The heat of the July day was fading into a cool evening. A soft breeze carried the scent of lilac bushes through the open window next to me as I sat on the large leather couch in my front room greedily reading my newest trashy romance. Ever since my divorce 5 years ago, the pressures of being a mother and bread-winner have reduced my sex life to this tacky erotica and, of course, my son Eric.
Eric is 22 years old and just graduated with a degree in Communications. He’s staying with me this summer before he enters the “real” world. I know most people would think it was monstrous or abusive, but ever since his father and I split, our relationship has been more than an average mother and son. At first, I wanted to make sure that he would know how to treat a woman properly, something the other men in my life have consistently failed to do, but it grew to be so much more.
I’m only forty-three myself, and I take very good care of myself. I love the feeling of turning heads of men half my age, and teasing Eric’s friends has always been a favorite pastime of mine. No harm in letting a little nip slip just to make a teenager squirm a bit, I always feel.