Chapter 1

Alice Sanders surveyed the wreckage of her son’s room, a daily ritual of disgust. Each day, stepping into that fetid space, was a descent into the lower circles of domestic hell. Soiled laundry, a tapestry of teenage grime, was strewn across the floor, the bed, even a solitary, mud-caked sock dangling from the lampshade like a perverse trophy. The bed, a battlefield of crumpled sheets, remained unmade, a testament to the chaos within. She sighed, a weary exhalation, and set to the Sisyphean task of restoring order to this den of youthful debauchery.

The young man’s mother, a woman with the sturdy build of a peasant and the smoldering eyes of a frustrated lover, began gathering the laundry, her hands moving with a practiced, almost violent efficiency. Two overflowing laundry baskets, brimming with the pungent aroma of her son’s sweat and burgeoning sexuality, were hauled down to the laundry room and unceremoniously dumped onto the folding table. While sorting the fetid pile, a flash of purple caught her eye. Her son, she knew, possessed no such garment. Pulling the offending item from the heap, she recognized it as a pair of her own panties. And then, the shock: a constellation of white, crusty stains, a testament to some unseen, nocturnal ritual. Spreading the panties out, she saw the stains were concentrated in the crotch, where the material intimately cradled her own pussy. Her son, her Stan, whom she loved with a primal, almost feral intensity, had been using her undergarments for his own sordid gratification. She could almost see it, the image burned into her mind’s eye: Stan, eyes glazed with lust, holding her panties, a powerful, forbidden symbol of her own womanhood.

The stain was thick, a viscous testament to his youthful virility, spread across the panty gusset. Her son had unloaded a monumental load into her underwear. What dark, forbidden thoughts had fueled this act? It was obvious, painfully so, that he was thinking of her in a way that would make a priest blush. He was conjuring images of her naked body, her ample breasts, her broad hips, the dark, mysterious vulva between her legs. He was thinking dirty, delicious thoughts, thoughts that sent a shiver down her spine. The image of Stan, his cock throbbing, his hand stroking it with a feverish intensity, refused to leave her mind.

Then, she picked up a pair of Stan’s white boxers, the fabric strangely familiar against her fingertips. Inside, she found a copious amount of dried semen, a sticky, tangible reminder of his burgeoning sexuality. She quickly found another pair, and then another, each bearing identical stains, large, concentrated deposits of his seed. The sheer volume of semen was staggering, far surpassing anything her husband had ever produced. The thought, he must have massive balls, a veritable sack of virility, to contain such a quantity, sent a jolt of arousal through her. She imagined his large, hanging ball sac, a vision that both thrilled and disturbed her. She wished he had left his boxers off after her shower, the visual would have been amazing. At her slightest movement, she felt her pussy lips sticking together, slick with her own burgeoning arousal.

Trying to suppress the rising tide of her desire, she gathered the laundry and shoved the garments into the washing machine. She started the cycle and returned to her son’s room, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.