First Time in Mom’s Glow

It all kicked off one humid evening last fall. I’d been out jogging, drenched in sweat, and came home to an empty house – or so I thought. I peeled off my shirt and shorts in the laundry room, figuring I’d cool off before hitting the shower. Bare as the day I was born, I wandered toward the stairs, only to nearly crash into my mom, Ellen, coming out of the kitchen with a glass of iced tea. Her eyes widened, locking onto me – not my face – and she choked on a sip. I froze for a split second, then darted upstairs, my face burning as her stunned silence echoed in my head.

Ellen’s a knockout – 5’5”, lean from her morning hikes, with jet-black hair cropped just above her shoulders, gray eyes that spark like storm clouds, and a figure that still draws stares, even at 44.

She didn’t mention it after, but I started catching her looks – quick, curious glances when I’d lounge in boxers or towel off after a swim. It planted a seed, something dark and thrilling I couldn’t shake.

That night, alone in my attic room, I let it take over. I locked the door, sprawled on the bed, and lost myself in the thought of her. It was reckless, messy, and left me dizzy. Mom had been single since Dad bailed years ago, barely dating, just the two of us rattling around the house. No one else to judge me – she was all I could see.

I got bolder, orbiting her like a moth to a flame. I’d linger when she cooked, brushing past her in the tight kitchen, my hand grazing her waist. She started leaning into it – asking me to zip her dress, knead her shoulders after a long shift at the hospital. One afternoon, she flopped on the couch and tossed me a bottle of oil, pointing at her back. I worked my hands over her, feeling her muscles loosen, her breath hitch. She rolled over once, giving me a glimpse under her loose tank top – no bra, just skin. My pulse thundered.

A few nights later, she upped the stakes. She’d been gardening all day and asked me to rub her aching arms. She sat on the ottoman in a thin sundress, sleeves rolled up, dirt still smudged on her elbows. I started at her wrists, moved to her forearms, then higher. She didn’t stop me, just tilted her head back, eyes half-closed. I could see the outline of her body through the fabric, the way it clung to her. My hands shook as I slid them along her shoulders, daring to dip lower.

She broke it off there, sitting up with a soft, “That’s good, Ethan – thanks.” She padded off to wash up, leaving me wired and second-guessing. I thought about following her into the bathroom, steam curling around us, but if she’d pulled back then, what would she do if I pushed that far? I stayed put.

The next jolt came out of nowhere. I was in my room the following morning, blinds half-open, working myself up again. The door creaked – Mom with a stack of clean towels. I yanked the sheet up, mid-stroke, but not fast enough. She didn’t flinch, just grinned and said, “Hey, it’s your space – no big deal.” She dropped the towels, leaned in to ruffle my hair, and her fingers brushed my bare chest. Then, like it was nothing, she tugged the sheet down a bit, teasing me with a light touch. I unraveled in seconds. After that, we started crossing lines – tentative at first, then bolder, hands exploring, mouths following.

Days later, it went all the way. We were in the living room, her stretched out after a shift, me rubbing her lower back. I was in gym shorts; she had on this flimsy nightshirt. She turned, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me down. “Wait here,” she said, then came back with a condom from her purse. She pushed me onto the rug, straddled me, and moved like she’d been waiting for it as long as I had – fierce, unapologetic.

It was the wildest rush I’d ever felt. Now, we steal nights when the house is quiet, maybe once a week, tangled up in her bed under the skylight.

I’ve been wondering about finding someone else – a girl who’d roll with it, maybe dive in with us. For now, though, it’s just Mom and me, chasing this strange, electric thing we’ve built.

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