spine, possessive, like he was memorizing her. "You feel so good."
I bit my lip, glancing again at the mirror. Our reflection was obscene—his body taut with tension, mine flushed and pliant beneath him. His dark eyes locked onto hers in the glass, and a wicked smirk curled his lips. "You like watching us?" he murmured, slowing his thrusts deliberately, dragging each one out until I whimpered. "Watching your son fuck you?"
The quilted roses beneath fingers blurred as Eric drove into his mother again—deep, relentless, his rhythm perfectly calculated to wring another whimper from my throat. I dug my nails into the fabric, my breath hitching when his palm flattened between my shoulder blades, pinning me harder against the bedspread. This wasn’t just sex; it was claiming. And God help me, I loved it.
Fun? The word didn’t begin to cover it. Three weeks of quarantine had stretched like an eternity, but now—now time collapsed into the slick, hot friction of my son’s cock, the way his hips stuttered when I clenched around him. I’d spent years as just Mom, folding laundry and packing lunches, never imagining the way his hands would feel mapping her body with rough, reverent hunger.
His breath hitched, warm against the sweat-damp curve of my neck. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, nipping at my earlobe. His free hand slid beneath me, fingers skimming my belly before dipping lower, finding my clit with unerring precision. “Don’t.” A circling thumb, just shy of cruel. “Just feel.”
I gasped, my hips jerking against his hand, and the mirror caught the flush spreading down my chest. Eric laughed—low, triumphant—and sped his fingers, his thrusts turning uneven as he watched me unravel. “That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice thick with lust. “Let me see you fall apart.”
And I did. The orgasm ripped through me, sharp and sudden, my back arching as she cried out. Eric didn’t slow, didn’t relent—just kept fucking her through it, his groan hot against her skin. “Fuck, Mom,” he gritted out, his fingers digging into her hip. “You’re so fucking tight—”
The quilted roses were ruined beneath me, crushed under Eric's relentless thrusts—just like my excuses, denials, my morality. I should have cared. I didn't.
Fun. The word throbbed in time with his cock, each snap of his hips rewriting the rules. Three weeks ago, I’d been disinfecting grocery bags. Now my thighs were sticky with my son's sweat, my fingers tangled in the bedspread as he fucked me into the mattress with the single-minded hunger of a teenage boy who'd finally gotten his hands on exactly what he wanted.
“The rest of this quarantine is going to be a fuck fest.” I thought.