Monday came in gray and slow.
I drifted through school like a ghost, cock half-hard all day, trapped down the leg of loose cargo pants that still couldn't fully hide the weight of it. Every time I shifted in my seat the fabric dragged across the head and I remembered Mom's broken whisper (I touched myself… thinking about that). I spent third-period chemistry staring at the periodic table while precome soaked through my boxers in a steady pulse. By lunch I was raw, aching, counting the minutes until I could get home and lock myself in my room to jerk off until I couldn't see straight.
I didn't expect her to be waiting for me.
When I pushed open the front door the house smelled different. Warm cotton, detergent, something faintly floral and wet. The washing machine was running; the low thump-thump of the drum vibrated through the floorboards. Mom's car was in the driveway, so I knew she was home, but the kitchen was empty. No note. No snack waiting like usual.
I dropped my backpack by the stairs and followed the sound.
The laundry room was tucked off the hallway that led to the garage; small, cramped, always a little too warm. The door stood half open, light spilling out in a gold bar across the hardwood. I heard the soft slap of wet fabric, the creak of the wicker basket.
I stopped in the doorway and forgot how to breathe.
Mom was on her knees.
She had dragged the basket into the middle of the floor and was sorting clothes with quick, almost frantic movements. Her hair was twisted up in a messy knot, loose strands stuck to the damp skin of her neck. She wore an old white camisole; thin enough that the shadow of her nipples showed dark and constant; and a pair of soft gray yoga pants that clung to every curve of her ass as she bent forward. No bra. No panties. I could see the faint outline of her lips when she shifted her weight, the fabric caught between them.
She hadn't heard me yet.
I watched her reach into the pile and pull out a pair of my boxers; the black ones I'd worn Saturday morning after the shower. The pair I'd come in twice yesterday thinking about her mouth. They were stiff in places, the cotton crusted with dried spend. She froze when her fingers brushed the stains, thumb tracing the rigid patches like she was reading braille.
Then, very slowly, she brought them to her face.
I should have said something. Cleared my throat. Backed away. Instead I stood rooted, cock surging so fast it hurt, as she pressed the soiled fabric against her cheek. Her eyes closed. A shudder ran through her shoulders. She inhaled; long, deep, deliberate; like she was trying to pull me straight into her lungs.
A soft, wounded sound escaped her throat.
My vision tunneled. The throb between my legs became a roar. I could smell myself on the air now; sharp, salty, unmistakable; mixing with the warm clean scent of detergent and her skin. She breathed me in again, lips parting, and I saw her tongue touch the cotton, just a flicker, tasting.
"Mom."
The word ripped out of me, rough and too loud.
She jolted, the boxers slipping from her fingers. Her head snapped around, eyes wide and glassy with panic. For one endless second we stared at each other across the small room; her on her knees, me looming in the doorway with a bulge so obscene it distorted the front of my pants.
"I—I was just—" Her voice cracked. She scrambled backward on her knees, hands fluttering like trapped birds. "I didn't hear you come in."
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me with a soft click. The room shrank around us. Heat pressed in from the dryer, thick and humid.
She couldn't stand; the basket was in her way. She stayed on the floor, chest heaving, nipples so hard they tented the camisole like pebbles. Her gaze dropped helplessly to my crotch and stayed there, lips parted on shallow breaths.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you either," I said.
A whimper. She pressed her thighs together, rocking forward just once, like her body had decided before her mind could catch up.
"I'm disgusting," she whispered.
"You're not."
"I smelled your sheets this morning." The confession tumbled out of her like she couldn't hold it anymore. "After you left for school. I buried my face in them and I—" She stopped, tears welling. "I came standing right there in your room, rubbing myself through my jeans like some animal."
My cock jerked so hard the head pushed past my waistband, smearing wet across my stomach under the shirt. I took another step. The toes of my shoes brushed the edge of the basket.
"Show me," I said.
Her eyes snapped to mine, wide and frightened and burning.
"Show me what you did."
A sob caught in her throat. Her hands moved without permission, sliding down her belly to cup herself through the yoga pants. The gray fabric was already dark at the crotch, soaked through. She pressed the heel of her palm against her mound and rocked, a single desperate motion, head falling back.
"Daniel," she gasped. "We have to stop."
"We won't."
I dropped to my knees in front of her, close enough that my thighs bracketed hers. The basket tipped, clothes spilling across the tile between us. She stared at the mess like it was a moat she couldn't cross, then looked up at me with wet, pleading eyes.
"I can smell you," I said. My voice didn't sound like mine anymore. "You're dripping for me."
She made a broken sound and lunged forward; not to kiss me, not yet; but to bury her face against my thigh. Her hands clutched the fabric of my cargos, nails digging in. Hot breath soaked through to my skin. She mouthed at the ridge of my cock through the layers, open-mouthed and clumsy, like she'd forgotten how to be careful.
I threaded my fingers into her hair and held her there. Not forcing. Just anchoring. She moaned against me, the vibration shooting straight to my balls.
"Take it out," I said.
Her hands shook so badly she could barely manage the button. When the zipper rasped down my cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, slapping up against my stomach with a wet sound. Precome strung from the head to my shirt. She stared at it; inches from her face; eyes glazed.
"It's even bigger up close," she breathed.
I guided her head forward. The first touch of her lips was tentative; a soft, reverent kiss right under the crown. Then another. Then her tongue, warm and wet, tracing the slit, gathering the bead of fluid there. She hummed at the taste, eyes fluttering shut.
I let her explore. Let her lick long stripes up the underside, let her try to wrap her lips around the head and fail because her mouth was too small. She drooled trying, spit shining on her chin, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Every time she gagged softly she only pressed closer, like the stretch was what she needed.
The washer kicked into spin cycle behind us, a sudden violent thudding that matched the pulse in my cock. She jumped, then used the rhythm, bobbing shallowly, taking no more than the first three inches but worshipping them. Her hands wrapped around the base; both of them; and still couldn't meet.
I was close already. Embarrassingly close. But I didn't want to come yet. I wanted to watch her break.
I pulled her off gently by the hair. She whined, chasing my cock with her tongue.
"Stand up," I said.
She obeyed on shaky legs. The yoga pants were plastered to her thighs, soaked. I hooked my fingers in the waistband and peeled them down slowly, revealing the neat trim of auburn curls, the swollen lips beneath, glistening. She was so wet it coated the inside of her thighs in shining streaks.
I pressed two fingers between her folds without warning. She cried out, knees buckling. She was scalding, slick, clenching around me like she was trying to pull me deeper. I pumped once, twice, curling to find that spot that made her sob.
"Daniel—please—"
"Please what?"
She couldn't answer. I withdrew my fingers and brought them to my mouth, sucking them clean while she watched, trembling. She tasted sharp and sweet, like desperation.
I stood, towering over her. My cock brushed her belly, leaving a wet trail across the camisole. She stared down at it, then up at me, eyes huge.
"Not yet," I said, answering the question she couldn't ask. "Not today."
She sagged with something between relief and agony.
I tucked myself back in; barely; and zipped up. The pressure was excruciating, but I welcomed it.
"Finish the laundry," I told her softly. "I'll be in my room doing homework."
I left her there on her knees among my dirty clothes, lips swollen, thighs shining, the taste of her son still on her tongue.
When I passed the laundry room later that night the basket was empty, everything folded with trembling precision. My black boxers sat on top, cleaned and soft; but when I lifted them to my face I could still smell her tears and her cunt soaked into the fabric.
I came twice before dinner, biting my pillow to stay quiet.
She never asked me to lock my door again.