Son in mother bed.. Marion sat up in bed when she heard the floorboard creak out in the hall. It was full dark outside, had been since mid-afternoon. It was quiet, too, courtesy of a heavy dump of snow which had started about the same time night had fallen like a black curtain. The clock on the face of her mobile phone told Marion it was half-past midnight, which meant there were at least four hours before the snow-plough cleared the lane outside the cottage, a necessary task so the trucks could lumber up and down from the quarry a mile further along.
Into the dark, Marion said, “What? What is it, Gareth?” She used her son’s name because there was nobody else it could possibly be lurking outside her room.
There was a pause of a few seconds before Marion heard the metallic click of the old-fashioned latch being lifted. It was an old door, not as old as the cottage itself, the building was centuries old, but the door wasn’t a contemporary type, more like something you’d find in a stable or hobby-shed. The catch was nothing more than a simple hook device fixed to the jamb on the bedroom side of the door. A thin metal plate sat in the vertical position in the groove of the hook to keep the door securely closed, the plate connected to a spoon-shaped tongue on the outer side. Press the tongue, lift the latch. Open the door. Walk into the bedroom.
The door opened to reveal a rectangle of marginally lighter space in the wall. Something more sensed than seen. Using peripheral vision, Marion saw a shadow flit across the rectangle, a figure moving into her room.
Her son’s voice came to her, thin and forlorn.
“I’m cold,” he said.
Marion sighed, the sound of exasperation. She said, “Gareth, go back to bed.”
He replied with, “Can’t I get in with you?”
Marion felt the mattress dip, like he was taking it for granted she’d allow him into the bed.
“No, you can’t,” Marion said, anxious at her son’s proximity. “You’re not really cold. It’s just an excuse.”
“Please,” Gareth wheedled. “It’s really cold tonight. I’m freezing. I can’t sleep.”
All sorts of emotions and impressions rose up inside Marion. Her heart began to race and she felt the slide of anxiety deep in the pit of her stomach. There was guilt in there, too. Lots of it. Lots of confusion as well. Her instinct was to let her son climb into bed with her. He was cold. It was her job, her duty to take care of him. But, she thought, after last time…
“I … I don’t believe you,” Marion stammered, conflicted.
“But I’m really cold. Please, mum. Just for a couple of minutes.”
“Gareth, you can’t…”
Marion paused, hesitating, fearful of giving voice to what had gone on before. Since it had happened three nights previously, neither mother nor son had spoken a word in reference. They’d gone about their day-to-day chores and obligations as though nothing had occurred, both pretending there’d been no clandestine, nocturnal visit by the son to his mother’s bed.
“…Not after what happened before,” Marion finished.
Even as she said it, she knew she would crumble. She would deny his request and Gareth would keep on at her until she gave way. It was the way it had always been. Marion thought it was her fault for spoiling Gareth when he was younger.
Following another pause, Gareth said, “I promise, mum. Nothing’s going to happen.”
Marion sighed, partly hating herself for her weakness as she said, “Oh, god. I suppose so.” She shifted across the big bed, the sheet cold through the long tee-shirt she wore as a nightdress. “Here, get in,” Marion added, lifting the quilt. Then, as a caveat, she finished with a stern, “Five minutes, that’s all.”
“Five minutes,” her son confirmed as he slid into the warmth.
***
Gareth left it a full minute before he started. He was fully erect, aroused and excited by the memory of what she’d done before. The bed was warm from where his mother had lain, and desire swirled inside him. He felt the desperate need yawning within, a deep, aching void of carnal longing.
He heard the lust in his own voice when he asked, “Can’t I just cuddle up, mum?”
As expected, his mother replied with, “No, Gareth. I don’t think you should.”
“Just for a minute. That’s all. I’ll get warmer quicker that way.”
“Gareth, please…” his mother said on another exasperated sigh.
“It’s just a cuddle,” he said, tone petulant.
His mother heaved yet another sigh. Said, “God. Bloody hell, Gareth. You always want more.”
“I’m sorry,” Gareth replied. “I don’t mean to be a pest.” He felt the bed bounce. Boards creaked, wooden slats clacked.
“Turn around,” his mother said. “I’ll spoon against your back.”
Gareth smiled into the dark. He rolled onto his side. “Mmm, that’s nice,” he said when his mother snuggled against him.
“Just for a minute, remember.”
Gareth felt the quick gallop of his mother’s heartbeat against his back. Inside his head, he willed for her hand to move to the waistband of his underwear, for her fingers to slip inside, for her fist to grip his shaft. Like she had before. Like she had when it had happened the last time.
He lay that way for far longer than the allotted minute. In fact, his mother stayed there snuggled against him for longer than the original five minutes she’d specified at the outset. In the end, with no sign of her hand meandering down to his cock, Gareth squirmed and half-rolled onto his back.
“My arm’s going to sleep,” Gareth complained.
His mother’s response was, “Maybe you should go back to your own bed.”
“Aw, not yet,” he said. “But how about we swap? What if I spooned you?”
Gareth heard the dubious note in her tone when his mother said, “I don’t know about that. I think we’ve probably gone too far already. I’m not comfortable with this, Gareth. It’s a bit too … intimate.”
“I like it,” he said on a quick rush of desire. “It’s cosy. Nice and warm. And I am your son. It isn’t weird being in bed with you.”
She snorted and said, “It’s exactly because you’re my son that it is weird, Gareth. You’re a man now. You’re nineteen. You’re too big to be in bed with me. It’s so inappropriate. God,” she went on with a sigh, “if anyone knew…”
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