I was still crying when I heard my son’s key in the lock. I knew that I shouldn’t have had that glass of wine when I got home, but I’d had a shitty day, and I just couldn’t resist it. My manager, Brian, at the restaurant had groped my ass again, reminding me of two things: firstly, what a disgusting old pig he was, but secondly, because even the touch of his stumpy, greasy fingers had made my clit tingle, how horribly lonely and frustrated I’d become since Clive had run off with that fucking hairdresser nearly two years before.

Apparently, along with a significant percentage of women, I’d never really gotten on with masturbation. I suspect it had to do with my upbringing; both of my parents were pretty uptight. It wasn’t that they outright told me not to touch myself when I was younger, but their oblique comments made it clear that it was something to be ashamed of. Not that I hadn’t tried - and maybe it was just that I was no good at it - but it just never seemed to happen for me, always leaving me even more frustrated than when I’d started.

‘Get a grip, Susan!’ I admonished myself harshly, hurriedly wiping my eyes and blowing my nose, hoping that Joshua wouldn’t notice, but he did, of course. My seventeen-year-old boy was the one really good thing in my life, and I was very proud of him; justifiably so, according to most who knew him.

“Hey, Josh,” I said to him as brightly as I could manage when he came into the lounge.

“Hey, Mom,” he replied, and then added, “What’s wrong?” as he saw my face. My bravery collapsed at the sight of his concern, the sobbing coming back even stronger if anything.

He rushed over and sat down next to me, putting his arm around my shoulders and drawing my head down to his chest. The floodgates opened then, great heaving sobs that left his shirt soaked with my tears and snot. It felt so good to be held in the strong arms of a man again, and he tenderly stroked my upper arm and my back as he let me cry myself out.

When my weeping had finally pretty much died away, I raised my head and looked up at him, chuckling in embarrassment, knowing what a state I was in. “Sorry,” I said, both for my behaviour and for the state of his T-shirt.

I began to say that I’d just had a bad day, and possibly admit my loneliness, when I glanced down at my chest and saw my fully erect nipples and bright red chest. With something approaching horror, I stopped ignoring the mad tingling in my clit. Then I saw something else that made an already impossible situation even worse: my son was sporting an erection as well!

“It’s nothing, Joshy. Really,” I said in a panic as I urged him to get up. “Just Mommy being silly.” Oh, God - with him standing, his boner was quite literally staring me in the face! Was it wrong for me to stare in admiration at its size and shape, so clearly visible through the material of his pants? Of course it was! “Go and do your homework now. There’s a good boy.” There was a tremor in my voice, and it took all of my self-control not to nibble on my lower lip as I spoke directly to his penis.

“OK, Mom. If you say so,” he said, gently stroking my cheek before picking up his bag and heading off upstairs.

I sat there, trembling, trying desperately to ignore my clit and my nipples, both crying out to be touched, to be loved. It was bad. It was very, very bad.

It must never happen again, I told myself as I went to make dinner.

That night, I stood in front of my full-length mirror and tried to imagine what my barely seventeen-year-old son had gotten so excited about. I was dressed in a simple white blouse and a mid-thigh length skirt that pervy Brian insisted that we wear. In fact, he was constantly badgering us to wear shorter skirts, but we stuck together and pushed back against dressing like hookers.

Possibly, I didn’t look all of my mid to late thirties, but he was a good-looking lad, and I knew for a fact that the girls at his school showed a lot more skin than I ever did. And they were prettier ... and firmer. Not that I was bad looking: my pale complexion and button nose were still pretty cute, as were my pale blue eyes. My red hair was in soft rivulets, framing my face; it was easy to live with and hid my slightly sticky-out ears.

Then I did something that I hadn’t done in a long time: I got undressed as I stood in the mirror.

I felt vaguely foolish looking at my naked body, trying to be objective about it. I’d cursed my B-cup boobs when I was younger, wanting bigger ones like some of my friends. But now, as I cupped them in my hands and fondly stroked my nipples, I was grateful that their size had made them largely resistant to the ravages of gravity. Similarly with my ass, I realized, turning this way and that, trying to spot any cellulite. Possibly a few little dimples, but not too bad for an old broad. I ran my fingers through my neatly-trimmed pubes, wondering why I kept them that way, since no one ever saw them. But I hated having a big, fluffy bush, bursting out of the sides of my panties. When my fingers came close to my lips, the need I’d felt so badly earlier on began to re-surface, and I was tempted for a moment to go further. I looked myself in the eyes, ‘Let’s not go there again, Susan,’ I told myself firmly.

Maybe my friend Toni was right. Maybe I did need to get laid.

It was three days later that I was at the stove stirring a pot, daydreaming, I suppose.

“I said, what’s wrong with your neck?” Josh asked from his position at the table, I guessed not for the first time.

I realized that I’d been absentmindedly rubbing at it, trying to ease a crick that I’d been struggling with for most of the afternoon. “Oh, it’s nothing,” I told him.

“Here, let me,” I heard from very close behind me, then let out an involuntary sigh as I felt his fingers begin to expertly ease the knots that I hadn’t quite been able to reach.

“Oh, that’s nice,” I told him, letting my shoulders slump into his blissful touches. It was quite, quite lovely, and he seemed happy to dig and squeeze and caress my aching neck and shoulders for ages, until finally the pot began to boil over.

“Thank you so much,” I said, turning off the ring and beginning to turn around to give him a little hug. I stopped halfway because my right butt cheek had bumped into something. Something hard. Something poking out of his groin. I actually had to grab the edges of the stove to hold myself up: the surge of arousal that swept through me at the mere touch of my son’s erection on my bottom had turned my legs to jelly.

“Are you OK?” he asked, taking me by the shoulders and leading me over to a chair. As he sat me down, I was once again face-to-face with the knowledge that my son was every bit as turned on as I was.

“Sorry,” I said, distractedly, unable to tear my eyes away. “I-I-I just had a bit of a funny turn.”

He dropped to his haunches, taking my hands in his and looking into my eyes. His evident concern nearly made me start blubbing again. “You work too hard, Mom,” he admonished me. “What can I do to help? I’ll tidy my room,” he added. “I know I’m supposed to do it anyway, but I will, I promise. And do the laundry ... and the washing up--” I forestalled any further rash promises by trying to pull him into a hug, but it wasn’t possible with him squatting the way he was, so he stood up, and we put our arms around each other.

“Thank you,” I whispered as we leaned into that embrace. I couldn’t actually remember the last time we’d hugged each other that way, and it felt so, so good. Then I opened my eyes and there, literally an inch from my lips, was the tip of his hard cock. There was nothing I could do about the watering of my mouth ... or the moistening of my vagina. I know that I should have moved. I absolutely knew that I should. What I wanted to do, though, was to plant a tiny kiss on it. To pull his zipper down and free what looked like a beautifully sized penis. To throw myself onto the table-- “Dinner,” I said firmly, patting him on his butt. His very firm and tight-- “I really must finish dinner now, Josh.”

Even though I don’t like masturbation, I wasn’t strong enough not to lean forward and press my aching and tingling clit against the corner of the stove. I didn’t dare do it again, though: I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop, and the last thing I needed was for my son to find me curled up on the floor, quivering and shaking as an orgasm tore through me.

“How’s the neck, Mom?” Josh asked, surprising me as I worked at the computer.

“Oh, hi. I didn’t hear you come in,” I replied, as he put his hands on my shoulders and gave the muscles at the base of my neck a little squeeze. “And much better, thanks.”

His fingers moved lower, down between my shoulder blades. I couldn’t help the groan of relief that escaped my lips. “It’s your back too, isn’t it?”