It had been sixteen years since my husband died in a workplace accident. We’d married right after high school graduation—young, reckless, and wildly in love. Getting pregnant on prom night wasn’t part of the plan, but life rarely follows our rules. Out of all the girls who gave it up that night, I was the least likely virgin to get knocked up — and yet, I did.
Fortunately, my dad was a personal injury lawyer. The settlement from my husband’s death left me a wealthy widow at just eighteen, which gave me the opportunity to focus completely on raising our son, Tommy, until he started school.
The next decade didn’t leave much room for dating—maybe once a year, if that. I was too busy working, attending night classes, exercising, and making sure Tommy had everything he needed. My parents had raised me to value hard work, not just rely on the settlement's windfall. That was set aside for Tommy's education and my long-off retirement.
Eventually, Tommy and I moved out of my parents’ house and into a comfortable three-bedroom home in a nearby town. It was far enough to give us independence, but close enough for my folks to step in when we needed them.
Now, Tommy is sixteen, a wide receiver on the football team, and one of the most popular kids at school. He’s grown into the spitting image of his father—the same easy smile, the same infectious laugh, the same manly, confident stride. At eighteen, his dad was my soulmate, the love of my life, and our son is a constant reminder of what could have been every single day.
Sometimes, when I look at Tommy, the emotions from those early days rush back like the tide—slow and steady at times, other times crashing over me like a tsunami, leaving me momentarily overwhelmed and longing to be held in the warmth of his arms.
I work at the local savings and loan, and the moment I get home, I shed my work clothes and slip into my soft terry-cloth robe and slippers. Sometimes, as I peel off the day’s armor, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror in the corner at the foot of my bed and pause to admire what I see. At thirty-four, I feel like I’m hitting my stride. My boobs are still pleasantly perky, my butt tends to draw glances from the branch manager whenever I pass by, and my blonde hair has darkened a bit since high school but still swishes over my shoulders like a flag in a breeze. My deep blue eyes have been known to make men say they're electric. Even the extra five pounds I’ve gained since high school seem to have settled exactly where they should.
Tommy is usually home—unless it's football season—and by the time I arrive, he's already working on his homework. My routine rarely changes: I peek into his room, just down the hall from mine, ask how his day went, jettison my work clothes then slip into my comfy attire.
I had just started undressing when I noticed a small blemish beneath my left breast. With my mom's history of breast cancer, I’m always on edge about anything unusual. I leaned in for a closer look. Lifting my breast, I gently probed the area, searching for anything abnormal. Thankfully, it seemed to be nothing more than an indentation from my bra.
Relief washed over me—but all that touching sparked a different idea. After the spike in blood pressure that scare gave me, I needed a better way to unwind.
My nipples were already erect, so by lightly raking my nails over them, a tingle commenced in those fleshy erasers but it quickly induced a reciprocal response in my clitty. My nipples are very sensitive, especially if I wear my nipple clamps while masturbating. Afterwards, just the sensation of fabric rubbing over them will keep me dripping for hours.
Once my clitty is awakened, it demands that its needs be appeased. I quickly removed my clothy confines and let my hands roam freely over skin that seemed to come alive with every touch. My gaze lingered on the mirror, taking in every curve and subtle detail, and for a moment, I couldn’t help but admire how good I looked—confident, desirable, completely in my element. That thought alone seemed to spark something deep inside me, and almost without thinking, my hand began to wander, slow and deliberate, until it found that sensitive, throbbing nub, ready and waiting for my touch.
With a continued light touch and a circular motion, the intensity began to rise. I unexpectedly moaned audibly. Both hands and fingers were now involved - one spreading my lips and the other rubbing my fully exposed pleasure button - as I began to produce my natural lubricant.
Glancing up at the mirror, there it was—a dark shape, unmistakably watching. I’d been careless, leaving my bedroom door slightly ajar, a three-inch slice of space giving him the perfect view of mom succumbing to her primal desires. I didn’t need to wonder; I knew who it was... Tommy! The realization hit me like a spark, shooting straight to my core. My clitty throbbed hard, swollen and needy, and the wetness between my legs turned into a slick, shameless stream of ooze running down my thigh. I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop—not now.
My rhythm quickened, every flick sending a sharper jolt through me. The muffled sounds outside the door—a flogging, deliberate and rhythmic—fed my growing need. I didn’t have to see him to know; just feet away, he was stroking, his focus unwavering, his eyes fixed on me as if he could feel every movement I made, as if he was the one causing my desire.
Oh god...the moment it hit, it ripped through me like the Krakatoa eruption, raw, explosive and unstoppable. My body shook, every muscle tightening as my knees threatened to give way. Tsunami pulses of pleasure crashed over me, each one heavier, hotter, leaving me gasping for air. The room seemed to blur around me, but then I heard it—a low, muffled groan from the other side. That sound, rough and strained, told me everything: he was there with me, losing himself at the same moment, his release echoing mine.
The intensity finally broke me, and I let myself succumb to the experience, my legs giving way as I collapsed to the floor on all fours. My chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, the coolness of the hardwood against my skin a stark contrast to the heat still pulsing through me. When my gaze lifted, the mirror caught it all—my flushed face, beads of sweat tracing down my neck, and my hand still nestled between my thighs, trembling, unwilling to let go of my best orgasm in years.
My breath still came in short, uneven bursts as I forced myself upright, my legs trembling from the aftershocks. Step by step, I moved toward the door, looking for the shadow I’d felt watching me. But the hallway beyond was empty, silent. Only one trace of him remained—a few milky droplets scattered on the carpet. I knelt, my fingers hovering before dipping into one, then lifted it to my lips. The taste was warm, familiar, intimate, and it made my pulse quicken all over again.
