Paul, my husband, was in the craft room working on the latest stamps for his collection. A dealer had sent some to him on approval for selection or return; the dealer knew what Paul collected and had a copy of his wish list. It meant nothing to me; it kept him happy and oftentimes from under my feet.

It was a Monday; on Mondays I usually went around to Mikhael’s place. Mikhael is our son; he lives in a small podium house near the centre of town, and he is rubbish at keeping the place clean. Downstairs is a living room and kitchen; upstairs is a balcony bedroom and a bathroom with shower, loo and washbasin. I just hope to God that whoever he ends up with is better at housekeeping than he is. So I go round on a Monday whilst he is at work and I clean. I take his laundry, and every other week I change his bed and take his bedding home for washing. Today was bed day; I had his clean laundry in my car ready to utilise after I had cleaned, and I had determined that today I would do a deep clean.

I pulled up into his parking space and headed across to his door, opening it. I then ferried his laundry, bedding and the cleaning materials I would need before I shut his front door again. I looked in the kitchen first, dirty pots and plates and bowls everywhere, simply discarded after use, not even put in the sink. I ran a sink full of hot water, added dish detergent and a little bleach, and then slowly added all the dirty plates and bowls to soak. The pans I filled with hot soapy and bleachy water and left to soak on the side. I would come back to that later.

I went up to his room and pulled the quilt off his bed, ready to strip it and had the shock of my life. Mikhael was lying naked and asleep. I shook him by the shoulder.

“What, what?” he mumbled.

I ignored his indecency and shook him again.

“Mikhael, what are you doing here? You are supposed to be at work. Why are you in bed asleep?”

“What? Mum, what?” “Get up, Mikhael; I need to change your bedding. It’s Monday. Why are you still in bed?”

“Oh fuck, Mum, it’s my day off. I forgot you were coming. Okay, Jeez, give me a minute.”

“Right, I am going down to do the washing up; you can get up and dressed whilst I am gone. Your mother does not need to see your dick; now get lively.”

I turned and left his room and went downstairs and carried on in the kitchen. I washed all his plates and bowls and then drained the sink. I poured the now cool water away that was in his pans and then refilled the sink with hot soapy water and put them into soak again whilst I dried and put away his plates.

Some of the pans needed a real scrub to get them clean; I really wished he would put them into soak when he used them; at least it would make my life easier. As I scrubbed, my mind went back to what I had seen in the bedroom: my son’s dick, my son’s hard dick. Morning glory, I think it is referred to. I had, of course, seen his dick over the years when he lived at home, but never had I seen it hard; it reminded me of his father’s dick, very similar.

Not, sadly, that I had seen much of his father’s dick recently; he seemed to have gone off sex, it had been several weeks since we last shagged, and that wasn’t the event it used to be. No, that had been just a shove in, grunt and roll over, leaving me to have to use my fingers to finish the job. It used to be very different; we would kiss and fondle, his fingers would be in me, mine would be on him, and sex would last over an hour, leaving us both soaking and exhausted and sleeping in each other’s arms.

I shook my head to get rid of the images of Mikhael’s dick and my memories of Paul shagging me enthusiastically. Back to scrubbing the pans until they were clean; that helped exorcise the images of my mind and the feelings in my groin.

Mikhael ambled in, a T-shirt and shorts, tight shorts that didn’t really conceal much; he didn’t seem to have gone down so to speak. Goodness, I needed to concentrate and get those images out of my head.

“Right, Mik, whilst you have your breakfast, I will go up and do your room. There will be a draught, as I need to get your windows open; it is a bit fusty up there.”

“Okay, Mum,” he said as he dragged a bowl from the cupboard, a bowl I had just washed and dried.

I went up to his room and opened his bedroom windows; hopefully some fresh air would help make the room smell a little better. What is it with boys’ rooms? Why do they always have that odd odour? When he lived at home, his room smelt the same. I pulled the pillowcases off the pillows and then the sheet from the bed and wrangled the quilt out of its cover. That pile of dirty bedding went on the landing to wait for me to take home. I stretched his clean bottom sheet over the mattress and clean pillowcase on his pillows, and then the task of getting his quilt into its cover. Always a chore, and no amount of ‘easy’ methods I found online seemed to be easy for me.

Right, bed done. I then started going around his room picking up his dirty clothes, the crusty smelly sock from the side of his bed, boys! The dirty underpants and shirts and some shorts and joggers that needed a clean – probably all needed to go on a boil wash – I certainly didn’t want to handle them any more than I had to. I gathered all the washing and took it downstairs, ready to put in the car. I picked up the bag of his clean laundry and took it up to his room to put away. His drawers were a mess, and as I do every week, I tidied each drawer, folding his cloths and adding the newly laundered clothes. I usually put the clothes that had already been there at the top of the piles in each drawer; that way his clothes would get worn evenly. And then it occurred to me, perhaps that was why his drawers were always a mess; there were only some clothes that he liked to wear, and I always put them at the bottom when I laundered and returned them. I decided that I wouldn’t rearrange his clothes next week; I would just tidy and then add the freshly laundered clothes to the top, and then a week after that I would have an idea.

I needed the loo and so went into his bathroom, pulled my dress up around my waist, my knickers down and sat. Goodness, I hadn’t realised how much I had needed it, and just as I started, Mikhael burst in, and once you start, it is difficult to stop.

“Mikhael! I am on the loo.”

“Gotta go, Mum; can’t hold it.” And he pulled his shorts down and grabbed his dick and just aimed between my legs. I remembered how I used to play with his dad’s dick in our early days, trying to write my name in the snow as I aimed his stream, feeling his wee as it squirted through his dick, but that was years ago; now I was older, and those kinds of things were long behind me.

Mikhael had pulled his foreskin back, and his stream shot out of the end and splashed against me, hitting my nubbin, giving me the same shivers I got when I was in the shower. No, please, no, I didn’t want that, but my body ignored me. My pressures grew, and I was biting my lips, holding the toilet seat and squeezing hard trying to stop the feelings as his stream drove me wilder and hotter, my breath caught in my chest, and I failed. It was all I could do to not scream as an orgasm erupted through me.

I managed to just whimper as my electrics shot through me, my fanny spasming and gasping, the tensions inside causing a little pain as my bladder was still emptying. I gasped; I couldn’t help it and then relaxed back onto the loo seat.

Mikhael’s stream eventually stopped, and he moved his foreskin up and down, getting rid of the last drops. He shook his dick and then pulled his shorts back up and turned to the sink and washed his hands before turning and looking down at my exposed fanny, my dress bunched up about my waist.

“Get out, Mik; that was out of order.”

“I had to go,” he simply said, turned and left the bathroom, door wide open, and I heard him go and rummage in his room. I was gasping still, my chest heaving. The last thing I had expected was to orgasm at my son’s house, and I was almost dying with mortification. How could he do that to me? Was it some game he was playing? Why couldn’t he have waited or even used the hand basin? I could have bleached it clean after, but no, he had to piss between my legs, splashing me, covering me. Apart from the embarrassment, I would now have to wash; his wee had pretty much splashed all over my groin.

I got up and flushed the loo after putting the lid down and put the plug in the sink and filled it with warm water. I undid my dress and pulled my dress off over my head, folding it onto the loo seat so it wouldn’t get wet. I stepped out of my knickers and stood wearing only my bra at the sink and washed. My mind was full of the images of Mikhael’s dick, how hard it had been this morning, how it didn’t look much softer as he peed on me, his hand moving his foreskin up and down to get the last drops, how purple his glans looked and how large his rim was.

My memories of Paul resurfaced, how I would stand behind him in the woods and reach around him to hold his dick as he peed, seeing how high up the tree I could get it to reach. My fanny was feeling sensitive as I washed, my nubbin was throbbing and my breath was still halting. I was furious but also aroused; Mikhael’s dick looked so much like his father’s, and it reminded me so much of what I was missing. I determined to go home and shag Paul stupid, I needed it. Paul would have no chance; I would ride him into the sunset, or at least until the takeaway was delivered.

I dried myself, pulled my knickers up and reached for my dress and caught a glimpse of Mik in the doorway, which, my error, I hadn’t shut. Well, he would only have seen my bum; I was facing away from him, but then he had stared down at my fanny after he had finished earlier. I had nothing to hide, it seemed.

I went back downstairs and tidied his lounge, picking up discarded crisp wrappers and chocolate wrappers and putting them in the kitchen bin, which was, unsurprisingly, overflowing. I took the bin out front and emptied it into his wheelie bin, and then back in the kitchen I added a liner. Why Mikhael could not add a liner was beyond me; it was such a simple thing to do. I cursed him under my breath; I was still a bit mad with him. He had crossed a line. Next I took his laundry out to the car and then came back in and washed my hands.

“Right, Mik, lunch, what have you got in?”

“There’s soup in the cupboard, and I think some bread left, we could have that.”

I looked in the cupboard; yes, a tin of oxtail soup. I took that and poured it into a pan and put it on the hob to heat up. The bread was okay; at least I couldn’t see any mould. I blasted it for twenty seconds in the microwave to freshen it a little. I stirred the soup to stop it catching and tore the bread into chunks and added some butter.

“Lunch,” I called and shared the soup between two bowls and put them on the table, the bread on a single sharing plate between. Spoons from his drawer and all was ready as he ambled into the kitchen and sat at the table.

“Thanks, Mum,” he said as he took a spoonful of oxtail. I sat and took some of my own. It was okay, but I had that underlaying flavour of tin. I preferred fresh soups, but they don’t have the shelf life of tinned soup, which can sit in a cupboard for over a year and still be fine; fresh soup lasts about a week at best.

With the soups finished, I sat and leant back in my chair. I had finished the cleaning, and normally I would have gone home for lunch. Paul would have to cater for himself today; I had sent him a message saying to get his own lunch, as I was delayed.

“You have an absolutely fabulous fanny, Mum.” Mik said out of the blue. I would have spluttered soup all over the place if I hadn’t already finished. “What did you say?” I managed.

“Your fanny, Mum, it looks absolutely fab.”

“You should not be thinking that about me, and you certainly should not be saying it, and you most certainly should not have seen it.”

“But I did see it, and I can’t stop thinking about it. I love how you have shaved your hairs so I can see your fanny properly,” he went on, making me surely go redder in the face.

“I love how your inner bits stick out and how plump and fat your fanny flaps are; it is so, so sexy, Mum.”

“You absolutely should not be seeing my fanny as sexy; it is not for you.” I was struggling with what to say.

“It makes me so hard just thinking about it, Mum. I just want it to surround my dick, to feel your fanny around me, your heat on my dick. Are you wet, Mum? Are you, because I am so hard just now.”

“Mikhael, just stop it. You should not be thinking such things. I am your mother, not your sex toy. Find yourself a girlfriend, and stop thinking about me.”

“I had a girl on Saturday, Mum; she was just so ordinary, her fanny was tiny, with no bits showing. When I woke up yesterday morning, I could hardly remember anything about her; she was an unremarkable fuck.”

“Mikhael, that is a disgusting thing to say.”

“But it’s true, Mum, all I can think of is your fanny, how it looks, and how it would feel with my dick hard inside you. I bet your fanny would grip me hard as if I were fucking your arse. God, Mum, and your arse, I so need to fuck that too, to make you gape, to make my spunk drip from you, to make you scream your orgasm, not a muted whimper like earlier.”

He had realised then, and I had hoped I had hidden it from him. I knew his language was crude, but as I moved in the seat, I could tell he was having an effect; my lips slid easily across each other, and I was wet. Blast him.

“Stop it Mikhael, it is inappropriate,” I said. He simply stood up, a huge bulge pushing his shorts forward, no doubting his arousal, his totally inappropriate arousal. I stood; I was going to leave. He could wank into his sock; I was going home.

He took my arm and pushed me through to his stairs and pressed my back to make me go up. “Upstairs, Mum, I need you.”

I knew I should have protested; I knew I should have pushed past him and just gone home, but my legs climbed his stairs and I was in his bedroom. I felt his hands on my back, and he unzipped my dress and then unclipped my bra. A shiver went down my body, and it wasn’t the draught from his window.

He pulled my dress down and pushed my bra off, my boobs sagging. I am no longer a spring chicken, they sag. He turned me round and stared at my nipples, a smile on his face as he pushed me backwards. I fell onto his bed, and he gripped my knickers at the waistband and pulled them down. I was totally naked, lying on his bed, totally unable to respond. He pulled his T-shirt off and then pushed his shorts down, his dick spring forward, pointing up, hard and ready.

He pushed my shoulders back onto the bed, and his head buried itself between my legs, and his tongue pushed between my petals; the feeling of them sliding across his rough tongue was erotic and reminded me of times long ago. I gasped as his tongue briefly found my nubbin, and I gasped again as his fingers pressed at my entrance and went through my opening, fingering me, fingering me like a boyfriend when I was in my teens – such an old sensation.