Skip to content I could tell the new lock was going to fight me. The last person who’d installed anything on my mother’s bathroom door must have been drunk or just criminally lazy, because the holes were off by half a centimeter and there was enough stripped wood jammed into the old mortise to build a hamster’s coffin. I pressed the template against the frame and squinted, trying to decide whether I should drill out the pilot holes or go rogue and hope the screws found their own truth. I already knew I’d end up doing both.
Mom’s bathroom was so clean it made me want to apologize to it. She had the kind of bathroom you saw in hotels, everything off-white except for the pops of turquoise and pale pink in the towels. Bottles and products lived inside discreet baskets. Not a single hair or soap scum ring anywhere. The hand soap was some boutique stuff that cost twelve dollars a bottle and smelled like coconut milk, and if you looked at the tub just right you could see the ghost of her outline on the glass.
I wiped sweat off my palms and looked at my reflection in the vanity. I was twenty-one years old, average tall, sharp jaw, stubborn cowlick at my crown that resisted everything but gel and hats. The tee I’d thrown on was speckled with dust from the closet project I’d bailed on to help Mom with this.
I remembered watching Mom do her hair in this bathroom when I was little. She always had a routine, and even now at forty she took her time with it, careful curls and the kind of lipstick that left marks on glass. Her dark blonde hair was longer now, and she’d grown into her body in a way that felt like an accident of genetics. The older she got, the more people looked at her. I noticed it every time we were in public.
I shouldn’t have thought about my own mother that way, but I did. It wasn’t even that I wanted her. I just wanted the part of me that wanted her to shut the fuck up for once. It never did.
The lock kit had instructions written for idiots, but even idiots weren’t expected to deal with doors as janked as this one. I dry-fitted the deadbolt and discovered the plate didn’t align with anything, so I reached for a hammer and did some gentle persuasion. I could hear her downstairs, singing under her breath while she prepped dinner.
There was no real reason for Mom to have a lock on her bathroom, except maybe that my sister Lila had gotten so bold at ignoring boundaries that Mom had to escalate. Lila was eighteen, a complete animal, loud and impossible to shame, which I secretly respected. She wasn’t home tonight, which meant it was just me and Mom and the smell of dinner.
I snapped the mechanism into place and tested it. The lock turned, but the latch didn’t slide. I’d put the damn cylinder in backward.
“Fuck me,” I said, then realized how loud it was in a tiled room.
From below, Mom’s voice: “What did you say?”
“Nothing. I’m winning.” I yanked the faceplate off, tried to reverse it. The assembly jammed. The knob spun without catching.
“You need help?” Mom called.
I swallowed. “Yeah. Can you hold something?”
She came upstairs. “Can I come in?”
“You own the place.” I tried to sound chill. It came out thirsty.
She pushed the door open with her hip and brought the smell of dinner and herself with her. Forty and still the best-looking person in any room she walked into. Dark blonde hair, long and loose. Face like a model: high cheekbones, a mouth that looked stained, green-hazel eyes with the kind of laugh lines that made her hotter.
She had on old gray yoga pants that sat low on her hips and a white tank that used to be mine. The logo was dead. The cotton wasn’t. No bra. Natural Ds, heavy, the neckline dipping when she breathed, dark nipples ghosting through when she passed the vanity light. Waist still tight. Ass heart-shaped and obvious in those pants. She didn’t wear a bra around the house anymore. The first time I’d noticed it, I thought it was an accident. After the tenth, I stopped pretending it was.
She sized up the mess on the floor. “How many pieces are left over?”
“None,” I lied. “It’s just stuck.”
She made a face. “Did you read the instructions?”
“I read most of them.”
She bent over to look, flashing her gorgeous heart shaped ass. The room suddenly became ten degrees hotter. Her hair fell forward, hiding her face and showing off the line of her neck. I pretended to study the lock, but I was looking at her ass.
She reached out. “Hold this steady?”
Her hand wrapped around the knob, fingers overlapping mine for a second. I held the back plate while she twisted the face.
“Try it now,” she said.
I did. The lock spun, caught, then stuck at a weird angle.
She frowned. “Can you take it out?”
“Not without breaking it.”
She let go, then sat on the edge of the tub, tucking one leg under her. I heard a faint sound from her stomach. She pressed a hand there, embarrassed.
I smirked. “Dinner almost ready?”
“I was just about to put the pasta in.” She crossed her arms, which pulled the tank top even tighter across her natural D cup boobs. I looked away fast, but not fast enough to fool anyone.
She must have caught me. “You all right, Jack?”
I felt my face get hot. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She gave me a look I’d seen a million times, the one that said, “you’re lying, but whatever.” She didn’t call me on it. “I’ll hold the tools if you want to keep trying.”
Then I tried the lock from a new angle. The door swung shut behind me, and I heard the click of the latch. I reached for the handle.
It didn’t turn.
“Uh.”
Mom frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“We might be stuck,” I said.
She got up, tried it herself, put her weight into it. The knob spun but the latch didn’t budge.
“Fuck,” she said.
I stepped back to give her room. There was barely a meter between the sink and the opposite wall, so we ended up closer than was comfortable. Her hip bumped my thigh. I felt it everywhere.
She knelt to look at the strike plate. Her shirt rode up, showing a strip of bare skin at her lower back, a spray of tiny freckles. I wanted to touch it. I tried not to want that.
She stood. “Well, this is embarrassing.”
“Maybe we could, like, call the fire department,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, let me just explain to the city that my son trapped me in the bathroom.” We both laughed. “Your sister will be back in two hours, so we can just wait.”
Her stomach rumbled. She pressed a hand there, like she could quiet it.
I laughed. “You’re starving.”
She nodded. “I skipped lunch.”
“There was this one time when my girlfriend said she was really hungry … She claimed that swallowing my cum would help.”
Mom gave me an excited look. “Yeah? Did it help?”
“According to her,” I said. Mom and I had always been open with sexual topics, so it wasn’t unusual.
“I know from my own experience it helps too,” Mom said. “But I haven’t sucked someone in a while … too busy parenting you.”
“Well, if you get too hungry, I wouldn’t be against it.”
She chuckled. “I’m your mom.”
“Yeah.” My jeans were already losing that argument. “I know.”
She looked at my lap, then at the dead knob, then back. Her stomach made another small sound.
“You talk about this and I’ll kill you.”
“Okay.”
She dropped onto the bathmat between my knees, yanked the button, dragged the zipper, and pulled me out. I was already wet at the tip. She spat on the head, spread it with her thumb, and looked at it like a problem she’d decided to finish.
“Don’t you dare come in two seconds.”
She didn’t ease in. She opened wide and sank, lips stretching around the head, then further, wet heat slamming down the shaft until I hit the back of her throat. She gagged once, eyes watering, and stayed there anyway, swallowing around me. When she came up it was sloppy: a thick string of spit from her bottom lip to my cock, chin shining.
Then she fucked her own mouth with it.
She bobbed fast and deep, the way clips look when nobody’s pretending it’s tender. Cheeks hollowed on every pull. Tongue flat against the underside, then swirling the ridge when she had only the head. Spit ran down her fist; she used it, twisting the base she couldn’t swallow. The tile threw back every sound: wet suction, little glucks when she took too much, the catch in her throat when she forced another inch.
She popped off just long enough to stroke me against her tongue, spit hanging, and said, “I’m really hungry for your cum.”
Then she went down to the hilt, nose almost at my stomach, throat tight, working. She held it, swallowed on purpose so the muscles milked the head, then pulled back gasping and immediately slammed down again.
The tank slid off both shoulders. And then her tits were out, bouncing each time she ducked. She put my hand on the back of her head herself and left it there. I didn’t have to push. She pushed. She wanted it badly.
She jerked me into her mouth on the upstrokes, sucked the head like she was trying to pull the orgasm out of me, then buried me again until her throat clicked. Her mouth was red, wet, open. Drool on her chest. Eyes up, daring me to look away.
“Mom—”
She moaned around me and the vibration finished the thought. She didn’t pull off when I warned her. She took me deep, sealed her lips, and stroked what was left outside her mouth in short filthy pumps.
I came down her throat in hard pulses. She swallowed on each one, greedy, making herself take it, sucking through the last twitch like she was finishing a scene. She kept the head on her tongue after and licked it clean, chasing whatever was left at the slit until I jerked.
She sat back on her heels, wiped her mouth with two fingers, and sucked those too.
“There,” she said, voice wrecked. “Not hungry.”
I sat there, mind blown, for a few seconds before looking at her. “Did it help?”
“Yeah, it definitely helped,” she said happily.
Then we sat there, waiting for Lila to rescue us, and I didn’t want the door to open, not ever.
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