This is a story of a mother who wants her 22 year old mentally challenged son to fuck her. Another story about tabooed behavior and forbidden lust.

- Main Characters -

Mommy, me
Danny, 22, my mentally challenged son

Important disclaimer:
All characters are over 18 years old. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

As a non-native English speaker (I’m Swedish), please forgive the occasional grammatical error or awkward phrasing.

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional scrape of a fork against a plate. Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting long golden stripes across the faded tabletop. It was our little Saturday tradition: eggs, toast, and whatever was on Danny’s mind.

Danny, my 22-year-old son, sat across from me, hunched slightly over his plate, his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth as he carefully buttered his toast. He always focused so intently on the task, as if spreading jam was a science.

“Not too much this time,” I teased gently, watching the red swirl thicken into a small hill on the toast.

Danny grinned without looking up. “It tastes better when it’s a mountain.”

I chuckled, taking a bite of my food. “Fair enough.”

“How was your week at the centre?” I asked, sipping my coffee.

He stopped mid-chew and looked up at me with that wide-eyed expression he always had when he was thinking hard.

“We did painting. I made a blue horse.”
“A blue horse, huh?”

He nodded proudly, his whole face lighting up. “It looked a little like a dinosaur, though. Miss Clara said it was ... what’s the word ... abstract.”
“Abstract,” I repeated, smiling. “That means it was creative.”
He beamed. “She put it on the wall. Near the fish tank.”
“Nice! That’s a place of honor.”

Danny reached for his orange juice with both hands, careful not to spill. He always took his time, like each movement was part of a slow, deliberate dance. There was no rush in him. Just presence.

“Did anything else happen this week?”
“Ben was sad on Thursday. He didn’t want to do yoga. So I sat with him. I held his hand a little.”

My throat tightened unexpectedly. Danny had always been gentle, even when the world wasn’t. He had a way of offering kindness in its simplest, most honest form.

“That was good of you, honey,” I said softly.

Danny looked down at his plate, then back up at me. “Sometimes when I’m sad, you hold my hand.”

I reached across the table and squeezed his fingers. “Always will.”

For a while, we didn’t speak. We just ate, side by side, in the soft rhythm of a morning that didn’t demand anything from us. The eggs were going cold, the coffee slowly cooling, but none of it mattered.

In that quiet, I realized, this was enough. This simple breakfast, this boy who saw the world with a heart wide open. He didn’t need to be anyone else. And neither did I.

Danny had gone quiet for a bit, his toast untouched, fingers fidgeting with the corner of his napkin. I could tell something was on his mind, that slight furrow in his brow, the way he stared into his juice like it might offer him the words he didn’t quite know how to say.

He glanced up at me, opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“Something you want to ask me, honey?” I said gently, giving him space.
He nodded, eyes darting down again. “It’s about ... girls.”

I set my coffee down slowly. “Alright. What about them?”

“At the centre,” he began cautiously, “Tyler said ... that girls don’t have a penis.” He looked up, cheeks a little red, unsure if he was saying something wrong.

I didn’t laugh. I just nodded. “That’s true. Boys and girls have different bodies.”

Danny took a deep breath, trying to find the next part. “So ... what do they have then? He said they don’t have anything. Just ... smooth.”

I leaned back a little, thinking carefully. “Well, it’s not that they have nothing. Girls just have a different part. It’s called a vagina. It’s not something you see like a penis, but it’s there, and it’s just as important.”

He nodded slowly, absorbing it.

“Why don’t they teach us that?” he asked. “I didn’t know.”
“They should,” I said. “But it’s okay to ask questions. You’re not in trouble for wondering.”

He looked relieved, then nervous again. “And ... is it okay to like someone? I mean ... if I ever do?”
“Danny,” I said, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “It’s more than okay. Liking someone, caring about someone, that’s a beautiful thing. Just remember to be kind. And always make sure they feel safe and comfortable too.”

He smiled a little, like a weight had been lifted. “I just ... didn’t want it to be wrong.”

“It’s not,” I said softly. “Not at all.”

He went back to his eggs, more relaxed now, his earlier awkwardness softened by understanding. And for a while, we ate in silence again, the kind that only happens when something important has been said and heard.
----

We were sitting at the kitchen table, having breakfast together. Danny was quiet for a moment, then his eyes drifted down to my breasts. He looked at me, then glanced at himself, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Mom,” he asked softly, “why are you so big there, and I’m so small?”

I smiled gently and reached out to hold his hand.

“Well, sweetie,” I said, “moms have breasts because they can feed babies when they’re born. That’s why they’re bigger. Your body is different because you’re a boy, and your body will grow in its own way.”

Danny nodded slowly, still curious but seeming satisfied.

“So, it’s to help babies grow?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “It’s one of the ways moms take care of their babies.”
He smiled shyly, then took a bite of his toast.

And I sat there quietly, watching him chew and hum to himself, grateful for the chance to answer the questions he was finally learning how to ask.
----

The next morning, as I poured cereal into our bowls, Danny was quiet. Thoughtful. He’d always been like that when something big was turning around in his head, quiet at first, like he had to line up the words just right before they could come out.

He took a bite, chewed slowly, then looked up at me with those big, open eyes.

“Mom?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Last night, I pee-peed,” he said matter-of-factly. “It came from my penis.”

I nodded, waiting.

“But ... if girls don’t have a penis...” He paused, then furrowed his brow. “How do they pee-pee?”

Ah. There it was, another honest, important question.

I smiled, not laughing at him, just proud. Proud that he was asking. That he trusted me.

“Well,” I said gently, “you’re right. Girls don’t have a penis. But they do have a place to pee from, it’s called the urethra, just like boys have. It’s just in a different spot on their body.”

He blinked, thinking hard. “So ... they can still pee-pee. Just not the same way?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Everyone has to pee, buddy. Our bodies are just made a little differently. But they all work the way they’re supposed to.”

He looked relieved, but still thoughtful. “Okay. That makes sense.”

He went back to his cereal for a moment, then glanced up again.

“But ... do they have something instead of a penis?”

I chuckled softly. “That’s a big question. And yes, girls have different parts down there. And one day, when you’re older or ready, we can talk more about all of that.”

He nodded slowly, as if filing it away for later.

“Okay,” he said. “Thanks for telling me. I didn’t want to ask anyone else.”

And in that moment, I realized just how much trust lived in those questions. How lucky I was to be the one he came to. How love sometimes looks exactly like this: a quiet breakfast, a brave question, and the simple promise that I’ll always be here to help him find the answers.