I'm sitting at the kitchen table, drowning in the surreal normalcy of it all. Mom's chicken parmesan, the ultimate weapon in her arsenal, sits steaming on my plate, the aroma of basil and melted mozzarella assaulting my senses. Even through the fog of self-loathing and confusion, my stomach growls. The first bite is a betrayal I can't resist. My taste buds lighting up like they're getting paid overtime.
"How is it, honey?" Mom asks, her voice dripping with that sugary sweetness that used to feel safe but now feels like a trap.
I can't meet her eyes, those piercing blue pools that have seen parts of me no mother should ever see. My gaze stays fixed on the red sauce pooling around the crispy edges of the chicken. Despite everything, I don't have it in me to lie about this.
"It's my favorite, Mom," I mumble, shoveling another bite into my mouth to avoid further conversation. "It's really good."
The fork feels heavy in my hand, each bite both a comfort and a punishment. How fucked up is it that after everything that's happened, after discovering what she does, after what happened in my bedroom hours ago, her cooking still cuts through my depression like a hot knife through butter.
Mom's watching me eat with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Her eyes never leave my face, tracking each movement of my fork like she's memorizing the way my lips close around it. The silence between us stretches, elastic and dangerous.
"You know," she says finally, her voice light and casual, "I added something special to the sauce this time. Can you taste it?"
I hesitate, then take another bite, rolling it around my tongue. There is something different there, something I can't quite identify. It's familiar somehow, a subtle sourish flavor that cuts through the tomato and herbs.
"I'm not sure," I say cautiously. "It's different. Kind of... tangy? But good. Really good, actually."
Her smile widens, slow and deliberate, like a cat that's cornered its prey. "I'm so glad you enjoy it, Gabriel. I thought you might appreciate my... personal touch."
The way she emphasizes "personal" sends warning signals flashing through my brain. Before I can process what she might mean, she delicately dabs her mouth with her napkin and sets it aside.
"Gabriel," she says, clearing her throat. "There's something I wanted to discuss with you."
My stomach clenches, and I can feel the color draining from my face. "Can it wait? I've got some reading to do for tomorrow's class and…" I lie.
"I was thinking about our first time together," she interrupts, her voice soft but insistent. "At the party."
I wince, my fork clattering against the plate. The chicken suddenly tastes like ash in my mouth.
"While I didn't realize it was you at first," she continues, reaching across the table to brush her fingers against mine, "I've been replaying it in my head. And I couldn't help but notice something." She pauses, eyes glittering with amusement. "You only managed five thrusts before you came inside me. Five, Gabriel."
"Mom!" I snap, heat rushing to my face. "It was my first time, okay? Cut me some slack!"
Her hand freezes halfway to her wine glass, blue eyes widening to perfect circles. The kitchen goes silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator.
"What did you just say?" she whispers, voice barely audible.
"Just... stop, alright? This is already fucked up enough without you making fun of me."
Before I can react, Mom's chair scrapes against the tile as she stands. In three quick steps, she's beside me, pulling her chair right up against mine until our thighs touch.
"Gabriel," she breathes, her hands trembling as they frame my face. "Are you telling me I was your first? That I took your virginity?"
The vulnerability in her voice catches me off guard. This isn't the predatory confidence from earlier, she looks genuinely curious, almost fragile.
"Mom, please," I groan, mortification washing over me in waves. "This is embarrassing enough without…"
I don't finish my sentence because she pulls me against her chest in a crushing embrace, her arms wrapping around me with surprising strength. My face is suddenly pressed between her breasts, the soft flesh yielding against my cheeks as her familiar scent, vanilla and something uniquely her, fills my nostrils. Despite everything, my body responds instantly, blood rushing south as I inhale deeply.
"I'm so happy, Gabriel," she whispers into my hair, her voice thick with emotion. "You have no idea how much this means to me. That I was your first. That we shared that together."
I should pull away. I should tell her this is wrong, that normal mothers don't celebrate taking their son's virginity. But her warmth seeps into me, and I find myself sinking against her, starved for her comfort even from the source of my confusion.
"I didn't want it to happen like that," I mutter into her chest, the words muffled. "Not drunk at some frat party with everyone watching."
She pulls away, her hands sliding up to cup my face. There's a softness in her eyes I wasn't expecting.
"Yes, that was... less than ideal circumstances," she coos, her thumbs caressing my cheeks. A frown creases her perfect forehead as she searches my eyes. "If only I'd known how you felt about me sooner, Gabriel. God, I would have made your first time so special, candles, silk sheets, just the two of us. I would have taken such good care of you."
I let out a heavy sigh, my shoulders slumping. This whole conversation feels like I'm trapped in some bizarre dream.
Her expression shifts suddenly, eyebrows drawing together as she adopts a more maternal tone. "Though, as your mother, I must say I'm rather disappointed in you for choosing to lose your virginity to a prostitute while intoxicated at a college gangbang. That's not how I raised you to treat such an important milestone."
Something snaps inside me. The absurdity, the hypocrisy, it's too much.
"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" I shout, jerking away from her touch. "YOU were that prostitute, Mom! YOU!"
Her lips curve into a small, knowing smile, completely unfazed by my outburst. "Ah," she says, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the table. "That brings me to the second thing I wanted to discuss with you tonight."
My heart pounds in my chest as she reaches for her wine glass, taking a deliberate sip before setting it down with a soft clink.
"I've made a decision, Gabriel," she announces, her voice suddenly businesslike. "I'm retiring. Effective immediately."
I blink at her, trying to process this information through the chaos in my brain. "You're... retiring? From being an escort?"
She nods, reaching across to stroke my hair like I'm still a child. "For you, darling. Just like you asked this morning. No more clients, no more late nights away from home."
Relief floods through me so intensely I almost feel lightheaded. "That's... that's good, Mom. Really good."
Her eyes darken, pupils dilating as she leans in close, her breath hot against my ear. "Admit it, Gabriel," she whispers, voice husky and demanding. "You wanted me to quit because you can't stand the thought of sharing me. You want me all to yourself, don't you?"
Her hand slides up my thigh, fingernails dragging lightly against my jeans. "Show me how much I mean to you, baby. Right here, right now. Take what's yours on the kitchen table."
Something cold settles in my stomach despite the heat coursing through my veins. This isn't right. Not like this.
"No, Mom," I say, my voice firmer than I expected. I gently remove her hand from my thigh. "I don't want you selling yourself because you deserve better than that. Not because I want to... claim you or whatever this is."
She pulls back, surprise flashing across her face. For a moment, she looks genuinely confused, like she can't comprehend my rejection.
"This isn't about possession," I continue, finding strength I didn't know I had. "It's about you having a life that doesn't involve being used by strangers. About you finding something that actually makes you happy."
Mom's expression hardens, her eyes narrowing with annoyance. There's something calculating in her gaze that makes me squirm in my seat.
"I don't believe you," she says flatly, crossing her arms. "Not for a second."
"What's not to believe?" I throw my hands up. "It doesn't even matter what my reasons are! Fine, maybe there's a part of me that hates the thought of you with other men. Maybe I am jealous in some fucked-up way. But that's not the whole story, Mom! I just want you to be safe, and being a hooker isn't safe! Do you have any idea what could happen to you?"
The corners of her mouth curl upward, a smug satisfaction replacing her annoyance. "Well, good news, sweetheart," she says, reaching for her wine glass. "I'll be a professor at your school starting tomorrow."
"What the fuck? That's... that's so fast! How did you even find a new job that quickly?" My brain struggles to catch up with this bombshell. "Mom, what was even the point of being a prostitute if you could just land a professor job overnight?"
She takes another slow sip of her wine, savoring my confusion like it's the finest vintage. "Gabriel, while this position will ensure your education is completely covered, keeping my beautiful boy out of debt, it doesn't even pay half of what I made as an escort." She sets down her glass with deliberate precision. "Not even close."
The implications hit me like a truck. All these years, she wasn't just making ends surviving she was thriving. And she did it for us.
My poor Mom. Carrying such a burden.
"I'm sorry, Mom," I say, my voice softer now. "I'll start looking for a job tomorrow. I meant to today, but I had... a lot to process."
Mom lets out a heavy sigh, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. "Gabriel, I don't want you to find a job. I want you to focus on your studies and…" she reaches for my hand across the table, eyes intense, "I want us to further our relationship."
Something in me snaps. All the confusion, the shame, the twisted desire, it crystallizes into sudden clarity.
"ENOUGH!" I yell, yanking my hand away. "I'm getting a job."
Her eyes widen at my tone, mouth opening to protest, but I'm done listening.
"No, Mom. I don't want us to find ourselves in a situation where we end up needing money, and you just fall back into relying on being an escort." My voice rises with each word, hands gripping the edge of the table. "I have to get a job for us! End of story."
I stand so quickly my chair nearly tips over.
"And we are not in a relationship," I add, the words tasting like freedom on my tongue. "We are not dating. We are just a regular mother and son."
Mom's face transforms before my eyes, the confident seductress vanishing, replaced by confusion.
"I'm going to bed, Mom." My voice softens slightly. "I love you. Goodnight."
I turn and walk away, not waiting for her response. Each step up the stairs feels lighter than the last like I'm shedding some invisible weight. Behind me, the kitchen remains silent, no footsteps following, no voice calling me back.
Inside my room, I collapse onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. My heart pounds against my ribs.
The image of Mom leaning across the table, her voice husky as she invited me to take her right there, replays in my mind with painful clarity.
"I really almost fucked her on the table," I whisper, the words barely audible even in the silence of my room.
My hand drifts down to the front of my jeans, feeling the hardness there. Despite everything, the confusion, the moral arguments with myself, the firm boundaries I just established, my body still responds to the memory of her offer.
A strange mixture of shame and something like defiance washes over me. I stood my ground. I made the right choice. But that doesn't mean I can't indulge in the fantasy alone, on my own terms.
"I deserve this one," I mutter, unzipping my pants with trembling fingers. "After everything today... I've earned this."
My hand slips beneath my boxers, wrapping around myself as I close my eyes. I let the fantasy unfold, not the reality of my complicated relationship with Mom, but a simpler version where I didn't walk away. Where I swept those plates aside and took what she offered on that kitchen table.
"Fuck, Mom," I whisper, desperate for her not to hear me.
—
[Angela's POV]
I sit frozen in my seat, watching my son storm away, his footsteps thundering up the stairs. My mouth hangs open, not from shock at his little rebellion, how adorable that he thinks he can resist what's between us, but because the poor, sweet boy had absolutely no idea he was sporting the most magnificent erection while delivering his little speech. The outline was perfectly visible through his cute little pants, straining against the fabric like it was reaching for me even as he tried to deny us both.
"Oh, Gabriel," I whisper, picking up my wine glass and taking a slow sip. The rich liquid rolls across my tongue as I savor both its taste and the delicious irony of his defiance.
"I won't let you resist me much longer, my love. My patience is running thin."