Queen Of Disaster Disaster

Taste like the Fourth of July

“Satoru—I won't tell you again. Get a napkin!"

The warning comes out almost like a yell but instead lands flat and agitated. Satoru sighs dramatically, as if you've asked him to complete the hardest chore in the world even though you've told him a million times already.

In reality, the syrupy ice cream has been melting all over his hands ever since you served it to him and his cousins in cones, guaranteed to leave the kind of sticky residue that, after years of being a mom, you know he'll eventually wipe on the brand-new shirt you bought just a few weeks ago. But Satoru will always argue if it means getting his way. You don't know why he chooses to pick battles like this.

"C'mon, Mom, chill. Don't tell me you're afraid of just some liquid."

Now it's your turn to sigh. "You constantly miss the point; you know that's not the reason, 'Toru."

You soften your voice, aiming for that faux high affectionate tone that usually makes him more sympathetic. And it works; his expression flickers with worry when he sees you're genuinely stressed despite your attempt at playfulness. He drops the act, finally compromising, and focuses on licking the dripping sweetness before it can make an even bigger mess.

When it comes to this, you always win. The dynamic between you and Satoru has always been close-knit. You were a teen mom; when you fell pregnant, the whole world seemed to turn its back on you. And even though you knew a child would transform your entire life, abortion was never something you could consider. Satoru was your sweet boy from birth until now, and always will be, but sometimes he can be such a pain, like at this very moment, swiping his tongue all over the vanilla residue.

"You're nasty," you mutter, unable to stop your eyes from rolling. He just keeps focusing on cleaning the mess off his hand.

The sun beats down on your back despite the big blue tarp providing at least some semblance of shade. Today is a holiday, and your extended family is gathered for a picnic in the conservation park. It's tradition at this point.

Everyone who comes around this time of year knows the Gojo family and their picnic—so iconic that if the BBQ chicken weren't so darn good, the whole event would probably be reported to law enforcement on account of the blaring music.

You remember one year, though, when Satoru was much younger, back when he'd run around with the same cousins he now vapes with. Some unfamiliar people called the cops, complaining about "community disruption" or something along those lines. You don't quite remember—they were killjoys.

To their disappointment, the cops dropped the whole thing almost immediately. It was just one day of fun out of the year, and besides, your family has never been the type to turn people away. Anyone who wanders in gets fed. And at the end of the day, the grills, the tarp, the garbage, everything, is cleaned up so thoroughly that not a speck is left behind.

The cops walked away that day with full stomachs and boxes of leftovers. And since then, not a single complaint has been filed again.

It's midday now, almost time to eat, and everyone is slowly drifting back to your family's side of the park. The kids, fresh from swimming in the lake, are busy playing games to pass the time while the food heats on the grill. Some grab popsicles, adults settle into their usual conversations, and the air hums with easy chatter.

You have no idea where Satoru's cousins are, probably off causing trouble somewhere. They're all young adults without a care in the world; of course they wouldn't be hanging around here, cooped up with the boring elders club. It makes you wonder why he isn’t out with them.

Your uncle stops by to talk to you while you clean up the snack section. Satoru is still in his own sweet-centric world—he's always had a sweet tooth.

"I knew you'd be a good cook," your uncle says, dramatically wafting the air toward himself. "The smell is circling the whole park. Better be careful, or there'll be no food left for us."

You chuckle from your stomach and brush off the praise out of courtesy. He crosses his arms, ready to catch up on your life. He complains that you're too private. "Why'd it take so long for you to host?" he asks. You don't have a reply. The truth is you're uncomfortable sharing your life with most people, even family, and what holds you back even more is knowing he was one of the loudest voices telling you to get an abortion when you were pregnant. Now you can't help feeling an invisible distance between you and your uncle.

You say something convincing enough while avoiding key details you don’t wish to share to satisfy his curiosity, and surprisingly (he usually tries to pry deeper), he shifts the conversation to something lighter.

You only half engage as he yaps about his job as a trucker, the physical toll it takes on him, and how he barely ever "gets lucky" with your aunt anymore. Blah, blah, blah—get a divorce. His voice fades into background noise, and to avoid focusing on his overly opinionated rambling, you concentrate on the task at hand. You've already wiped down the table of melted ice cream and pastry crumbs; now you're aligning the tableware for the next meal.

Somewhere between ignoring your pestering uncle and straightening the napkins, your eyes drift back to Satoru. He's already finished licking the ice cream off his skin surprisingly well—there's no stickiness left.

Now he's leaning on the table, apparently zoning out from the conversation between you and your uncle too. He's licking what remains of the ice cream in his cone—very little, really—and he struggles to reach the bit that's melted into the bottom, pushing his tongue out to scoop up the syrupy sweetness.

You're not sure if it's from the overwhelming heat or the exhaustion from the two stressful weeks of planning it took just to prepare for this occasion in the first place, but suddenly goosebumps slowly crawl up your skin. Time seems to slow as your focus narrows, zeroing in on the cone and your son's tongue flicking meticulously at the cup.

The cone stands no chance against Satoru's determination as he searches thoroughly for the remaining cream. The waffle is even melting away along the top, chipped from his nibbling. His forehead wrinkles in concentration and even breaks a sweat as he works around the inside. His whole mouth is inside the cone at one point, just sloppily slurping and enjoying it without a care for his surroundings.

You swallow, your arms pausing momentarily in your work, before snapping back to reality with a quick shake on your shoulder from the nagger. "...You alright?"

"Y-yeah," you answer, perhaps a bit too quickly, finishing up the last few details and walking over to the grill to plate the food. "Just tired," you add. Satoru blinks up.

Once everything is set and your grandfather's obligatory prayer over the food is finished, everyone gathers around the table, noisily diving into lunch. The table is lined up with your hardworking treasures; there's sweet corn, potato pudding, a fruit salad—courtesy of your sister—and countless amounts of fiber options, like the fragrant roasted brussel sprouts coated with a buttery spread. Someone brought a nut roast, which you cant wait to dig into first And of course your most iconic and favourite option, your BBQ chicken, is a fan favourite—it gets devoured almost immediately. You line your plate up accordingly. Chitchatter and appreciative hums fill the table.

It's one of the things you love most about summer, the perfect blend of chaos and fun. The cousins are back, tossing jokes back and forth, each one making everyone skin their teeth in wide grins. Your seven-year-old niece joins in too, throwing out an unexpectedly funny quip that has everyone clutching their stomachs, trying not to fall off their chairs. She's got that kind of charisma, so effortlessly funny for someone her age, like someone you know. She'll do great things.

The sound of frogs chirping adds to that endless, nostalgic feeling you've come to crave, even though you know it'll be interrupted soon enough as fall gives way to winter and the park becomes a ghost town until spring.

Throughout the meal, you're showered with compliments, which you graciously accept. Maybe you'll host again next summer, you think. It's nice, every once in a while, to step away from responsibilities and just enjoy the warmth of your family's presence.

The conversation shifts toward the far end of the table, well out of earshot, leaving you unable to join in.

Instead, you take the opportunity to savour your own creation, sighing with delight at how perfectly it turned out. The meat is tender and well-seasoned, just like you practiced in your backyard a week ago. You're pleasantly surprised you managed to recreate the flavour exactly, if not improve on it. And not only that, but the potato pudding was well done, which isn’t a normal occurrence for you; it always ends up being too watery or too thick. However, some miracle must’ve taken over your hands this time; it came out just perfectly, and you deserve a pat on the back. Later you’ll commend yourself officially by finally bingeing the new series you have been putting off because of work; just the thought alone makes you giddy.

A looming presence appears behind you before settling into the chair at your side, leaving almost no space between your seat and his. The Digimon T-shirt, the soft white tuft of hair, and the unserious combination of shorts, long white socks, and slides all signal your son's return to the table… with a new dish of food in hand?

"Seconds!" he proudly announces to his cousins before digging in again. They playfully jab his shoulder, teasing and laughing—something about his obsession with food and his fresh new ex—and he replies in that sassy tone that's half serious, half joking, but you know it's a silent warning.

"What?" At that, a protective hand swings over your shoulder, pulling you in tight. "Can't appreciate my dear mom's cooking?" he challenges.

The cousins break out in exaggerated, drawn-out "ooooo's," and you can't help but smile, secretly amused that old dynamics haven't faded one bit. Before the situation can escalate, like it has in the past when the family questions the closeness of your relationship, you intervene. "You flatter me," you say, defusing the tension.

Eventually, they let the teasing die down, switching the conversation to some violent video game you're unfamiliar with, but the arm around you remains even as the moment fades. You silently observe your son's eating habits. He catches your gaze and offers you a bite, but you decline. He must barely eat at university, as he's noticeably lost weight. He's definitely gotten lankier, if that was even possible, and his cheeks are more defined now, less round and plump of fatty flesh than they used to be. His acne is starting to make a comeback, which is a telltale sign he hasn't been eating properly or taking care of himself.

When you tell him, "Eat as much as you want," he just shrugs.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you catch him off guard when you ask about his recent breakup. "We were… not compatible," he replies, his jaw shifting uncomfortably. You notice his grip on your shoulder slacken slightly, and you don't press him any further. The last thing a young man like him needs is a nagging mother prying into his relationship status.

Still, you can't help but care for him in every way possible. After all, he's the result of your inexplicable love. Having had him so young, it often feels like he's more of a friend than a son. You practically grew up together, and you've seen him at his worst just as much as he's witnessed you overcome your own struggles. The bond between you transcends the typical mother-and-son dynamic. Your love for him cannot be described in words; he had saved you, and your affection for him stretches farther than hell will ever know.

"Okay—how's university?" You redirect the conversation.

Of course you know how his post-secondary experience is going; you call and text every single day, but texting and in-person conversations are worlds apart. You want to see his actual expressions to judge for yourself instead of relying on lifeless texts. After all, on calls he can hide behind the screen, but in person you'll catch him in a lie far too easily. You know university can be brutal; he’s an engineering major—the final boss. You can only hope the workload doesn't take too much of a toll on him. You wish there was some way you could help lift that stress from his shoulders.

For now, all you can do is visit him as often as possible, even more so now that he's single. You make food and clean up around his dorm whenever you can. Sometimes you stay beyond visiting hours and just hold him in your arms as he finally rests in your presence, but only after you've scolded him enough to convince him to take a break.

"Same old, same old," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his tired eyes, and your worst fear materializes before you; your baby boy is exhausted. They're going to work him into an early grave.

He takes bites between words as he chatters about school, and you gently slap his shoulder, a warning to slow down before he chokes. "You know me, I'm the strongest—I can handle it."

You refrain from slapping him again, this time harder. Instead, you click your tongue and pull on his ear, and he opts for the dramatics once more. He knows you haven't used that line in years, not since he was an actual boy. He only uses it to, successfully, get a rise out of you.

"That professor of yours, Fushiguro, right? Has he gotten off your case yet?"

At the mention of the professor's name, Satoru pauses his eating momentarily before resuming, now chewing less forcefully than before. It's clear he loathes that name—rightfully so.

You've never met the man, only heard bits and pieces of stories that Satoru barely shares with you. What you do know is that the professor is, quite simply, an asshole, especially when it comes to Satoru. It's as though he's taken some personal vendetta against him.

"He's… fine," Satoru says, but you don't believe him.

"Lately, there's been no trouble," he continues, chewing slowly before swallowing the last bite, leaving the plate speckled with crumbs. "Then again…" He trails off. "I've been showing up to fewer of his lectures. He has no reason to come after me anymore."

Apparently, Fushiguro is a "spunk-hater," quoting Satoru's words. The world of fun simply doesn't exist for that man. They're polar opposites, which is why they can't get along. That, and the fact that Satoru always seems to exceed his expectations. Last semester, the professor accused him of relying on artificial intelligence to complete his assignments and cut him a big fat zero.

Satoru had to go in and prove, word by word, that he understood the material and had cited all his sources. Even after proving himself and receiving a fair grade, their little rivalry didn't end.

The professor's petty, and Satoru never folds; it's rather comical, you think. They've met their match made in hell.

You tell him that regardless, he still has to attend most of the classes that you pay for, which he assures you he will when the time is right, but who knows when that'll be? "I'll just do the work—at least a watered-down version of my actual work, no biggie." His eyes crinkle in a lighthearted smile.

"Alright…" you say, not buying it.

"Yeah, right," he teases, knowing you don't.

"Wait—" your eye suddenly catches something similar to what you've been warning him about.

Satoru freezes as if he knows he's guilty and halts any movement, even his breathing, as if it would make him less conspicuous.

But you caught the ice cream stain on his white shirt before he could hide it. "Satoruuu!" you bite in that tone that tells him you were right from the start; a big splotch of yellow sits directly on the front of his brand-new, limited-edition Digimon graphic t-shirt.

You originally bought it as a joke, but he's worn it so often since the purchase that you've grown slightly attached to the cartoony piece. Partly because it's him appreciating your gesture. Now it's ruined.

Knowing he's been caught, he suddenly launches forward, encasing you in a tight hug that sucks the breath right out of you.

It's too fast, leaving you no time to push him away and give him a proper scolding for wasting your hard-earned money.

"Mom, I swear I didn't do it on purpose," he rushes to defend himself, sounding so small and regretful like a kid. He pulls you tighter, making you almost gasp in surprise as you feel your chest press right against his firm torso and his face snuggle into your neck. The table continues its chatter, used to this type of affection from you both. You gently tug on Satoru's sleeve to pry him off as you're losing air. "It's okay, I know—just wear it indoors now" you manage through your nose.

He only squeezes you tighter after you've already forgiven him, forcing himself into the closest proximity possible, where you can feel even the smallest prickle of his stubborn stubble and the contours of his muscles under the now-soiled shirt.

You attempt once again to pull him off but fail, and he just snuggles deeper into your skin, just like when he was a baby. At that, you stop struggling and slowly relax, feeling nostalgic.

Maybe you're just afraid of showing affection in public spaces like this, where people easily throw out terms like "obsessed boy mom" to pin a shameful narrative on active mothers, as if having a close connection with your son is so terrible, as if there aren't other, far more pressing problems in this world to worry about. This is the least of the issues.

It's uncomfortably sweaty as he holds you, but you don't resist; he must need this. You hold him back, breathing in his strong cologne mixed with sweat, manly and faintly sweet. Slowly, Satoru's head slides lower from your neck as if he's drifting off to sleep, though you can't quite tell from the awkward angle; his big head blocks your view.

The movement leaves goosebumps in its wake, the same sensation you felt earlier when he was absorbed in his ice cream. His warm breath tickles your skin, and you try not to think too much about it.

He takes a deliberate inhale of your sweat-dampened skin before finally settling against your partially exposed left breast. "I'm tired," he mumbles softly. The food must’ve played a part in solidly knocking him out.

You settle in once more, arms resting at your sides, and swallow hard, still unused to hugging him in public. You consider nudging him off again, but your arms stay motionless since your earlier attempts proved futile.

Gradually you relax too, appreciating the embrace, especially at his age when most young men would be mortified to still act like a clingy mama's boy. Satoru, on the other hand, has never been able to hide it no matter his age and you secretly adore his proudful nature. You gently run your fingers through his soft blonde tufts, brushing them off his damp forehead, then ease back into the conversation while comfortably cocooned together with Satoru.

His head remains angled away from the others' view when you suddenly feel wetness spreading across the skin of your breast, like something warm gliding over your chest.

At first you don't question it; Satoru has always had this odd habit of mouthing at you. "Cuteness aggression," it's called. You looked it up once, trying to understand these sudden bursts of affection. Regularly, he bites you, on your arms, shoulder, neck, tummy—anywhere that's unsheltered.

You swirl the wine in your cup, focusing on the conversation between your uncle and aunt. They're teetering on the edge of a full argument now, trading sarcastic but merciless jabs disguised as jokes, and the whole family is collectively holding their breath, knowing an inevitable argument is awaiting them at home tonight.

Little by little, though, the feeling grows, and you start to question it. The sensation of wetness intensifies as gentle nibbling accompanies Satoru's uncharacteristic silence. He gently dozed off a couple of minutes ago; you know this for a fact, otherwise you'd push him off for being inappropriate—time and space.

It's basically written into your DNA to notice these things. The slowing thump of his heart and his shoulders slumping inward signal he's out like a light. He also snores. His whole posture seems to be searching for comfort, and you find yourself sitting as still as possible so he can have it.

You don't look down, you shouldn't interrupt him. You care too much for him to disturb his sleep, knowing he definitely doesn't get enough rest at university anyway.

You shift your feet. He somehow seems to be unconsciously clenching his jaw, which is a telltale sign of stress and an additional reason you shouldn't disturb his rest, the clench must have led to his tongue slightly lolling out in relief; that explains the wet sensation.

There's a sudden pause in his movements, which makes you think he's finally passed out and transitioning from NREM to REM sleep, when you almost gasp in shock at the unexpectedness of his next action. Out of nowhere, he moves.

You aren't quick enough to prevent it, even if you were able to predict what would happen. Suddenly the warmth shifts from the top of your left breast, moving underneath your dress, not stopped by the protection of your bralette. His mouth, too quickly, finds your nipple, latching onto it tightly with a soft pop as it enters his eager mouth, immediately pulling it into a stimulating, harsh tug and coating it with saliva.

Unintentionally, your insides clench at the unexpected feeling, and your mouth widens into an O in shock. You almost let out a sound but quickly stop yourself from drawing the table's attention, squeezing your fingers into a fist instead.

Your mind races at a hundred thoughts per second, trying to process what on God's green earth is happening. Every nerve in your body is suddenly on fire, alerting you that this is impermissible. Quickly, you nervously scan the perimeter, sighing in momentary relief when you notice no one has realized anything; they're still busy in their own conversations. Luckily, the spotlight is once again at the far end of the table, and no one's eyes are currently in your direction.

Even if they were, you could cover for a while since Satoru's back blocks most of the view of what's truly taking place. From their perspective, he looks like he's simply hugging you and lying on your chest, which isn't completely effective but still works—they can only see the back of his head. His undercut and fluffy locks block your now-exposed breast; your dress rests just below where your areola ends, freeing the sensitive round mound around your nipple to the cool air.

While they’re occupied, you can finally breathe and process your shock. Satoru is still latched onto your nipple; you can’t see his face, and now you’re suspicious of how he’s truly asleep, but you doubt that’s the matter; his drawn-out sucks seem to be more instinctual than calculated, drawing on the side of messy—hungry even—but it doesn’t truly matter; what matters most is that a serious moral boundary is being crossed, not even in private but in a public setting where one wrong move and everyone can see!

Your stomach drops as you try to scale together an efficient plan to cease improper breach of boundary.

You need to get him off you as soon as you can while raising the least suspicion as humanly possible. At first you’re unsure on how to navigate inconspicuously weaning him off your chest. You can only think of two logical options: stir him awake and hope that he unlatches when he awakes so you can efficiently redress before he or someone else notices or pull him off yourself, effectively pulling your top in the process. Somehow both seem equally as risky.

Before you can decide a particular harsh suck rattles your body, you should feel repulsed, gnarly even, and aching to pull him off already before the situation can escalate any deeper to the point where you can’t ignore it, as this shouldn’t be happening already; he’s your son.

But your natural bodily functions betray you, forcing you to react to the stimuli before you can even process the shame, his tongue caresses the small bud in a way that’s practiced when he begins in a brutal sucking, almost swallowing your areola whole in the process, like a thirsty man drinking from a bottle after just having run a marathon of some sort.

Or like his slithering tongue, spooning to find the ice cream just moments ago.

You hold your breath, and your hands twitch—the intention was to tear him off, but they instead freeze in their goal.

One half of your mind is urging you to push Satoru off your chest immediately before anyone notices what's going on between you, and the other quiet, twisted half is focused on chasing the surprising, incredible pleasure and how good it feels despite how deeply revolting it is.

The attention on your long-neglected nipple ignites something forgotten inside of you—lost over the tiring but rewarding years of motherhood, where you let go of your individuality to pour all your existence into being a good figure for your son—desires.

And now, as messed up as it is, you feel all the years of selflessness returning back to this simple moment, and oh, how the pleasure feels like heaven. Tentatively, your raised hands slowly lower back to down and instead of tugging him off like you’d originally planned on, you rest them around his back, pulling him closer to solidify that no one will see what is truly happening and submitting to the pleasure. You chose the latter.

You let him continue suckling, and you could've sworn for a second you felt a desperate, warm mumble of appreciation against your nipple, a silent—"thank you"—vibrating on the skin before a hurried resumption, as if a second without contact would make the entire boob disappear.

It's so subtle you question whether you truly felt it or if you've gone completely, utterly mad, confused from the immorality of it all.

Once you lean into it, all your previous worries slowly fizzle away as you focus on the way his hot mouth moves softly against the sensitive flesh. You try to keep a straight face but fail to quiet your expression or remain completely still. You end up arching even farther into his warm embrace, inviting his greedy mouth to twist just right around the tip of the bud.

His cheeks suction around the edges now, moving less frantically than before, and his breathing settles into something even and deep, like he's reached the highest state of sleepy contentment. It feels so good—he feels too good. The thought makes you visibly cringe at the fact that you're finding pleasure from your own son's mouth.

Eventually (unfortunately), his activities must come to a halt when it's time to resume the fun after lunch.

Everyone's clearing up the collapsible table, and suddenly worry courses through your veins once again when you realize you have to tend to other things but he's still attached at-the-nip in front of everyone.

Luckily, right on time, he coincidentally begins to stir from his nap and unlatches, simultaneously smoothly shifting your modesty, putting your top and bralette back into place as he rises from the safety of your chest, concealing what just happened before anyone can notice.

Your nipple throbs mildly with discomfort when confined in the material once again, aching from the aftershocks of continuous, fervent tugging, similar to the feeling of soreness a week before your period, when your breasts feel ten times more sensitive to any touch but not only that, it exposes you to a feeling you haven't experienced in so long that you had almost forgotten it until now—when Satoru was a baby and would nurse. It seems he may not have lost that ferocity, and the thought has you throbbing again, though not in your chest this time.

"You're up late," a mocking voice calls from across the space. Your uncle's comment once again surprises you far more than it should.

Satoru lazily rubs his eyes with his entire arm, still groggy from sleep. He responds in a half-hearted murmur, still waking up, "Mmm, could've used a couple more minutes." He smacks his lips together, either to remove the sour taste from his slumber or to savour something.

You, on the other hand, are scrambling, your brain still processing what just happened. Before you can confront the shame you'd feel if you met Satoru's gaze and dwell too long in your thoughts, you hurriedly excuse yourself, moving away from the table and confusing both Satoru and your uncle.

He eventually lifts his hand from his eyes after battling himself awake and, unbeknownst to you, observes your fleeing shape.

As you return to the main table, you can't shake the nauseating feeling that has overcome you. You grab the vinegar spray and set to work, wiping down the residual sauces from the chicken on the grill to distract yourself, but you inevitably become lost in your thoughts again.

Now that your mind has returned to normalcy, the guilt that had been concealed by the heat of the moment has vanished; you can't even cope because you're in public, no matter how hypocritical it is.

You don't want to draw unwanted attention or confront your family, especially now. You're afraid they'll see right through you and pass their rightful judgement. Now that you can think logically again, you are compelled to confront the sinful bounds you have just crossed.

What if someone witnessed you essentially nursing your adult son in full daylight? How would you have explained it, let alone that you were enjoying it? One thought bleeds into another, and your mind drifts to the opinion that matters most. Satoru's. How will this impact your relationship? What if he knows? Will he ever find the means to forgive you, as this was just one delusionary instance?

You'll never be able to look at him again without remembering that brief, intimate moment that somehow felt endless and right, despite being inherently wrong. Every conscious nerve in your body had been screaming no. Yet your heart confusingly flutters for more.

This realization shakes you even deeper. This isn't something you should ever be questioning as a decent person and a mother. Something diabolical must have taken hold of you during that mere twenty minutes to let your thoughts wander this far and debate your own moral compass.

Not long after you flee, the person who you want to see the least is back, looming innocently around your presence.

It's funny that you could never fully avoid him; even right now when you frankly can't bear the thought of seeing his face, no matter how cute it may be, you fear you'll turn around and instead of seeing the incredible young adult he's grown into, you'll only see a small kid.

His presence makes the guilt consume you even more, and you want to break down, cry, beg for forgiveness, and somehow, hypocritically, move past the incident.

You feel watched like prey as he lingers around you in silence; on a normal day you wouldn’t think twice about it, but now his idle hovering in the makeshift kitchen makes you nervous. He seems clingier than before, if that’s even possible. You avoid looking directly at him, too embarrassed to fully face him.

You can feel his eyes tracking your every movement.

Normally, he'd be with his cousins since he hardly sees them anymore under the weight of his schoolwork. They'd wandered off before he awoke, and for some unknown reason, he's chosen to stay here, exactly where he's least wanted.

If you’re this uncomfortable now, how will you manage to address what happened once you get home? He offers to help and you immediately refuse. You tell him to go socialize without looking back, but he still insists on lingering nearby. You muster the courage to try again to convince him to leave, claiming you like to be alone in your kitchen space. You both know that’s a lie; you cook together all the time, well before he left.

He doesn’t fall for it, and you internally curse yourself for even trying. You nearly give up, knowing that no excuse will drive him away. That’s why he ends up accompanying you to the waste disposal despite your flimsy protests, which he easily deflects with, “I can’t let my dear mom do all the work.” You can’t come up with a good enough rebuttal to counter him, so in the end, you submit as always, mentally preparing yourself to be alone with him, even for just a small moment, as you carry out the garbage to the woods.

As you walk, there’s an impending feeling in your lower stomach enhanced by the loud footsteps.

You know you’ll need to at least acknowledge what you’ve been dreading to even think about once away in private from the family chaos; you owe it to him. But what will you tell him, the truth? That, he suddenly went from an innocent hug to latching onto you in the middle of a family gathering, and it felt so sweet that you couldn't find a means to pull him off. Your brain struggles to come up with an acceptable way to handle the elephant in the room.

You’re confident he must have noticed something when he woke up; you just don’t know how much he remembers. You don’t want to overestimate his memory and wind up overthinking it all, exposing yourself in the process. If he didn’t notice anything, then you owe him that ignorance, for both his sake and yours.

As you walk, he’s so close up behind you that you can physically feel the heat radiating off his body, causing the hair at your neck to stand straight in protest at the proximity. Fuck.

Right as you near the disposal, just as you're about to throw the trash away, you feel a startling touch, causing you to pause in your tracks. Two terribly familiar hands snake from behind your body and pull you into a tight hug, only stopping when they reach your middle, right on top of your tummy.

"Toru—" you gasp uneasily, desperate to push him off, for good this time.

You wait for his response, but it never arrives, leaving you stuck and uncertain. You contemplate finally standing firm and shoving him away, but your thoughts are briefly distracted the moment you feel his frame seek shelter in yours. You can feel his entire solid, warm body pressing against your backside.

Your mind is racing in the most painful way from the implications of his touch, and you're torn between nipping the bud and finally putting an end to this sick, inappropriate madness, as you should've done at the table before.

You should pull away from the hug as soon as possible before this escalates any further than it has already, but there's another part of you that can't bear to deny him, some subconsciously instilled mindset from years ago to always put your son's needs first and fulfill your role as his caretaker at any cost.

“…mommy”

Satoru whines softly behind your hair in a drawn-out, needy purr, and your barriers completely melt away. You’ve never heard his voice sound so utterly desperate it has your knees buckling; if not for the grip he has on your waist, you would’ve melted away completely.

You still put up a fight, even though you know you'd choose to satisfy him every time. You don’t need to think, and you can’t, as you’re lost in desire. But even if you could, the option you’d choose is clear: you’d take care of your son.

"We… c-an't," you nervously mutter, but he swiftly hushes you with a warm, almost testing, peck to your pulse, then your ear. His moist muscle rounds the inside, leaving a slippery, wet warmth in its wake as it intently maps out the curves of your ear, as if trying to memorize the organ. Then he takes a deep breath, sinking into the skin of your neck, as if waiting for approval.

It's all so dirty, partially because it's not something he does with simple ease. You know it's practiced, which is what's so awful. You know you shouldn't know this side of your son; a mother shouldn't ever discover this part of him, reserved for an actual romantic partner. Satoru has a nasty oral fixation.

"Why nottt?" he pouts childishly, holding you tighter and nibbling at the salty sweat that has accumulated on your neck from sprinting around all morning. He follows his words with a barely detectable little rut of his hips.

"You know why," you say, but he doesn't mean to listen like he normally does, despite his initial inquiry.

Growing confident in your indecision, he seizes the opportunity to finally pounce.

His large hands slowly begin to wander carefully over your body, starting in the middle and moving to your hips to stabilize you from your shaking. When he lays his hands flat, he tenderly smooths over them in a rhythmic method, attempting to calm your jumpy nerves, as affectionate as ever to his mother even in a time like this.

He talks into your skin again, this time in a low, menacing tone.

"You tasted sooo sweet," he admits.

Your cunt unconsciously clenches at the confirming comment, at the fact that he was fully aware of what he was doing the entire time. He was awake at the table when he selfishly decided to latch onto the breast of his mother for some unidentified reason.

The revelation irritates you slightly, despite the fact that it clearly turns you on; you try to push him away, but you know you're only faking.

"… What has gotten into you, Toru'?" You spit noncommitedly.

"I don't know, Mom." He doesn't even try at defending himself; instead, his hips begin to shift again, eventually leading to fully blown-out humping.

The garbage bag slips from your grasp and falls to the ground, spilling its contents as his hips thrust against your rear. He wet-kisses the pulse behind your ear again before licking a wet line up your neck.

"I just—hmpphh—I just know…that I love you," he gasps into your smooth skin, "so much."

How can you deny that? Your sweet baby boy, especially when he sounds soo fucking needy. You decide right then that you’ll deal with the consequences later; you convince yourself this is a one-time occasion, nothing more than helping out your overworked, heartbroken, needy son.

His hormones must be raging right now. After all, he just broke up with his longtime girlfriend. That's all. He needs some comfort, and he just needs his momma since his girlfriend dumped him. Since who could understand his pain and heartbreak better than you? You’re so far gone, and it’s all because of your soft spot for him.

Plus, Satoru is much taller and stronger than you are; like before, it takes a lot of strength to change his mind when he’s set on something.

Your mind goes completely blank and mushy with delight from the tight, circular rut of his hips against yours. His breath tickles your sternum now as he snuggles closer into your neck. It’s possible because he’s so tall, he hovers over you; his height gives him an advantage and the flexibility to reach over your shoulders and kiss your jawline with his eyes closed.

The angle effectively welcomes the sloppy pound of his hips against your buttocks, shielded only by your sundress. He pulls you back by your waist in synchronization with his thrusts, the pure force almost making you tumble, but he quickly stabilizes you, and you grip his forearm just in case.

"S-so horny," he chokes, now completely unrestrained. The material of your clothing slapping together, combined with the force of his thrusts, sends a muffled smacking sound through the air. You just purr, still in slight shock by everything occurring. "...Toruu—my love."

He whimpers too at the affectionate nickname, at a time like this, and at the realization that his own mom is feeling pleasure from this too.

"Been so pent up," he says, his voice cracking into a sound that’s almost a sob. A wave of concern washes over you, strong enough to make you consider stopping him, but a gentle squeeze on your hip silences the thought. It’s a silent plea: he’s fine, and he needs this. You let him continue. University has been taking its toll; you knew he was lying earlier when he said he was okay.

"All the work... it almost killed me," he admits, his voice thick as he gulps. His hips slow to a halt. The sudden stillness pulls you from your daze just as he slumps against you, letting his full weight settle on your smaller frame. For the first time since lunch, he finally meets your eyes.

You study his face, tracing details you’d missed before. Dark circles, deeper than they were just a month ago, shadow his eyes. He’s wearing his glasses now, something you hadn’t seen since you started avoiding his gaze back at the main table, the ones you bought for him in high school. His eyes have always been sensitive to light; the glasses are the only solution that ever really worked. Faint pink marks from old acne dot his cheek, and light stubble shadows his jaw. Your gaze drifts to his soft lips. He looks back at you, head tilted.

"M-missed you," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."

"I know," you reply, your own throat tight. "It’s been so hard on you since you moved out. You're doing so great." Your hand moves to his chin, your fingers gently tracing the line of it. Your faces are so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. "I'm proud of you, no matter what. It's okay. Just breathe. I'm here... Mommy's here for you."

You hadn’t understood the toll university had taken on him until now, and you fault yourself for not asking more. You look at him, and your chest tightens, your poor baby.

It must have been agony for him, being away for this long, even with your visits. You’d never been separated like this before, not for this long, not ever.

He immediately melts at your words, and you can physically feel the weight lift from his shoulders. "I-i'm sorry," he repeats, his voice trembling with sincerity. You wipe the tear that escapes his pure, doe-like eyes. He looks so pretty when he cries; a pink hue spreads across his cheeks, and his watery irises make the blue of his eyes look even more prominent.

He hiccups, and a sudden, sincere apology spills out of him as if all the guilt has finally come crashing down.

"I shouldn't have done that—at the table, it was so bad—you're my mom, but, but—"

Now it’s your turn to hush him, silencing him with a finger to his lips. You push back against him, cocking your ass into his groin, and gasp when you feel something hard poke back at you in return. He whines at the unexpected action, too. This is what your son feels like. His wet eyelashes blink at you in confusion, as if surprised that you did that, that you're somehow alright with this?

"It's okay," you permit. "You can... just this once."

Satoru pauses, sniffling, unsure how to react to the sudden grant of permission. He seems to be struggling to grasp that you want him to continue this inappropriate, immoral act.

You're granting your own son permission to use you for his pleasure, to rut against you. The thought is so staggering it’s hard to process: his innocent mother is just as depraved as he is.

He knows this is wrong; he knows he shouldn't have done it. But when he hugged you at that table, when he smelled your soft, all-consuming skin and felt the plush give of your breast against his cheek, all he could think was how dependable you were.

Something devious had taken hold, crippling his ability to think rationally and he couldn't hold back. Before a single consequence could register in his mind, his lips found your nipple, latching on as if by second nature. It was pure instinct he thought he'd outgrown over the years as he grew into a man.

All the stress from school, his targeting professor, and his girlfriend of a year dropping him out of the blue had accumulated, triggering his anxiety. That, combined with the fact that he’d missed you so fucking much after being separated for so long—albeit only a week or two—was what led him to crash.

Thank goodness for you, or else he might have gone mad. You were perfect and always right there for him. He supposed he felt comfortable enough to soothe himself with you, knowing you’d ultimately forgive him because of your bond. His brain was wired to subconsciously seize the opportunity before he could even think, all because of the mutual trust between you.

He latched onto the sweet, soft bud, and all his troubles fizzled away in an instant—something his girlfriend could never live up to. It was a coping mechanism he'd developed some time ago. He grew so antsy and jittery without something to occupy his empty mouth; it felt uncomfortable to be without a lollipop or anything sweet between his lips. Without it, his jaw would painfully clench up, and he sometimes ground his teeth in his sleep after going too long without the comfort.

The only option he could think of was his then-girlfriend. She was hesitant but allowed him to suckle for only short periods, so it wasn't even that effective.

He needed at least fifteen minutes to find relief, but she’d cut him off around three (:(just imagine the pain the poor baby had to go through), saying it got weird and made her feel like she was breastfeeding a grown man.

After a while, she denied him altogether when he tried to implement a stress-relieving sucking schedule. He’d thought he was being a thoughtful, good boyfriend by proposing it so she could be aware in advance and prepare however she needed to, but he couldn't have been more wrong. That's where she snapped, complaining that he was only using her for her tits and his own selfish reasons. Soon after, their troubles began.

For weeks, their arguments were constant. His girlfriend would trash him, accusing him of only wanting to suck on her tits for stress relief and of viewing her as a vessel rather than a romantic partner with her own needs and wants.

She finally broke during one fight, as he sat there in silence, not even denying it. In her rage, she crossed the line she’d been holding back for so long, ever since he’d first brought up his weird fixation. "You're not a baby," she'd screamed, "and I'm not your mom!"

He was a damn mess without his coping mechanism, as miserable as ever. So they broke up. She thought her words would wound him, make him realize how bizarre his tendencies were and maybe give them up. She had no idea the true impact her words would have in the heat of the moment. That one line sparked a revelation in Satoru, just not in the way she’d intended.

She left him, ghosting him, really. Predictably, he fell back into old habits. Weeks later, as he sat at your table eating your food, overwhelmed by everything, her words echoed in his head. His moral compass begged him not to, but even though he was ashamed to even think of it at first, he realized you could provide him with what he had lost.

When he really broke it down, you had nursed him before, back when he was much younger and unaware, when it was still socially acceptable to nurture his growth.

But really, what was the big harm now? The only real difference was that he was older and you no longer had the golden liquid, the nurturing aspect. However, the soothing factor could still remain. And he so desperately needed it. He wanted, more than anything, to test that theory.

When he pulled you into a hug, something snapped. The pull was too strong, and he betrayed his moral compass in an instant. Your chest provided the brief relief he was longing for. The whole world seemed to still as he wrapped his lips around the stiff warmth of your nipple, and he was finally at peace.

You, in contrast, were on alert, and he could tell you were uneasy. His care for you made him unable to resist adding a little extra technique—unnecessary for the stress relief he primarily sought, but a way to reassure you, to calm you down when he felt you were on the edge. He twirled his tongue just right over the tip to stimulate the sensitive nerve, breathing heavily and greedily into your warm, sweating skin.

He resisted caressing the covered mound of your other breast, even though his hand itched to feel its weight and flick the other bud, just so his poor mom's pleasure wouldn't be uneven. He held back, terrified of being caught red-handed at the table.

When you finally relaxed, he could doze off in peace. An unconscious appreciation slipped from his lips that he could only pray you wouldn't hear—as he was protected and nursed by your comforting body. Your tits were even better than his ex's.

Hell to society and its norms.

As he drifted off, a worry flickered through him: how could he ever stay away from your breasts now? And after all this time of hiding in shame, could you really audibly grant him consent to use you as an outlet? He couldn't begin to comprehend that those words, words of permission, had come from your mouth—his own innocent mother.

But he didn't linger on it, preferring to release all his pent-up stress right now. It was as if a beast within him, caged for fear of moral judgment, had awakened, and he couldn't help but pounce.

"Thank you," he says, trying to contain his excitement before stumbling with you toward the next tree. It was close enough to the main family gathering to hear the distant chirping of voices, but far enough away that no one could see what was truly happening between you. He quickly wrapped his hands around your tummy and effortlessly lifted you, pulling you over. You gasped at the abrupt shift, resting a hand on the tree to balance yourself, but he moved ahead, pulling you down into a deep arch, perfectly spread out in front of him, before snapping his hips forward again, moaning more openly.

"T-thank you—thank you!" he whines, bending over to kiss the sole of your back.

The position is absurd; his height prevents him from resting against you comfortably, his stomach awkwardly curled toward the air, but he manages to kiss the skin of your shoulder. He doesn't mind. All he can concentrate on is the pleasure his mother is giving him, taking over his body.

"You're the b-best, mom."

His thrusts are quick and sloppy but effective enough to get you wet—the hardness strikes your clit, even through the layers of clothes, and you repress a cry at the feeling of your own son's stiff erection. You're still preserving some kind of decorum around him. It must have hurt so much, you think.

The inexperience and lack of basic technique almost make you chuckle, but you hold back to avoid crushing his fragile ego. It makes you question if this is how the youth fuck nowadays, or if it's just... Satoru. (It's the latter.) He's always been jumpy, but you don't mind; you knew it would be the case when you agreed to this.

It's hilarious, but he's also trying to get you off, the way he pounds right where he knows your bundle of nerves is located, and somehow, it's succeeding. You're a whimpering mess, and he likes hearing your unfiltered voice. You're still somehow holding back though, veiled in shame, and it bothers him. He speeds up.

"You feel so good—fuck," he moans directly into your neck, making you tighten around nothing. This position is dangerous; his eyes scan over your jolting body, your back arched nastily, a sight that has his dick twitching hard in his shorts, and you groan. Your sundress is amazing; it’s one of those that accentuates your shape so well he can see every curve you offer. Your pudgy body, the one that carried him, is amazing.

He wants to see your breasts in full now, not hidden by any fabric. He hadn't gotten the chance to see them while he suckled, though he had wished to, if only for a split second. He had latched on so quickly that he could only feel, not see, and he couldn't risk opening his eyes in case you saw them. But you provide him with something even better when you finally look back at him, your eyes filled with lust, as if you're begging him for this. He has to clench his abs to fan away the feeling of his incoming orgasm.

Your pussy is clenching now due to the nonstop assault by Satoru, who’s breaking out in a sweat on top of you.

You can’t believe his voice and how good he sounds; it’s making all your walls crumble down, especially when you think about how you will ever return to normal after this. Will the dynamic ever be the same? It kills you, even though you’re the one who agreed to this. It’s hard to suddenly shift mindsets when for so long you were just his mother and he your son. But when you look into his blue, begging orbs, all that fades away.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when Satoru suddenly tugs on your dress. A cool breeze follows his movement as he bunches the fabric up at your waist, freeing your skin and allowing for less restriction. You want to tell him no, you can’t let him go this far; the clothing provides some kind of moral barrier that is now gone. But when he pulls down his shorts, leaving him in only his baby blue boxers, the pleasure increases tenfold. Now you can feel every curve and vein of his cock.

Your skin, unprotected by the material, directly challenges the long-standing belief that this could never happen.

Your eyes roll back from the humping, partly because you haven’t had a romantic partner in so long, relying only on your flimsy vibrator. But the real deal, even if it’s from him, is so much better. The pressure is so much yummier and sharper than you remember.

“Look at you—” he grunts, toying with the wetness over your underwear with the tip of his thumb. “So wet.”

“Didn’t know I had such a nasty mom—getting all worked up over her own son's cock.” The dirty talk turns you on even more, though you won't admit it. What really makes you shiver is when he brings his slick fingers to the prod of your lips. You pause, and he almost freaks out, fearing he went too far, but then you pull his fingers into your mouth, twirling your tongue around his digits in the dirtiest way possible.

“Fuck. I can’t take it anymore,” he grunts, his voice pained. As you swipe your tongue over his pointer and middle fingers, a devious thought seems to take hold. The look in his eye suddenly darkens, despite its blue hue. He finally pulls his fingers from the cavern of your mouth, leaving you feeling uncharacteristically empty.

A wet string stretches and pops as he brings his digits right back to his own mouth. You watch in shock as he savors your spit, rolling his fingers in his mouth without a care.

Your whole body jolts in awe when he does the unexpected; he’s so lost in the feeling that his eyes roll back as he works them over. Your own body shows how turned on you are by the lewd scene.

“Toru—” You’re sweating, pulled taut to the edge by the messy humping. Your pussy can’t help but clench periodically around nothing as you breathe heavily through your nose, all because of Satoru.

“‘S good, Toru,” you whine.

He stops again, and this time you’re both out of breath and sweaty, gasping into each other’s warm embrace. You stare at each other in silence, amplified only by your heavy breathing. You know you’ve crossed a boundary that should never have been touched, but there’s something in his eye, like this was forthcoming, unavoidable. And then he’s on your lips, biting, slurping, hungrily nipping at the flesh. He sucks on your lips and then prods deeper into your mouth, satisfied with the swollen aftermath of his work. Your teeth clash messily, but ever so softly, a testament to the care you still have for each other.

You let him do all the work; he needs this more than you do. He needs to let go of all his stress, and you’ll allow him to in any way he pleases, because you care for him. Satoru indulges in your mouth so thoroughly that his glasses poke uncomfortably at your eyes. He forgets to take them off, but it isn’t needed—his vigor sends them tumbling to the dirt all by themselves.

When he finally pulls away, leaving a string of spit connecting you and you panting like a dog against the air, he only smiles with his eyes and shifts your underwear to the side. “I want you,” he whispers. “Am I allowed…?”

You’re dazed, but you manage to grab his undercut, pulling him close. You surge forward, crushing your mouth to his. You never knew Satoru could be this addicting, but now you have to have him. Your body is screaming for him to be inside you.

That's all it takes. He angles his hips and drives into you with one deliberate thrust. You moan into his mouth, and you’re grateful he’s swallowing the sound; otherwise, the whole family would’ve heard. He keeps his lips pressed to yours, shushing you as he finally feels your slick walls around him, fighting the urge to cry out himself as your warmth grips his swollen cock.

“Mommy, m-mommy, mommy… s’good,” he pulls away from your lips, his voice a broken whisper as he cries against your mouth.

His thrusts are careful now, almost hesitant, like he’s already on the edge after all that frantic humping. You card your fingers through his undercut, watching his face as he loses himself in you. His lips are parted in a perfect “O” of pleasure, his brows knitted together.

“Mmmph, yes.” At first, you try to keep quiet, terrified that making too much noise would make this real, would snap that last thread of morality holding you together. But then he hits that spot, that perfect gummy patch deep inside, and you can’t hold back. A sharp cry tears from your throat as his cock massages your g-spot.

“S-shit!” Satoru gasps, your clenching walls making him jump. He pulls out completely, his concern for you overriding his own need, and starts rubbing his length against your clit. “You feeling good too?” he whispers. He drags the precum-slick tip over the sensitive nub in a steady rhythm, just like he’d rubbed your waist before, sending sparks shooting through you.

“Y-yes! Keep going!” you beg. At your cry, he speeds up, his circles growing more frantic. When you rock your hips to meet him, guiding him to that spongy spot just beneath his tip, his eyes roll back.

He shoves himself back inside, and a string of broken, whiny moans spills from his lips. “Fuck—sorry, m’cumming, fuck, fuck—“ His cock pulses violently inside you, but you push past the shock to help him ride it out, grinding against him to milk every last drop. You follow moments later, so wound up that the few quick circles on your clit are all it takes to send you over the edge.

You're both shaking in the aftershocks, and the chirping of frogs in the background suddenly sounds more prominent as all the blood rushes to your ears. Satoru slumps against you, spent and in the highest state of awe and pleasure. His cock slowly slips out, sending his seed to drip and spill onto the floor. He kisses your ear again, taking in the yummy feeling. “Mmm, love you—I love you.”

Right now, you should snap out of it and be revolted at what had just occurred, but the disgust doesn’t come. Instead, you pull him back into a kiss by his neck, soaking in his tongue and swiping needily inside the hot cavern. “I love you, ‘Toru.”

After, you both soak in the afterglow, his hands caressing your sides, sweet whispers and smooches passing between you. Satoru lazily cleans you up with a handkerchief from his pocket, even though you protest, unsure of the fabric’s sanitary state. He insists it’s clean and tidies up the mess you made in the heat of the moment before you return to the gathering.

He lingers closer than before, rubbing your side affectionately and whispering if you’re okay to walk. You tell him it’s alright while the family questions what took you both so long. You almost jump but find a quick reply in time.

The evening goes by in a satisfying flash. The event was a success, and almost everyone got to go home with trays of leftovers. The cleanup was quick, and by the time you’re heading home, it’s nightfall, partially because Satoru insisted on filling in for his cousins, giving you a moment to pack the car alone.

You don’t even make it through the door before he pounces on you again, pulling you to the couch and giving you those eyes you can’t resist. You say you need to discuss things first, but eventually, you fold and say, “After,” as he pulls down your dress for the second time today. This time, you’re on the couch and he’s under you as he latches on yet again to the bud, swirling and tugging ferociously and greedily, playing with the other nipple.

He passes out just like that, and eventually, you learn about his whole fixation. Of course, you comply to his suckling schedule, unlike his girlfriend. Now, he can only have it when he’s over from uni. After long periods, Satoru gets irritated without you in his mouth, ever since establishing it, especially at family gatherings. So you schedule his self-regulation around that. When his lips twist in that way and he gets cranky, you know it’s time to pull him away from the crowd to somewhere more secluded. He whines until you free his stress toys before popping one into his mouth.

Throughout it all, you found that he prefers your right breast and that yes, he does need to play with your other breast while nursing “to feel right.”