Then she heard her son asking, “Mum, I was wondering…” His voice tapered off to a low groan of delight.
On a heady rush of anxious anticipation, Marion asked, “What?”
To which Gareth replied with a half-choked and stuttered, “Wuh-would you help me with it? Like you did before.”
“No, Gareth,” Marion gasped. I can’t. You shouldn’t ask, either. God,” she went on with another in the long series of exasperated sighs, “I knew I shouldn’t have let you in. I should have known you’d try it again.”
“I can’t help it,” Gareth gurgled into the dark. “It’s the tickle. It’s you, mum. You’re so lovely…”
“Stop it, now,” Marion said in as stern a tone as she could manage. “You need to finish. You need to go.”
“I’m trying,” she heard him say. The words sounded strained, like it was an effort to climax.
Then it occurred to Marion to ask, “Where are you going to do it? You made such a mess of the bed last time. Where are you going to … to … to shoot all that stuff?”
“I could use your nightie,” Gareth suggested as the bed continued to rock.
“But then I’d be naked,” Marion said. “I don’t know if I like the idea of being nude in here with you like this.”
“Then I’ll try not to make a mess,” Gareth grunted. “But I can’t promise.”
Which is why Marion found herself sitting up and hauling the tee-shirt over her head.
She thrust the garment towards where she thought her son lay.
“Here,” Marion said, the cold air on her torso. She felt her nipples go tight in response to the chill. “Take it,” she said. “Use it and then get out.”
Gareth took the shirt and, a moment later, Marion felt the bed moving and heard the liquid thrap of Gareth’s fist against his cock.
“Mum,” her son gasped a moment before Marion felt his hand touched her thigh. “It’d be quicker if you helped me.”
“I told you,” Marion said. “I’m not going to do it. And you can’t touch me, either.” Marion shoved Gareth’s fingers away from her skin.
“Can I look at you instead?” Gareth asked on a groan.
A second later, the bedside light clicked on and bathed Marion’s bedroom in its weak glow.
Marion saw the familiar layout. The same dressing table her mother had used was against the wall at the far end of the bed. She saw the door, ajar, the corridor beyond, its walls covered by a floral print wallpaper she’d been meaning to change. It was a scene Marion was so accustomed to seeing she didn’t register it any longer. It was the same room she’d slept in for almost two decades, inherited from her mother, just like the dressing table and every other stick of furniture in the cottage. She’d moved the bed in ten years before. A brand new purchase at the time, along with the bedding. The bedside light sat on a small, wooden, three-drawer unit, another just like it on the side of the bed Marion was laid in, its bulb still unlit.
What was different, however, was the sight of her son cranking his fist over a cock of generous proportions. Gareth was caressing the length of the thing, his hungry and lupine gaze locked on his mother, his focus right on her breasts.