I sit at the kitchen table, utterly stunned. My pulse hasn't slowed since Gabriel stormed out of the house, tires screeching down our quiet street. Such delicious anger in those eyes, my sweet, timid boy transformed into something magnificent and possessive before me.
"I don't want you to be a prostitute anymore. Not for one more fucking day."
His words replay in my mind, sending electric currents straight between my thighs. I've never seen my Gabriel like that, jaw clenched, eyes blazing with determination, voice commanding in a way that made my knees weak. All these years watching him grow, nurturing him, protecting him from the world, and suddenly he's the one trying to protect me.
I slide my hand beneath my nightgown, fingers finding the slick heat there. Despite my thorough shower last night, I made certain not to wash him out of me. His essence is still there, mixed with my own arousal. My Gabriel, inside me at last.
When I first saw him in that dimly lit room, recognition dawning in those beautiful eyes, it was as though a dam had broken. All those carefully contained feelings, years of restraint, of pretending my love was purely maternal, came surging forth with unstoppable force. I'd been playing my role perfectly until that moment, compartmentalizing the escort from the mother. But seeing Gabriel there, watching his innocent face transform with pleasure as he spilled himself inside me... everything changed.
I threw my coat on and I was out the door moments after he fled, not even bothering to clean up properly. Covered in the evidence of nearly a dozen college boys, their seed cooling on my skin, in my hair, yet all I could think about was Gabriel. My son. My love. How right it had felt when our bodies joined, how perfectly he'd filled me.
I lean back in my chair, eyes drifting closed as I relive that moment of recognition. The horror in his eyes should have devastated me, but beneath it, I saw something else. Something he's trying desperately to deny. Desire. Ownership. Love beyond what society deems appropriate.
"He wants me," I whisper to the empty kitchen, a smile curving my lips. "He just doesn't know how to accept it yet."
My fingers move faster beneath my nightgown as I imagine Gabriel returning home, that same determined look in his eyes as he claims what's rightfully his. What has always been his.
I've spent eighteen years sharing my body with strangers to provide for my son. Now it's time to share it with the only man who truly deserves it… the only man I've ever truly wanted.
I increase my pace, thrusting two fingers deep inside myself while my thumb circles my clit with practiced precision. My other hand slips between my lips, gathering the traces of Gabriel's cum that still linger there from last night. I close my eyes, savoring the taste of my son on my tongue like the finest champagne, swirling it around my mouth before swallowing with a moan of pure ecstasy.
"Oh Gabriel," I whisper, arching my back as I curl my fingers upward, finding that perfect spot that makes my toes curl against the kitchen tile. "My beautiful boy."
I switch hands fluidly, bringing my other slick-coated fingers to my mouth while righty takes over below, plunging three fingers now into my drooling pussy. The dual sensation, his taste on my tongue and the fullness between my legs, makes me shudder with delight.
I don't need saving from this life. I've always been in control, even when clients thought otherwise. But I do need him. Only him. I want to be exclusively his, to feel those innocent hands explore every inch of my body, to teach him how to please me in ways no other man has ever managed.
I groan as my walls clench around my fingers as the first wave of orgasm washes over me.
My hips buck wildly against my hand as I imagine him walking through that door, claiming what belongs to him. I don't care if he's frightened of these feelings. I don't care if society says it's wrong. Eighteen years I've waited, watched, nurtured this connection between us.
"Gabriel!" I cry out as my climax peaks, my entire body convulsing with pleasure so intense my vision blurs at the edges. The chair creaks beneath me as I ride out the waves, my fingers never stopping their relentless rhythm.
As the aftershocks subside, I slowly withdraw my hand, admiring the glistening evidence of my desire coating my fingers. With deliberate slowness, I lick them clean, one by one, maintaining eye contact with the empty chair where Gabriel sat just minutes ago.
"You can run, my love," I murmur, "but you can't hide from what we both want."
I rise from the kitchen chair, my legs still trembling from my release. If my darling boy wants me to stop, then I'll honor his wish, but on my terms.
With newfound purpose, I make my way to my home office, the small room at the end of the hall that Gabriel believes is where I "catch up on paperwork." He's never questioned why the door stays locked. Such a trusting boy.
I slide the key from its hiding place beneath a loose floorboard and unlock the door, stepping into my sanctuary of secrets. The morning light filters through venetian blinds, casting striped shadows across a polished mahogany desk.
From the bottom drawer, I retrieve my most valuable possession, a small leather-bound book with a delicate blue cover. My insurance policy. My future.
"Well, darling," I murmur, trailing my fingers lovingly across its worn surface, "it seems we're finally putting you to proper use."
I settle into my chair, crossing my legs as I carefully open the book. Each page contains meticulous details, names, dates, preferences, weaknesses. Eighteen years in this business teaches you to keep excellent records.
"My goodness," I whisper, flipping through the pages. "I'd almost forgotten how extensive my client list has become."
The University of Maine section is particularly robust. Professors desperate for release from their mundane academic lives, administrators seeking dominance they can't express in their professional settings. All of them with their dirty little secrets, all of them vulnerable.
"Fourteen professors," I count, running my finger down the list. "Significantly more students." I chuckle softly.
But as I continue turning pages, one name stands out among the rest, highlighted in red ink, my special designation for particularly influential clients.
"Dean Jack Woods," I purr, tracing the name with my fingernail.
Images flash through my mind. Jack bent over his own desk after hours, begging for me to peg him. Jack in a hotel room, weeping with gratitude as I step his balls with my heels. Jack on his knees, worshipping me while his wife called, wondering why he was working late again.
Three beautiful children. A wife who volunteers at the hospital. A reputation as the moral compass of the university. All of it balanced precariously on the trust I've maintained, until today.
I reach for my phone, scrolling to the private cloud server where I keep my most valuable recordings. The thumbnails alone would destroy him, the distinguished Dean of Students reduced to a whimpering mess under my control.
"You always were an annoying client, Jack," I murmur, selecting a particularly compromising video where his face is clearly visible. "And now you're going to help me stay close to my son."