It's amazing how much more beautiful the world looks when you're not hiding from your own mother. The kitchen is flooded with afternoon sunlight, turning Mom's white hair into a silver halo as she sits across from me at the table.
"This is nice," I say, pushing the plate of sandwiches I made closer to her side of the table. Turkey and Swiss on sourdough, her favorite.
Mom smiles, those blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes my chest feel warm. She's wearing a simple white sundress today, nothing provocative, nothing designed to make me uncomfortable. Just Mom being Mom.
"It is nice," she agrees, taking a sandwich.
I nod, biting into my own sandwich. The normalcy feels fragile, like blown glass I'm afraid to touch too roughly. Last night's drinking session somehow reset things between us, brought us back to safer ground. I don't remember much after the third glass of tequila, but whatever happened, it seems to have satisfied something in her. The predatory edge that's been haunting her gaze has softened.
"So," she says, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin, "how's that writing assignment I gave you going?"
I shrug, reaching for my glass of lemonade. "I'm not worried, honestly."
"Why not?" She asks with a look of surprise in her eyes.
"Because... I have a lot of experience... thinking about the topic," I admit, my voice dropping lower despite us being alone in the house.
Mom's eyebrow arches delicately. "Oh? You have ideas?"
Something about our current level of honesty and the momentary peace between us, makes me decide to be brutally honest. I set down my sandwich, meeting her eyes directly.
"Mom, I've thought about folding you over this table so many times in my life I think I could do it with my eyes closed."
The words hang in the air between us. Mom's cheeks flush pink, but her eyes darken with unmistakable hunger, pupils dilating as she processes what I've just said.
"Well," she says, voice husky as she runs her finger along the edge of her plate, "if you need me to help you with a practical example of that... I'm around."
My phone buzzes in my pocket before I can respond, breaking the electric tension. I pull it out, glancing at the screen.
"Who's that?" Mom asks, taking another bite of her sandwich, eyes never leaving my face.
"Sabrina," I say lazily, unlocking my phone to read the full message.
Do you want to come over and watch Netflix with me? Roommates are gone for the weekend 😊
I stare at the text, feeling the weight of Mom's gaze on me. The invitation is clear enough, Netflix and chill with my actual girlfriend, alone in her dorm room. No roommates. Just us.
"What does she want?" Mom's voice has an edge to it now, that dangerous undercurrent returning.
I look up from my phone, caught between two worlds. The forbidden promise of Mom's offer and the normal, healthy relationship waiting for me in Sabrina's dorm room.
"She wants me to come over and watch Netflix," I say, deliberately vague.
Mom sets down her sandwich, all pretense of casual conversation vanishing. "And will you go?"
"Yeah, she's my girlfriend." The words come out more defensive than I intend, my shoulders tensing as I watch Mom's expression harden. "I'd like to spend time with her."
Mom's fingers tighten around her glass, knuckles whitening as she forces a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Of course. That's what boyfriends do, isn't they? Run when called."
I pocket my phone, appetite suddenly gone. "It's not like that. We're just watching movies."
"Just movies?" Mom laughs, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. "Gabriel, darling, we both know what 'Netflix and chill' means these days."
Heat crawls up my neck. "Mom…"
"Are you sleeping with her?" The question slices through the air between us, all pretense of our peaceful lunch shattered.
"For God's sake, Mom," I say, running my hand through my hair in frustration. "Sabrina and I have barely been together a week. We've shared a few kisses, that's it." I look away, uncomfortable with her interrogation. "It's all still new between us."
Mom's expression shifts, the hard edges softening slightly as she processes this information. She takes a slow sip of her lemonade, studying me over the rim of her glass.
"Just kisses?" she asks, her voice lighter now, almost relieved.
"Yes," I confirm, meeting her gaze again. "I'm not... I haven't been with anyone else since..." The words hang unspoken between us, but we both know what I mean. Since the frat party. Since her.
Her lips curve into a small, satisfied smile as she sets down her glass. "I see."
The tension in the room shifts, transforming into something more complicated than simple jealousy. Mom picks up her sandwich again, taking a delicate bite as though we're just having a normal conversation.
"But if you are going to her room..." Mom says, setting her sandwich down again, her expression shifting to something calculating. "I do wonder if you're prepared for what might happen."
"What do you mean?" I ask, already sensing the conversation veering into dangerous territory.
She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on her interlaced fingers. "Are you worried about lasting, Gabriel? Between the hand jobs and the frat party, I don't think you've made it more than twenty strokes for me."
A cold wave of dread washes over me, starting at the base of my skull and flooding downward. My mouth goes dry as cotton, the sandwich turning to ash on my tongue. She's right. Every sexual encounter I've had, all with her, has ended embarrassingly quickly.
"I..." My voice cracks pathetically. "That's not…"
"Not what? True?" Mom's smile is gentle, but her eyes gleam with triumph. "You came the moment you were inside me at that party. And in my hand? Seven strokes, if I recall correctly."
"Fuck."
"You're worried she'll think you're inadequate," Mom continues, her voice softening with false sympathy. "That she'll laugh at you when you finish before she's even warmed up."
My stomach twists with anxiety. The worst part is she's absolutely right. The thought of embarrassing myself with Sabrina, of seeing disappointment replace desire in those green eyes, makes me want to cancel immediately.
"I could help you practice," Mom offers, her voice a silky purr as she reaches across the table to touch my hand. "Teach you how to control yourself. How to please a woman properly."
I stare at her hand on mine, my pulse racing as I consider her offer. The smart thing would be to leave now, go to Sabrina's, stumble through whatever happens naturally. But Mom's words have planted a seed of doubt that's rapidly growing into full-blown panic.
"How..." I swallow hard, meeting her eyes. "How would you teach me?"
Mom's smile spreads slowly across her face, transforming her features into something radiant and victorious. Without a word, she rises from her chair, her movements deliberate and hypnotic. Her fingers find the hem of her sundress, and in one fluid motion, she pulls it upward, bunching the fabric around her waist.
She isn't wearing underwear. Of course, she isn't.
My breath catches in my throat as I stare at her exposed core. She's completely hairless, her folds glistening with unmistakable arousal. The afternoon sunlight streaming through the kitchen window illuminates every perfect detail, pink, wet, and practically begging to be tasted.
"Lesson one," she purrs, leaning back against the edge of the table. "Learning to pleasure a woman with your mouth until she begs you to fuck her."
I can't tear my eyes away. My face burns hot enough to melt steel, but I keep staring, breathing heavily through parted lips. Something primal stirs in me, a hunger that transcends shame or morality. In this moment, with perfect clarity, I realize there's nothing in this world I want more than to bury my face between her thighs.
I would cross oceans, climb mountains, conquer empires just to taste her.
"Come here," Mom whispers, spreading her legs wider, offering herself to me with shameless confidence.
Time stands still as I remain frozen in my chair, unable to look away from the most beautiful sight I've ever witnessed. My mouth waters like I'm starving, and in a way, I am starving for something I shouldn't want but desperately crave.
"Gabriel," she whispers, her voice a siren call. "Don't you want to taste me?"
The question snaps something inside me. I push my chair back with a screech against the tile floor and stand up. My hands are trembling, and my erection strains painfully against my jeans. I close my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose as I fight for control.
"I can't," I say, my voice barely audible. "We can't keep doing this."
When I open my eyes again, I see confusion flash across Mom's face, quickly replaced by disbelief.
"You're choosing her over me? Are you fucking kidding me?" Her voice cracks slightly, hands still holding her dress bunched at her waist.
I step forward, but not toward what she's offering. Instead, I lean in and press a chaste kiss against her cheek. The scent of her perfume fills my senses, almost breaking my resolve.
"I love you, Mom," I whisper against her skin. "And... thank you for wanting to help me. But I need to figure this out with Sabrina on my own."
She remains perfectly still as I pull away, her blue eyes wide with shock. For once, she seems genuinely surprised, caught off-guard by my refusal.
"You'll regret this," she says softly, finally letting her dress fall back into place. "When you embarrass yourself with that girl..."
"Maybe," I concede, already backing toward the door. "But it's my mistake to make."
I grab my keys from the counter, keeping my eyes fixed on her face rather than letting them wander down to where she was exposed moments ago. The memory is already seared into my brain anyway. I'll probably see it every time I close my eyes for weeks.
"I'll be back later," I add, my hand on the doorknob.
As I turn the knob, I hear Mom's voice behind me, suddenly softer, almost vulnerable.
"I love you, Gabriel."
I look back to see her expression has shifted, annoyance mixed with genuine concern. The predatory gleam is gone, replaced by something that reminds me of when I was younger.
"Please be safe and try to be home before midnight," she continues, adjusting her dress self-consciously. "I don't want you anywhere near drunk drivers."
The earnestness in her voice catches me off guard. For a moment, she's just my mom again, worried about her son.
"You got it, Mom."