Francesca's Son

My robe wasn’t staying closed for anyone, least of all my son, but modesty only counts when you mean it. I’d left great lengths of my own dark hair trailing down the front of my chest for exactly such moments, a silken black banner between me and the hot, needy stare shivering just inches away. He fidgeted deep in the clawfoot tub, expecting some mercy, but if I was going to redefine the role of mother, I was going to bend it to my darkest, hungriest will.

He knelt in warm bathwater to mid-thigh. Naked. Young. Vulnerable. A leather collar on his throat was connected by a chain to the suction-cupped pull handle on the tiled wall. Each wrist was shackled to a thigh-cuff. Naked and helpless, he waited for me. In the dim light of flickering candles, his downturned face betrayed his shame with a soft blush. But the pulsing length of his cock told the full story.

Flesh of my flesh. The son I carried within my body. Had forced my body open so that he might live. Devoted myself to his wellbeing for two decades. Denied myself so that he might have what he wanted. Until what he wanted most was… me.

My fingertips trailed across his shoulders, pulling goosebumps over his flesh. His head jerked as I trailed a lazy circle across his collarbone, savoring how his nipples hardened with hunger. He clamped his jaw shut, lips thin with anticipation, but I see the shimmer of the bathwater when he shivered. Most women, perhaps, would have granted him a warning before the rough, exfoliating side of the loofah met belly and thighs, but I’d never seen the point of preamble with him: nothing I could do would be as cruel or as thrilling as being attended to by his mother.

Water ran down his torso as I scrubbed in tight circles. My son winced at the abrasion of his skin. With a smile, I pressed deeper. Let him pay for his pleasure with his pain. Test him. See if he wants what he says he wants.

His eyes watched darkly, as I ran soap across his chest. My hand swirled, nails turned just enough to leave long curved weals in their passing. and wrung it out with slow deliberation. I knew the candlelight caught my robe just right to make it transparent. I nestled a thigh on the cold rim of the tub, hiked the silk up, and slid the hot, wet sponge down the length of his arm, from shoulder to wrist. When I reached his hand, I twisted my fingers between his and curled gently, nails pressing crescents into his palm.

I looked at his cock. Thick and full and throbbing. As much as it humiliated him to kneel and be washed by his mother, he loved it. Needed it more than anything else in the world. The thoughts it inspired in me were not worthy of a mother. They were the hungry desires of a woman who knows what pleasure lies in a man’s body and has gone far too long without.

Still, I denied him my touch there. Denied myself. I ...