It was practical and logical, you see. My son Daniel had moved back home after he'd finished university, working his days in a call centre while looking for a 'real job', as he put it. His scumbag father had been gone for years and it had just been the two of us ever since. I missed him terribly while he was at university, of course, like every good mother would, and supported him as best I could throughout his studies. But I was secretly thrilled when, after graduating from his degree at age 21, he requested to come live back at home again "to save up some money and find a proper job". So I didn't ask for any rent, telling him to instead put the money aside and hopefully save up enough for a deposit for a house to call his own. I was really just happy to have him home again.
He had always been sporty and athletic, playing for his university's football team (soccer for you Americans). He even kept it up after coming back home, returning to our small town's club where he'd played so much as a kid. At 6'2", with tawny tousled hair and bright blue eyes - my eyes - he was a handsome, intelligent, and well-educated young man, and I couldn't be a prouder mother. We always got on well, speaking to each other almost daily even when he was at university.
Then, one evening, Daniel came home limping after football practice, and little did we know that our whole worlds were about to change.
I've been a qualified physio and sports therapist for the past 15 years, beginning my training at 23 when Daniel first started at primary school. So when I spotted him shuffling awkwardly through the front door, hobbling over to the kitchen to put his keys down, I knew something wasn't right.
"What's happened?" I asked him, standing there with my hands on my hips, my maternal instincts taking over.
"Just a sprain. I misjudged a tackle and felt it go, just here," he said, pointing to his upper left thigh. "Coach benched me as I can barely lift my leg, had to be carried off the pitch by Phil and Dave," he told me, wincing with the pain. "Wasn't all bad though, Phil's hot mum gave me a lift home," he said with a cheeky twinkle in his eye.
I laughed off his boorish comment, but could see under the jokes that he really was in quite some discomfort.
I also knew the injury well - groin injuries are one of the most common muscle injuries in football and I'd seen plenty of clients with them over the years. Football is our national sport after all. It likely involved the adductor longus muscle from where I could see he was holding his inner left thigh. Thankfully, given that he was still just about walking, I thought it was probably just a bad sprain rather than a full muscle tear. Still, without proper treatment and time to heal, he risked doing further, lasting damage to it, which could end one of his main loves in life for good. So I knew how important it was to get it looked at by a professional and taken care of.
"Make sure you get that seen too, darling," I told him. "And make sure to rest it well, you don't want to cause any permanent damage. Maybe you should phone the doctor in the morning and get it looked at properly."
"Yes, Mum," he replied, emphasising the latter word and rolling his eyes at my over-mothering. "I'll call first thing in the morning before work to try to get booked in to see the GP, and I'll see if I can get an Uber to take me. At least my job involves sitting around on my arse all day so I won't have to lose out on any wages while I recover," he grinned.
***
Anybody who knows anything about the state of British healthcare, however, will know that the NHS is a total joke these days - and the next morning after his GP appointment, Daniel texted me confirming my fears.
Him: Doctor took a look at it and told me there was a 3-month waiting list to be seen by NHS physio 😕 told me to rest it in the meantime, but that it was probably best to go private if I could afford it and wanted to be seen more quickly.
Me: Oh hun, that's rubbish. I'm sorry! Let's talk through our options tonight over dinner.
I knew he shouldn't wait that long to be seen, and that without proper medical advice and support it could become much worse. But I also knew how expensive a private physiotherapist would be - I made a decent living out of being one myself. So I decided to intervene: it only made sense for me to be the one to treat him. We mothers must take care of our babies after all, even when they're all grown up.
We both said the word "awkward" more than once over dinner that night, but we agreed it was for the best. It really would save hundreds of pounds on private fees. We were adults, we could be professional, and that's what family's for, right? To look after each other in times of need.
After the plates were cleared I had him stand in the living room while I demonstrated the stretches and pressure points through my jeans. With my left leg raised up on a chair, I pressed my fingers into my own upper thigh at the crease of my groin, methodically showing him exactly where to apply pressure. I kept my voice clinical and steady. He nodded, and goofily tried to copy me as I showed him the exercises. We're both quite athletic, but watching him fumble them made me chuckle as he's normally a fast learner with these sorts of physical activities.
Suddenly, I realised why he was acting so awkwardly. The front of his jeans had tightened, and a noticeable bulge had appeared at the front. He shifted his weight, trying to hide it while I pretended not to notice. Of course I'd had male clients get hard before. Male physiology and hormones really are something else, after all. But you ignore it until it settles, that was the rule.
Yet, despite his efforts, he couldn't reach the right spot properly himself, even while watching me press my fingers into the spot on my own upper thigh. His angle was all wrong and he was bent awkwardly. So, in my serious, matter-of-fact voice, I told him, "Lie down on the sofa. I'll show you once, it'll be quick."
He lay down on the sofa and stretched out his legs while I tied my hair back in a ponytail. I then knelt beside him and began working the injured area through his jeans in firm, careful strokes with hands strengthened from years of sports massages. His erection was impossible to miss at this point - thick, pressing hard against the denim. We both stared at the ceiling or the wall or anywhere else, as I firmly rubbed his inner thigh, feeling the tightness of the inflamed muscle slowly give way under the pressure of my fingers. The silence was palpable.
But worst of all, I began to feel my own body betraying me; I noticed a slow, shameful dampness had gathered between my own legs. I flushed. I finished the demonstration as quickly as I could, hoping he hadn't noticed the heat on my cheeks. I bid him good night, and went upstairs and got ready for bed.
But in bed I just kept seeing that bulge in my mind's eye.
I chided myself. It was just men. Just a physiological response, and nothing to do with my son. It had been a while for myself after all. Yet when I slid a hand between my thighs my knickers were more than a little damp. I pulled my hand away like I'd been burned and forced myself to stop being so ridiculous and go to sleep.
The next morning we both stuck to our usual routines, hurrying off to work - Daniel hobbling into his workmate's car to begin his day, me climbing into mine to head to the fitness centre for my day's appointments. That was normal, we barely saw each other in the mornings, not being big breakfast people and tending to get coffees en route to work. Still, as I worked with my clients in my small studio, my mind was thinking about the previous evening, telling myself that I was simply concerned for his injury like any good mother ought to be. I resolved to do everything I could to help him make a full recovery - I couldn't bear the thought of him having to give up football.
***
That evening during dinner, Daniel told me his groin was still hurting, and that it had even been affecting his ability to work that day. He had been getting irate and impatient with difficult customers at the call centre because of the pain, and was worrying that it was going to cost him his job if he carried on like this.
The conversation hardened my resolve to help him.
"You're probably going to need at least a week of consistent treatment before you're fully healed, possibly two or three depending on its severity," I told him. "And I'll be here to help with that every step of the way."
So after dinner, I made him repeat the exercises. And, to make absolute sure of optimal recovery, I offered to keep providing those massages so that we could be certain that they were performed properly.
As I began to massage around his groin area through his jeans, he began to get hard again. We both pretended not to notice, just like before. And as I carefully avoided his stiffening manhood with my hand, I felt myself getting wet again - just like before. We didn't speak of anything, keeping things as clinical and professional-client / mother-son appropriate as much as we could, avoiding the throbbing elephant in the room that was his erection. I finished up after a few more minutes and we both went to bed.
But that night, lying in the dark, I heard him in his room. Soft, rhythmic sounds coming through the wall. I knew what he was doing. It wasn't the first time I'd heard it over the years - he was a boy living under my roof after all - but this time it was different. Then I heard a stifled groan as he finished, and heat began to flood me so fast it made me dizzy. I realised just how long it had been since anyone had touched me. That's all this was. I pushed my hand down my knickers, found myself soaking, and slid two fingers inside myself. My palm rubbed my clit in tight circles. The image that rose unbidden was the swollen shape of him under his jeans. I couldn't help it. I came hard with that picture blazing in my mind, moaning into the pillow, then lay there shaking with guilt. It wasn't really him, I told myself. It could have been anyone's erection. It had just been too long since my last time, that's all. I willed myself to sleep, riddled with the shame of knowing that I'd just had one of the strongest orgasms in years picturing the outline of my son's cock.
But still the therapy continued. I knew my duties as his mother to nurse him back to health. And Daniel was beginning to improve, his gait noticeably less wobbly after a few days. I hadn't touched myself since that night, and managed to put it out of my mind. We also became more relaxed and comfortable with the sessions. He was still getting hard of course, but we were able to ignore it and have general chitchats about our lives, how work days were going, etc. I was enjoying the time I was spending with my son.
He was getting changed into gym shorts after work now too, to help with mobility for the exercises. I didn't mind, and I was staying in my more comfortable work clothes myself - sports tops and hoodies, and my super comfy yoga pants - and letting my long blonde hair fall loose around my shoulders. I'd started massaging the bare muscle of his groin too, for deeper tissue penetration, now there were no jeans in the way. We were settling into a good routine and all was right with the world.
***
I was sure he was well on the mend a couple of days later, suspecting he'd largely recovered by now from the looser feel of his adductor muscles and the way he was walking about the house. But we both agreed that it was for the best to continue, to make sure his treatment was comprehensive and consistent so he would make a full recovery.
However, that evening while I was kneeling by him and working that same spot on his groin, his erection suddenly twitched and fell over, brushing against my knuckles through his gym shorts.
Daniel froze, and neither of us spoke. I had managed to carefully avoid any accidental contact with his private parts until now. But from my years working in this field, I knew that these things can happen, and knew that if I stopped it would just make it more awkward. So I kept going, working with my fingers, as he shifted his weight away. Phew, I thought. Until a minute later it happened again. This time he didn't freeze or pull away, and I watched it twitch against my fingers. And I just carried on as though nothing was wrong. I let his heavy, hot length rest there against the side of my hand while I finished massaging his groin.
It took all my mental strength to not show how hot and bothered I was getting, and we couldn't look each other in the eye. But my pussy was on fire, and I knew that I was dripping. I just hoped he couldn't tell. I finished the session, went to bed, and fucked myself with my fingers more desperately than I ever had in my life. I came imagining the weight of his bare cock in my palm, the feel of it between my fingers. He came upstairs a little while later, and I heard him begin to relieve himself too. And I came again.
I struggled to focus at work the following day, unable to shake off the mix of giddiness and excitement and guilt I was feeling. About my own son! And how much I was looking forward to our nightly therapy sessions.
***
That night I came home from work still in my cream yoga pants, ones that I knew clung and accentuated my legs and butt. I knew that I was putting on a show. I also knew by then that what was happening wasn't just a "bodily reaction" on his side either. He was sneaking glances at my toned legs and bubble butt as I was cooking us dinner, trying to be subtle about it, but I caught him more than once. Still, this was harmless, right? We wouldn't cross any real boundaries.
He was already hard when he lay down, his gym shorts hitched up higher than usual, the firm outline of his cock so very visible underneath the thin fabric. After a few minutes of massaging, he shifted his weight slightly, and once again it flopped over onto the back of my fingers. I swear it was deliberate this time. I kept working his groin, but this time I let the back of my hand stay there, and even rub against him on purpose. He made a small sound. I brought my other hand in too, working that spot in his groin with fingers from both hands, while using my wrists and the back of my hands to stroke against his swelling manhood.
His hips began to move - tiny, almost imperceptible thrusts. His breathing became ragged, and so did mine if I'm being honest, as I gently stroked the the back of my hands against his cock.
All of a sudden, he jerked hard and groaned, flooding the front of his shorts with his cum. The wet heat spread against my fingers and I could smell its sweet musky scent through the fabric.
He sat up panic-stricken, apologising and looking ready to bolt.
"Oh my God!" I blurted out. I quickly followed up with a forced laugh. "Errrr - well, that hasn't happened for me in a while!" I said stupidly, my mind racing as I was desperately trying to calm the situation. "It's a natural reaction. I've had all sorts from clients over the years. Although I've never given anyone a happy ending, ha ha," I jabbered on, "...but it's not exactly unheard of in my world..." I finished weakly.
He looked mortified and dashed off to the bathroom to clean himself up as I bridled at the sheer idiocy of what I had just spouted.
When he came out he was red-faced, and didn't know where to look. He mumbled something unintelligible and was about to head upstairs when I said, "Daniel? We can stop the private therapy sessions, you know, if it's too embarrassing to continue?"
He replied by instead asking me if I wanted to stop.
"I'm happy to continue until you are fully recovered, hun." I replied matter-of-factly.
He nodded but remained stone-faced. And yet, I think I could detect some relief in his demeanour too.
"Same. Well, best get ready for bed then," he said. "Thanks, Mum," he added, coming to kiss me on the cheek as he said it. I felt myself flush again.
We both turned in for the night and went to our separate rooms. And that night I rubbed myself raw to the memory of him spurting, and not making any attempt to stay quiet about it. I brought myself to climax wishing I could have seen the cum, wishing it had been all over my hands and fingers, wishing it could have been all over my face and tits. I remembered the smell of it, wanted to taste it, and came harder than ever and hated myself for it. What the hell was becoming of me? But as long as we never said it out loud, or crossed any actual, real boundaries, I told myself it was still all okay.
Deep down, I think I knew then that things were changing irreversibly for us. Although I felt terrible and confused about all these feelings and what they meant, I also knew that I'd never felt more alive.
***
The next day, work was torture. All I could think about was my son's face as he orgasmed, right there in front of me, his mother. The throbbing of his cock and his soaked gym shorts. We really needed to talk about this, but I had no idea how to even go about bringing it up. Neither of us had even acknowledged that anything unusual was happening, for heaven's sake!
I came home and made dinner like normal, although conversation was almost nonexistent and we sat there awkwardly eating in silence. I had no idea what to say or how to even begin having a grown-up conversation about all this. Best to leave it for after dinner when we are getting ready for the therapy, I thought to myself.
But when we finished dinner, he turned to me and hesitated for a moment. Looking unsure of himself, he asked, "Mum? Is it okay if... if I take my shorts off this time and just stay in my boxers? So I'm comfier?"
I also hesitated. Hardly the conversation I was expecting to have. He looked like he was about to take it back, but I quickly said "Okay," before either one of us could change our minds. "I suppose it is important that you are fully relaxed for the massage to be effective," I added lamely.
He took off his shorts, and the tent in his boxers was obscene. I tried to keep my eyes on the injury site - which was, truthfully, so much improved after more than a week of work - and then knelt beside him, throwing my hair over my shoulder as I began the massage.
Daniel shifted and his cock again came to rest against my hands. I let it stay there. I also noticed that the button on his boxers had come undone. Through the open slit I could see a stretch of the bare skin of his swollen member. My son's bare cock, right there in front of me, right next to my hands. Pre-cum had already darkened the fabric of his boxers against my fingers. The smell of him made me light-headed. His thrusts were more obvious now and I couldn't stop staring; we both knew what was happening. I switched to using my knuckles to work his groin, letting him grind against my open palms through the fabric of his boxers, making it more hospitable for him - although not daring to take hold of him fully.
Then one stronger thrust pushed the wet head of his cock right out through the slit of his boxers, and right into my hand.
That feeling of his glans, slippery with his precum as he was thrusting between my fingers: holy fuck! I let out an involuntary moan: low, guttural, helpless.
The sound tipped him over. Hot ropes of cum pulsed across me and coated my hand. The heat of it was too much, and I shoved my other hand between my legs, pressed hard against my clit through the yoga pants, and came instantly, shuddering right there in front of him.
I sat staring at the glistening sticky mess covering my fingers. I almost tasted it there and then, I swear. But the thought left my mind as almost as quickly as it had entered, as I burned with shame. I got up abruptly and rushed to the bathroom sink to wash my hands. I heard him leave the living room too.
My mind swirled with thoughts and emotions about what had just happened. About what I had just wanted to do with my own son's semen - what I almost did. I felt so ashamed but so turned on all at the same time. I began to cry, confused tears running down my cheek. What was I doing? What was wrong with me?
I heard Daniel leave the living room too, mumbling that he was having an early night. I'm sure he heard my sobs.
I weakly called "Daniel, wait..." after him, but wasn't sure he heard me.
***
We didn't speak for the rest of that night or at all the next day. That wasn't like us. I waited for him to come home, knowing that, now, we really needed to talk about what was going on. I knew I'd messed up the previous night, and felt more guilty about how I'd reacted than over everything that's happened up until this point.
In fact, I'd decided that I couldn't go on feeling guilty about any of this. What was happening was happening, rightly or wrongly. And ultimately, Daniel was my son, and nothing would change that. We could stop it here if he wanted, and go back to the way things were, and never talk about any of it again.
But I didn't want it to stop. I knew that much.
We needed to talk.
It was getting late, and he wasn't home yet. I texted him to ask if he was stuck at work, and to see if he wanted dinner saving.
However, he replied saying that he'd gotten dinner while out, and that he was tired so he wanted an early night. He came home and barely acknowledged me, heading straight upstairs to bed.
I was wracked with worry and guilt, wondering if I'd just fucked up my relationship with my only child.
***
I got into bed myself, and sent him a text.
Me: Hey you. How are you doing?
Him: Fine. Just feeling confused. Funny feelings.
Me: Same. Do you want to talk?
Him: No. Probably not a good idea.
Me: 😔 I understand.
I thought very carefully about the next words I wrote.
Me: I missed our session tonight. I've valued spending closer time with you this past week and a half. Maybe you're mostly healed now - you could continue the exercises and massage yourself if that's what you'd prefer. But it has been nice spending this time together.
A few minutes passed.
Him: I've valued the time together too. I heard you crying last night, and I thought you were upset with me for what happened.
Me: Darling, I wasn't upset with you. I was upset with myself for letting it get so far without talking to you about it first. But you're my boy, and nothing could ever come between us that would make me stop loving you ❤️
Him: Thanks, Mum. I love you too ❤️
To which I responded with another heart emoji.
Him: For what it's worth, I do prefer when you do it. It feels much better from you, and seems to have been working well. I am feeling a lot better now. I don't want it to stop.
I bit my lip, feeling relieved and excited at the same time. I responded with the following message,
Me: That's good, baby. I want you to feel all better, and I like taking care of my boy.
Then, with sheer disbelief at my own brazenness:
Me: Do you want to have our therapy session tonight after all? I know it's late and we both have to be up. But we could be quick. After all, consistency is key to recovery...
He replied with one word:
Him: Yes.
Excitement and desire and relief hit me all at once, so hard my hands began to shake.
I went to his room in just my nightie and knickers, knocked, and stepped inside. He looked up at me from the dark, my figure silhouetted in the glow of the hallway light, and pulled the covers aside. He was in his boxers and nothing else - more undressed than I'd seen him in years. I sat on the edge of the bed and began the familiar massage. He was already hard, and his boxers were soaked with precum. His hips started moving against my hand. When his cock sprang free this time I didn't just let him thrust against me. I wrapped my fingers around him and stroked. He bucked at my touch. I lay down beside him and then slid my other hand under my knickers and fingered myself in the same rhythm, imagining it was him inside me. We were both breathing hard, moaning, pressing our bodies closer together, holding each other close. When he came it spilled over my thighs and soaked my knickers and the back of my hand. The feel of it set me off; I came moaning his name into his chest. We fell asleep like that and stayed together in bliss the whole night.
In the morning we both overslept in that warm tangle, missing our alarms. We had to scramble to shower and get to work, and were both going to be late. All day I couldn't stop thinking about him, and even cancelled my final appointments as I was just too distracted and wanted to get home.
I texted him instead:
Me: I miss you. Looking forward to tonight.
Him: I miss you too. Can't stop thinking about how much you've helped me these past couple of weeks...
***
I left the studio, locking up early to get home and beat the rush-hour traffic. I put pasta bake in the oven to be ready for when Daniel would be home. And then I changed into a short black dress that made me feel beautiful and sexy, and did my hair and makeup. All for my Daniel. I lit candles and plated the food, and poured two tall glasses of wine.
When he came in, limp now entirely gone, he looked me up and down and gulped. We sat down to dinner and ate slowly, nursing our wine glasses and laughing together more than we had in months. Our eyes were locked the whole time, and the air between us felt charged. At one point he took my hand in his and just held it there on the table, and his touch felt electric.
As we finished our plates I asked, "So, how are you doing with your injury? I see you're not limping at all anymore," I pointed out. "Your recovery seems to be going very well."
"I've got a great therapist," he winked at me. "You've clearly been doing something right."
"Are you sad to have missed your football practice these past couple of weeks?" I probed. Then I teasingly added, "Sad that 'Phil's fit mum' hasn't been able to give you a lift?"
He blushed. "Yeah... and well, she is pretty good looking... but not as pretty as you, Mum," he said sheepishly.
I smiled at the compliment and resumed caressing his hand on the table.
I then asked, soft and playfully, whether he'd secretly hoped all along that I would be the one to nurse his injury back to health.
"Yeah... B-but only because I know how good you are at your job," he quickly added.
And then, with a devilish grin, I asked him whether he'd worn those particular boxers on purpose the other night, knowing the button would come loose - already suspecting the answer. He laughed, embarrassed, admitting "Err, yes - that may have crossed my mind too."
I smiled, and then lowered my voice. "I'm really enjoying how close we're becoming. I don't want it to stop even when you're fully healed."
He looked at me for a long moment. "I probably was already healed a few days ago. It was never that serious. I just... wanted your attention."
Heat flooded my face. I stood, walked around the table, and kissed him for the first time - a deep, open-mouthed kiss. He kissed me back like he'd been starving, and our lips and tongues caressed one another's, like no mother's and son's ever should. His kisses tasted like he smelled, tinged with the red wine that had been flowing all evening. I felt dizzy in his embrace.
As we stood up my hands roamed all over his chest and broad shoulders, and then down to his butt. I hooked my fingers into his shorts and pushed them and his underwear down from his waist in one smooth motion. I felt his cock spring between us, moistening my little black dress with his obvious excitement. I took his firm, thick cock in my hand, stroked him, then sank to my knees. I looked up at him as I slowly drew my tongue along his wet tip. I continued running my tongue around the head of his swelling, dripping manhood, and tasted him, tasted his saltiness, his desire for me - and then I took him all the way into my mouth, relaxing my jaw so he could slide against the back of my throat. I started pumping him with my hand straight into my mouth, locking eyes with him. He began to thrust urgently, and I pulled off before he could finish.
"Not yet." I whispered. I had other plans. He let out a hungry moan.
I stood up on my tiptoes and we kissed again, stumbling towards the sofa, and I pushed him down to sit while remaining standing above him. Hitching my dress up to my waist, I slowly pulled my knickers down in front of him while he watched. He looked up at me, pleading for permission with his eyes. I nodded and he reached up, slid his fingers through my wetness, and I groaned at his touch. He curled his fingers inside me and began massaging that tender spot, as if this wasn't the first time he was touching me like this, as if he knew exactly what I liked and wanted. I took his fingers out and tasted myself on him, and then climbed onto his lap, straddling him, and grinding my bare cunt along the length of his shaft.
Looking into his eyes I asked, "Are you sure? We can't turn back."
"We're past that now, don't you think?" he said, smiling. Then he looked at me deadly serious. "I'm falling for you. It's like a drug. I can't stop."
I moaned into his mouth. Taking his cock into my hand, I rose and guided his head to my entrance. Then I pressed him against me, and sank down slowly until he was buried inside me to the hilt, my hips meeting his. "I can't believe how much I've wanted this," I panted through the pleasure of feeling his length fill me completely.
"I've wanted it for years," he whispered.
I kissed him hard, our tongues dancing in each other's mouths. He pulled the top of my dress down and cupped a breast. I pressed his head to me. "I want your mouth on me..." My mind pushed aside the guilt and memories of when I used to nurse him, and embraced the sensations of pure pleasure.
He moaned against my skin and sucked and bit down gently on my nipples. The dual sensation - his cock stretching me, his mouth on my breast - was overwhelming.
I ground hard against his lap, his hips thrusting up to meet me, pushing himself deeper into my pussy, our fluids flowing and melting together. The sounds our bodies were making were obscene as I rode him against the sofa.
"Mum, I'm getting close..." he pleaded.
I knew the risks. I hadn't been on birth control in years. But I could think of nothing else that I desired more in that moment.
"Do it inside of me, baby," I pleaded into his ear as I continued to ride him. "I want to feel you cum deep inside of me."
It broke him. He pulled me down hard and began to groan as thick pulses of his warm seed began flooding me. The feeling of his throbbing cock as he unloaded into me, the feeling of his heat and his wetness melting into my insides, sent me next. I held on tight as I rode him through it, grinding down, climaxing around my own son's cock with the hardest and most intense orgasm of my life.
He continued to hold me as I came down from my waves of ecstasy. We remained locked together afterwards, planting soft kisses on each other's necks and shoulders. His cock stayed buried in me as it softened, his cum beginning to leak out around him. I wished every drop could have stayed inside me.
He looked into my eyes. "I love you, Mum."
"I love you too, baby. I always will." We stayed like that until sleep pulled us under, then shifted onto our sides on the sofa, spooning under a blanket. I could still feel his warm seed between my legs as I drifted off in his arms.
***
That was how it all started this summer. Daniel is fully recovered and back to playing football. He's found a "real job" now as a professional football coach for a mid-sized club, and has saved up some money. But he has no intention of finding his own place, not now. Now we spend every night together, coming home and fucking each other every day after work. He's moved into my bedroom too. Outwardly we're a normal, loving mother and son who live together while he finds his feet. In the home, we are like love-struck teenagers who can't get enough of each other. I'm petrified we'll be caught one day, of course, or that all this will come to an end somehow. But until that day, we are enjoying each other as much as we can.