It was laundry day. That meant I had to steel myself and brave our nineteen-year-old son’s bedroom. I know that I should just tell him to strip his bed and put the bedding on the landing. I know that, but if you knew Mikhael, then you would know that it would never happen. He is not lazy; no, he is simply indifferent.

If I gave him clean bedding, it would just sit wherever I left it. It would never get put on the bed. Not unless I did it, and today was the day that I had to do it. I opened his bedroom door, rushed straight to the window, and opened it as wide as possible. I don’t know what it was; there was always an aroma in his room. An aroma that caught the back of my throat; perhaps I should wear a face mask in his room. We have a pile from the COVID days somewhere.

I pulled his quilt off the bed and threw it onto the landing. His two pillows were next, and then his bottom sheet. As I pulled his fitted sheet off, a pair of knickers flew out from the back of the bed. A pair of my knickers, which I had put in the laundry yesterday, flew out. I picked them up and immediately wished I hadn’t; they were sticky. Oh, Mik, really? It was bad enough that his bedding was crusty, but my knickers too?

My knickers weren’t crusty yet; they were still sticky, indicating that they had a fresh load of his spunk from this morning. At least they would be easier to wash than if they had already crusted over. I took them into the bathroom and filled the handbasin with warm water and dropped them in. I would deal with them later; for now, they could marinate in soapy water.

I dragged his bedding into the kitchen, where I had more room; quilt wrangling in his small bedroom wasn’t easy on my back. I pulled the cover off the quilt and put it into the washing machine. I added his pillowcases and bed sheet, threw in some laundry detergent sheets and set it to a sixty-degree wash. I looked closely at his quilt; it really needed a wash too. It had an ‘aroma’.

I would go to Dunelm Mill later and get him a new all-season quilt; a spare wouldn’t go amiss. He would get the new quilt for tonight; this one would go in the wash. I resolved to swap and launder his quilt at least once a month. I shivered at the reality of what was in my hands. God, I have no problem with my husband, Paul, and his emissions, but I do have a problem with my son’s emissions. No, that was a gloop too far.

I went back up to his room; it needed a tidy and a vacuum. I picked up everything I could off his floor. All the discarded clothing went into the laundry; that would just get mixed in with the regular wash. The various books and magazines went on the side stand, and the few discarded tissues were carefully picked up and put in his wastebasket. I would empty that later.

I vacuumed his floor and then did it again, smiling at the thought that I ought to be wearing a biohazard suit in his bedroom. I left his window open and his bedroom door; hopefully the through draught would clear the air. In my bedroom I put a jumper on over my blouse and headed downstairs.

Dunelm was quiet; they already had their Christmas stock on display, reminding me that I ought to get ours down from the loft. Paul would go and buy a real tree, and we would spend a joyful few hours decorating and making our home all festive. The new decorations in Dunelm didn't distract me; my primary purpose was to purchase a quilt. I compared all the various quilts and decided on a duck down all-seasons quilt that was, fortunately, on clearance. I grabbed another bedding set too, simple white, and I decided to replace his pillows too. I couldn’t remember how long ago we had bought him pillows; it was certainly a few years.

At home, I unpacked my purchases in the kitchen and arranged his new quilt with the new bedding, deciding that it didn’t need a wash since it was much more sanitary than what I had removed. Put his new pillows in their new cases and bundled the whole lot up to his bedroom.

Finally, with the bed made, his room looked and smelt decent. On his pillow, I placed a sock with a Post-it note. ‘Use me; I am easier to launder than the bedding. xMum’. I smiled, and I don’t know what came over me; I felt naughty. I mean, naughty. I put my hands up my skirt and pulled my knickers down and off. I put them under his pillow with another sock.

I was chuckling at my unacceptable behaviour as I went downstairs. It is general refuse bin day tomorrow; I went and stuffed his two old pillows in the wheelie bin. They were beyond washing. Time for lunch. As I pulled the wheelie bin out to the front, preparing for the morning collection—when the bin men usually come around 0700—I noticed Jim from next door pulling his bin through as well.

“Morning, Mica,” he said as we trundled our bins to the kerbside.

“Oh, hi Jim, How are you doing?”

“Great, you know it has been weeks since we caught up.”

“I know, time just flies. Come around for a coffee, why don’t you?”

“Now? Okay, let me go and wash my hands, and I’ll come around.”

“Great, I’ll leave the door open; just come in.”

I went back in, washed my hands – Lord only knows what germs lurked on the wheelie bins – and then put the kettle on.

“Yoohoo, only me,” Jim called as he stepped in and shut the front door behind him.

Jim, I knew, had his coffee white, but not with too much milk. I put the coffee in the mugs, added water, and then topped them with milk.

“Sorry, fresh out of biscuits,” I said, passing him his coffee. “Let’s sit in the lounge.”

I led the way; although Jim’s house was the mirror image of ours, he knew the way. Jim sat on the single armchair, and I sat on the sofa opposite.

“How’s tricks?” Jim asked.

“Good. I just went to Dunelm to get some new bedding for Mik’s bed. God, it was gross.”

“Teenage boys,” I said, laughing.

“Well, I was a teenage boy once,” he said, his eyes seemingly focused on my knees, “and I guess he is the same as I would have been if my mum had been like you.”

I didn’t quite know how to take that, so I ignored it.

“I have put a sock on his pillow with a note saying to use it. Hopefully he will get the message; socks are easier to wash than a whole set of bedding.”

“Ah, yes, you know, when I was a teenage boy, I never even thought about the bedding.”

“No, Jim, and neither does Mik.”

“Hopefully he will get a girlfriend, and she will have a ready-made receptacle.” 

I laughed, rocking back and forth in my chair. “A choice of receptacles,” I added between my tears of laughter.

“How is Paul?” Jim asked.

“He has a big project on at the moment; I hardly ever see him, out before 7 and then not back until after 7.”

“I bet he is too worn out when he gets home.”

I just smiled. That had been a bit of an issue of late; my fanny was feeling neglected.

“What about Jill?” Jill is Jim’s wife; she is a nurse and works at the Royal Infirmary.

“I hardly see her. She is on 1-hour shifts and is picking up extra shifts, so she works six days or nights, and then on her day off, she pretty much sleeps.”

“Oh well, it appears that we are both work widows now,” I said, “and I hope this is just a temporary situation.”

“To be honest, and between us, I am not sure how long I can cope without, you know, the usual benefits of marriage.”

I waved my hand in the air, the traditional wanky-wanky, and smiled. “Self-service it is then, as I know only too well.”

He laughed. “Sometimes I use my other hand,” he said, “you know, as if I am having an affair.”

I just looked at him and grinned.

“Well, thanks for the coffee,” he said, and as he stood up, “the view was lovely too.”

What? Then I remembered. I had taken my knickers off and left them for Mik. Jim would have caught an eyeful. “An appetiser, perhaps,” I said.

“For another time,” Jim said as he left.

In years gone by, I would have been mortified by flashing my fanny at a neighbour, but not these days. Half the population had a fanny; he would probably see Jill’s most days. It wasn’t as if he were up close and personal. My mind wandered, and I began to imagine shagging Jim.

“Worse things happen at sea,” I said to the empty room.

Mik came home around five. Paul would be at least another couple of hours. I served up dinner for us all, but Paul’s went into the microwave for later heating. Mik went upstairs to change out of his work clothes and to have a wash. When he came down, he didn’t mention his room, not a thank you, nothing. God, kids.

After tea we went and sat in the lounge to watch some TV, Mik next to me on the sofa. Before I turned on the TV. I could see Mik and me reflected in the dark screen. I hoped Mik hadn’t seen it; my lack of knickers was a bit obvious. But perhaps it was only obvious because I knew I was flying free in the crotch department.

We were still watching TV when Paul got in, around seven thirty. I got up and went into the kitchen to heat his meal, Paul washing his hands in the downstairs loo. He came in and gave me a hug and a kiss.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said as he sat before his tea. I sat with him to keep him company as he ate.

“Perhaps,” I said, “you aren’t too worn out this evening. I would like some time for us.”

“Okay, baby,” he said, a smile on his face. "I’ll just shower before we go up.”

“Good, I showered earlier.” I told him that I had gone and bought some bedding for Mik’s bed, how it had been disgusting, and how I had left a sock on his pillow for his use.

Paul raised an eyebrow.

“He can wank into the sock; it saves getting the bedding all crusty. A sock is easier to clean than a whole bed. 

Paul chuckled and shook his head. “Only a mother,” he said, looking at me.

“Well, that is what I am, a mother of a teenage boy, a teenage boy whose hormones are getting out of control.”

“Okay, but from where I am sitting, all I can see is the mother and how she is right now.”

“Er, okay?”

“Look, I better get going and shower and, er, you know, prepare for the arrival of my knickerless wife.”

“Oh, yes, ah, well. I had a moment; the door knocked, and I didn’t get a chance to put another pair on, and, well, I was at home and didn’t think it mattered.”

“At home with a hormonal teenage son?”

“Well, he wouldn’t have seen anything, so no issues.”

“Right. See you in a bit.” Paul left and headed upstairs. I tidied the kitchen, put the last of the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and went to say goodnight to Mik.

“What is with the sock, Mum?” He said as I walked into the front room.

“Well, I thought that you could, you know, use it; it’ll save the bedding.”

“What do you mean, use it? 

“Mik, when you pleasure yourself, okay. Save spurting all over the bed.”

“Oh God, oh Jesus, Mum, really?”

“Yes, really, and I have left you some inspiration. Goodnight, son. I am having an early night with your father.”

I turned and left. The front door was locked and secured; Mik could come up when he was ready. I hoped that he would find my inspirational present – better than stealing them out of the laundry bin. I made sure that our bedroom door was firmly shut behind me. Paul was coming out of the ensuite, a towel around his waist.

“Just clean my teeth,” I said and went into the ensuite. I took my blouse and bra off and then my skirt. I was naked as I cleaned my teeth. I took my bundle of clothes and put them on my chair and slipped into the bed next to Paul.

“Hopefully, my darling,” Paul said as he rolled forwards and cuddled me, “I won’t be needing a sock tonight.”

“If you play your cards just right, I shall be your sock,” I said as I leaned across and kissed him.

Paul had gone to work. I was in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. I was just wearing my dressing gown, tightly secured, of course. Mik came down; he was also wearing his dressing gown.

“Morning, Mum,” he said and came up and hugged me. Oops, he still had his morning glory, which I did not need to feel digging into my stomach.

“Morning, Mik,” I answered, although he didn’t seem in a hurry to let go. He looked down into my face and eased back a little.

“God, Mum, you and Dad were noisy last night.”

Oh, crumbs, were we? I had shut the door, hoping that he wouldn’t hear anything. “Sorry, Mik, not sorry. We are married, you know? We have our moments. I shut our door; you should have put your noise-cancelling earbuds in.”

“Hell no,” he said, pressing his crotch into my stomach even harder, “I was enjoying it too much.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your gasps and sighs, Mum. I was imagining that you were with me. I filled my sock, Mum, and your present was over my nose.”

“That is just wrong, Mik, and you know it.”

His hands were moving, and I realised that he was undoing the sash on my dressing gown. I felt my dressing gown pull apart and his dick pressed against my stomach. He must have undone his dressing gown too.

“Mik, what are you doing?” I gasped.

“Were you Dad’s sock, Mum?” Are you still full, Mum? Are you dripping?”

“Mik, stop it. That is not your concern.”

His hand was between us, and I felt him slide his dick into my valley. He put both hands on my buttocks. I was lifted and then lowered, his dick entering my fanny.

“Mik,” I gasped again.

He pressed me against the work surface; I was partially held up by it and partially by his dick. He began shagging, his dick easily sliding in my wet fanny, wet with the residue of my lovemaking with my husband last night and again, a top-up from Paul this morning.  

“God, Mum, you are so wet.”

“Mik." I could only say his name. His dick was sliding inside me. I could feel his foreskin as it moved; I could feel the rim of his dick as it worked my insides.

“Am I doing it right, Mum? Only I have never done it before. Just an occasional feel of a girl’s tits and once a finger in her fanny, never more, until today, Mum, until today.”

“Yes,” I managed. Yes, he was doing it right; to be honest, there is not a lot that you can do wrong.

"You can be my sock, Mum," he said as he increased his tempo, thrusting faster and faster inside me. He was pressing harder, going deeper, and I could feel my pleasures beginning to flow – pleasures I should not have with my son.

“Oh, God, Mum,” he gasped, and he pressed in hard. I felt his spurts. He jerked inside me, his spurts filling my fanny, flooding my womb. I had been very close to orgasming, but I had managed to hold back. Orgasming on my son’s dick was not something I wanted to do.

Mik stepped back, his dick falling from my fanny with a gurgling sound. He pulled my dressing gown off me and dropped it on the floor.

“God, Mum, your tits are fab.”

“Boobs, Mik, never ‘tits’, okay? Never say 'tits' to me.”

“Whatever.” He knelt and licked my crease, his tongue starting at my nubbin and then sliding down between my labia. I was gripping the work surface. His nose was following his tongue; I knew my labia were curling around it. He moved upwards and began licking my nubbin. My breaths turned to gasps. Two or three fingers were pressed at my opening, but I wasn’t sure how many. He started to fingerfuck me as I stood leaning against the kitchen work surface.

“God, Mum,” he mumbled, “I love the taste of your soggy cunt.”

“Fanny, Mik, never cunt.” I was gasping. I knew I couldn’t hold on much longer. His fingers were moving faster and faster inside me. His nose slid over my nubbin, pressing it, releasing it, and then pressing it again. God, I was so wet down there.

He pressed up with his fingers, hard, deep inside me, and my moment came. I shrieked, I screamed, and my orgasm erupted, exploding through me. My fanny clamped uselessly on his fingers, my buttocks tightened, and my whole body tensed.

Mik let his fingers slide out of me, and while I was standing there, gasping, he stood up and took my hand.

“Your bedroom, now.” He said, pulling me after him. Naked, I followed him up the stairs and into my bedroom. He pulled his dressing gown off, and I got a good look at his dick. A bit fatter and a bit longer than his dad, but not enormously so. In the kitchen I could tell it wasn’t Paul’s dick inside me, but not much more than that.

Mik sat on the edge of the bed. “Suck me,”...