The party had started innocent enough, the way those company things always do. Halcyon Media’s annual “off-site” was just an excuse for the creatives to drink on the company dime and for the account people to pretend they weren’t staring at each other’s bodies. Mom had been the one who signed the check for the beach house rental. She always was. Lena Voss, forty-two, head of brand, the woman half the office called a goddess when they thought she couldn’t hear. Long dark hair, the kind of body that made twenty-two-year-old interns forget how to speak, and a laugh that still made my stomach drop even though I was her son.
I was twenty-four. I had been working under her for three months. Every day I watched her walk past my desk in those tight skirts and told myself I was a piece of shit for noticing the way the fabric pulled across her ass. Forbidden didn’t cover it. She had carried me. She had raised me. And I still got hard when she leaned over my shoulder to look at a storyboard.
The beach was already packed when we arrived. Tiki torches, a DJ who didn’t know when to quit, and a cluster of hot chicks from the creative floor in bikinis that were basically strings. Jessica — the new copywriter everyone privately called the company slut — was already on her third drink and grinding on some guy from sales. Mom wore a white linen cover-up over a black bikini that looked illegal. When the wind caught the hem I got a clean upskirt: high-cut bottoms, the smooth underside of her ass, the faint line where the fabric disappeared between her cheeks. I looked away too late. She caught me.
“Eyes forward, baby,” she said, handing me a beer. Her voice was light. Her eyes weren’t.
We drank. We played volleyball. Mom jumped for a ball and her tits bounced in a way that made three different guys miss their next hit. I sat on a cooler and tried to hide the fact that my cock was already half-hard in the swim trunks. Massive wasn’t a humble word, but it was accurate. I had been that way since I was nineteen. Mom had seen it plenty of times growing up — mornings, after showers, that one summer she walked in without knocking. She never said anything. She just looked a second too long and then left the room.
The storm came out of nowhere. One minute the sky was gold, the next it was the color of a bruise and the wind was tearing the umbrellas out of the sand. Most of the company made the vans. We didn’t. Mom’s car had a flat and the spare was missing. By the time we realized it, the last van was gone and the tide was already licking the dunes. Stranded. Just the two of us, a cooler of warm beer, and a cousin’s rental cottage three dunes over that someone had left unlocked.
The cottage was small. One bedroom, one sagging couch, a bathroom that smelled like mildew and old sunscreen. Rain hammered the roof like it wanted in. Mom locked the door, peeled the wet cover-up off, and stood there in the black bikini like it was nothing. Water ran down her stomach and disappeared into the bottoms.
“I’m going to rinse off,” she said. “You can take the couch.”
I heard the shower start. I sat on the couch and stared at the wall and thought about every line I was not supposed to cross. When she came out she was wearing one of my old t-shirts and nothing else. The shirt hit mid-thigh. When she reached up to towel her hair I got another upskirt — bare pussy, no underwear, a neat dark strip of hair. She caught me looking and didn’t close her legs.
“You’re not subtle, sweetheart.”
“Neither are you.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. The cottage was so small the bed and the couch were six feet apart. Rain still coming down hard. She looked at me for a long time.
“This is a bad idea,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’m your mother.”
“I know that too.”
She patted the mattress. I stood up. The t-shirt rode up when she lay back. I put my hands on her knees and spread them. She was already wet. I licked her slowly, tasting salt and her, while she made the sounds I used to hear through the wall when I was sixteen and pretended I didn’t. When I pushed two fingers inside her she clenched and whispered, “Fuck, that’s it. Right there.”
I stood, shoved the trunks down. My cock sprang out — thick, veined, heavy. She stared at it the way she used to stare when I was younger and she thought I wasn’t paying attention.
“Jesus, baby. When did you get this big?”
I didn’t answer. I just fed it into her mouth. She sucked cock like she’d been waiting years to do it — slow, wet, taking me as deep as she could, gagging a little when I hit the back of her throat. Spit ran down her chin and onto her tits. She looked up at me with those dark eyes and I almost came right there.
I pulled out, flipped her onto her stomach, yanked the t-shirt up over her ass. She reached back and spread herself open. I spat on her hole, rubbed the head of my cock against it, and pushed. She was tight. The first inch made her gasp. The second made her swear under her breath. I went slow because I didn’t want to hurt her, even though part of me wanted to ruin her. When I was finally buried in her ass she was shaking.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “Fuck your mother’s ass.”
I did. Long strokes at first, then harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the little cottage. She pushed back to meet every thrust. I reached under her and rubbed her clit and she came with my cock in her ass, pulsing around me, saying my name like a prayer. I lasted another minute and then I pulled out, flipped her onto her back, and shoved into her pussy. She was soaked. I fucked her until I couldn’t hold it and then I came inside her, flooding her, watching it leak out around my cock when I finally pulled out.
We lay there breathing. Rain still coming down. She traced a finger through the mess on her thigh and brought it to her mouth.
“Company slut,” she said quietly, almost laughing. “Guess that’s me now.”
I kissed her. She kissed back.
Later she fell asleep on her stomach, one leg bent, ass still faintly red from my hands. I watched her for a long time. Mom sleeping. The most forbidden thing in the world, and I already wanted her again. I slid down the bed, spread her cheeks, and licked her until she woke up moaning. Then I fucked her ass a second time, slower, deeper, while she reached back and held herself open for me. When I came I stayed inside her, pulsing, and she whispered that she could feel it.
The storm lasted two more days. We used the time. She sucked my cock in the tiny shower, on her knees on the wet tile, looking up at me with water running down her face. I bent her over the kitchen counter and came in her pussy again while she told me how long she’d wanted this — since I was twenty, since that summer I came home from college and she saw me hard in the hallway and didn’t look away. At night she rode me, goddess in the dark, hair falling around us, taking every inch like she’d been built for it. Sometimes she made me wait until she was almost asleep and then I’d slip into her anyway, slow and quiet, and she’d wake up already full of me, whispering “good boy” like it was the filthiest thing she could say.
On the last morning the roads were clear. We packed in silence. She put the bikini back on under a sundress. When she bent to pick up her bag I got one last upskirt — no panties, my cum still drying on her thighs.
In the car she put her hand on my cock through my shorts and didn’t take it away until we hit the highway.
“This stays between us,” she said.
“Yeah.”
She squeezed. “Good boy.”
I drove. She looked out the window like nothing had happened. But every few miles she’d shift in her seat and I knew she was still feeling me. Forbidden. Hot. Ours.
The office the next week felt like a joke. Jessica was there in a tight dress, laughing too loud, playing the company slut for anyone who would look. Mom wore a blouse that buttoned almost to the throat and smiled at me across the conference table like I was just her son. After the meeting she texted me one word: Cottage.
I went.
We didn’t last the weekend this time. We barely lasted the night. She wanted it in the ass again, wanted me to talk while I did it, wanted to hear how I’d watched her at the beach party and thought about bending her over the cooler in front of all those hot chicks. I gave her that. I gave her everything. When I came I stayed buried and she reached back, touched where we were joined, and said, “That’s my boy.”
The storm had stranded us. We just never quite made it back.
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