The Size She Never Knew

There is no actual incest, but definitely taboo.

******************

Monica thought to herself how 42 looked a lot different than what she'd envisioned just a few years ago. Divorced a year now, she'd been trying to get back into shape going to spin and yoga classes, shaving off twenty pounds but still carrying 190 on a five-foot-eight frame. Her mirror showed progress, but her confidence had been shattered when her ex left with a thin secretary. She did have curves where men liked them as well, with an ass and breasts that helped hide her belly that she focused so intently on. Her job as a mid-level advertising executive kept her busy, but it was Max who kept her anchored. Her eighteen-year-old, lanky and six feet, had absorbed the fallout of the divorce like a sponge. He retreated to his room most evenings, and she'd lie awake some nights certain he was up there with a screen full of women who weren't real. She knew he needed a release valve, and she wasn't about to drive a wedge between them.

The knee surgery for Max was supposed to repair his ACL and MCL that he'd torn playing soccer. When a nurse finally called her back to recovery, Max was propped up in a bed, still recovering from the sedation.

"He's a little groggy, but you're clear to take him home," the nurse said, handing over a plastic bag with his clothes. "Bathroom's right there when he's ready."

Monica hovered. Max swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, wavering.

"I'll help you to the bathroom, sweetheart." She slipped an arm around his waist, guiding him.

Inside the small bathroom, he braced both hands on the sink, head hanging.

"You okay? Need to sit?"

"No. Let's just go home." And then, before she could step out, he dropped the hospital gown. It pooled around his ankles.

Monica froze behind him, bag clutched to her chest. Her eyes traveled the length of his bare back, the knobs of his spine, the pale skin over narrow hips. A surprised little laugh escaped her. "Honey, you sure you want me in--"

He turned halfway, reaching for the bag. The movement gave her a side-angle view, and there it was. Soft, heavy-looking, nestled between his thighs. Her breath caught. Holy shit. Her brain scrambled to un-see it, but then he fumbled with the waistband of his boxer briefs, nearly losing his balance.

"Here, let me help." She stepped forward on instinct, crouching behind him to guide the underwear up around his knees. He braced the sink again. The bathroom mirror faced them. She could see his front side reflected as she stood up. And that's when the full picture burned into her retinas: a soft penis that had to be five inches, and thick, hanging over a substantial set of testicles. Her son was hung. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily, a muffled throb settling low in her pelvis.

She finished her motherly duty, tugging the sweats up, and got him to the car.

On the drive home, he rested his head against the passenger window, more lucid now. Monica's mind was circling the drain. He was painfully shy, never dated. Did he even know what he had? She remembered reading that boys don't shower together anymore. His only reference was probably porn. That thought made her stomach clench. She had to say something.

"Honey?"

"Yeah?"

"Back at the hospital... when I was helping you, I couldn't help but notice you've, um, grown a lot down there."

" Oh god, Mom. " He squirmed.

That wasn't enough. This had to sound like a real compliment a man would want to hear. She swallowed. "What I'm saying is, you have a big dick."

Silence. Then a shifting in the passenger seat, a rustle of fabric. He didn't speak. She realizes what she has just caused.

"Sorry," she added, softer. "I know that's weird. But I've seen a few in the real world--" she emphasized that, "--and honestly, I'm not sure I've seen one that size...soft anyways."

"Mom, please stop."

"Okay. But... why are you so shy around girls? Let me tell you a little secret. We might say size doesn't matter, but the truth is, women get excited when they encounter a big one!"

His eyebrows lifted. She is actually joking, which she hasn't done in so long. That makes him happy even though he doesn't show it back in the moment. He turns his head. "I've watched porn. I'm not any bigger than those guys."

"Jesus, Max. Those men are anomalies. That's why they do porn. A minuscule number of men look like that." She noted he said not bigger, not smaller either. "How big does it get, anyway?". I actually just asked my son this, what is wrong with me.

He exhaled. "Seven inches long."

Monica's mouth went dry. "That's perfect. Almost the ideal length. Too much more causes problems.", she answers in a clinical manner. Honestly, it was the thickness that had stood out though. It looked as thick as most men hard. "You ever measure it around, the girth?"

Her throat clicked as she swallowed.

He laughed, "You said GIRTH........Six and a half inches," he said, voice flat.

She looked at him. He was staring back, reading her face.

"Mom? Is that impressive?"

"Honey..." She lifted the energy drink from the cupholder, examining its circumference. "That's like this can (holding up her daily Red Bull). Top one percent of men. Fuck, Max!. " The word slipped out before she could stop it. She sounded like a woman bragging, not a mother.

He chuckled.

His next question came tentatively. "I guess I'm not any different from Dad, then."

A laugh burst from her, bitter-edged. "Well, you got your genetics from me. Your father is average on a good day. You put him to shame!"

He snorted. "Thanks for that, Mom."

They both laughed, the car filling with a surprising lightness. As they pulled into the driveway, she shook her head. "Seven by seven almost," she said. "Sounds like a piece of lumber!"

His laugh was bright. "It's good to see you laugh mom, even though this conversation is weird as fuck."

She grinned at him, and that was that.

*************************************

But the next year rewired everything.

Max grew into himself. He decided to go to community college so he stayed living at home, which Monica secretly relished. A pep in his step, a confidence that drew girls toward him. He started dating. Monica remained a spectator to her own life--work victories, gym plateaus, a loneliness that hardened in her chest. She was down to 180, still curvy in ways that felt wrong. The mirror showed a woman who could look damn good in the right dress. She'd went out on a few dates in the last year, but the compatibility hadn't been there yet for more than single dates. Her most intimate encounter was a bi-nightly visit from Big Joe, her 7" long realistic dildo, that also happened to be over 6 inches around. She knew what she was doing when she ordered it, but for goodness sake she hadn't been able to look at her daily Red Bull the same after measuring it, which was in fact almost the same thickness as Max. What is wrong with me she thought. She couldn't shake those filthy thoughts, even after a year.

One morning, she stood in the kitchen in her best business dress--navy, structured, hugging her breasts and draping over the parts she disliked. Her makeup was done, lipstick a glossy coral that made her smile pop. She was trying to impress a male client.

Max padded in, hair mussed. He stopped dead. "Hubba hubba, Mom. Wow."

She blushed, sliding his plate across the counter. "I'm trying to land an account."

He sat, grinning. "If he likes women, you've already got it. You look incredible."

"Stop." She turned away, but the warmth spread through her chest, then lower. She wasn't prepared for the ache that followed.

He seemed to sense her disbelief. His voice turned thoughtful. "You know who'd be really uncomfortable sitting across from you right now?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Tommy," Max said. His friend from school. "I remember he used to always say how pretty you were. I told him to knock it off, but he never stopped. You were, like, his first crush."

The words landed in her belly and melted downward. A teenage boy - now a man - had found her desirable. The dampness between her thighs was sudden and undeniable. She pressed her legs together beneath the counter, heat climbing her neck.

Max stood and hugged her. "Your smile is a ten, Mom. Use it." Then he left.

That night, she was three glasses of wine deep, barefoot in baggy sweats and an oversized T-shirt, celebrating the new client. She'd been binging her new favorite TV series. When Max came home, he dropped onto the couch beside her, close enough that she could smell his cologne.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"We got him." She smiled, the lipstick long gone.

"Told you. The smile." He nudged her shoulder.

She looked at his profile, the sharp jaw, the ease in his posture that hadn't been there a year ago. Her pulse thumped low and insistent, a steady drum against the silence.

"You don't believe me do you? Dad did a number on your self confidence. He is an idiot."

She is chuckling now at how he is the one trying to build her up.

"Mom, Tommy ain't wrong. You are pretty. That smile is devastating, you focus on the curves you don't like, but you also have the curves guys do like. You're successful as well."

She is tipsy enough to play, "Tell me more, My ego needs it." grinning at him at batting her eyes. He looks at her like you really want me to keep going.

"Mom, you're a fox. You've been getting into shape. I know you want your stomach fat gone, but you have big boobs and a nice butt, especially after all your working out."

*********************************************************

His compliment hung in the air between them--you have big boobs and a nice butt--and Monica felt the wine warm in her cheeks, a loosening somewhere behind her ribs. She was tipsy enough to let the silence stretch, to watch him realize what he'd just said to his mother.

"Sorry," he muttered, but he was grinning. "Too far?"

"No." She tucked her feet under herself on the couch. "Keep going."

He laughed, a short exhale through his nose. "You're fishing."

"I'm forty-two and divorced. I'm allowed to fish."

Monica's thumb traced the rim of her wine glass. Three glasses in, and her filter was gone. "You know what I keep thinking about?" she said.

"What?"

"That conversation in the car. After your surgery."

Max's expression shifted. Not uncomfortable. Wary, maybe. Curious.

"I can't stop thinking about how I just blurted all that out. About your... you know." She gestured vaguely toward his lap. "And you just sat there and took it."

"You were trying to build my confidence."

Monica set her wine glass on the side table. The clink of glass on wood sounded too loud. "Saying things I had no business saying. And now you're here, all grown up, telling me about how hot I am and that your friend's desire me." she said in a mocking tone.

"So that's where your mind is tonight."

"Stop." But she was smiling.

"He'd lose his mind if he knew we were talking about this."

The dampness from that morning returned, a pulse between her thighs she couldn't ignore. She thought about Tommy--ginger hair, soccer-fit, the way he always called her Ms. M with that boyish politeness. She'd never looked at him that way. But now, with the wine and the strange tension coiling in her living room, her mind wandered.

"I'm horny, son."

The words fell out before she could catch them.

Max went still.

"Do you think I could call Tommy?"

"Mom--" He stopped. The word hung there, incomplete.

She should have backtracked. Should have laughed it off, blamed the wine. Instead, she watched his face. The micro-expressions flickering across it. Surprise. Discomfort. And then something else. Something calculating.

"Actually," he said, "you go for it. If all it's going to be is sex."

Her heart stuttered. He's serious.

"I was joking," she said.

"No, you weren't."

"Does he have a big dick, too?"

Max burst out laughing. "Oh my god, Mom."

"What? You brought up his crush. I'm just doing market research."

"You're terrible."

"Am I wrong to ask?"

He was still chuckling, shaking his head. "Tommy? I don't know. We don't exactly compare. Even if he isn't I'm sure the enthusiasm will be there, and he plays soccer so he'll have stamina."

They both are laughing, she says "My son, the matchmaker......Honey, thank you for not going away to school this year."

"Why don't you text him?" Max cut her off, pulling out his phone. "Invite him over for dinner tomorrow. I'll make sure I'm not here. Just say something came up."

Monica's mouth opened. Closed. "You're really okay with this?"

He stood, pocketing his phone. "I want you happy." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, the gesture so tender it made her chest ache. "Goodnight, Mom."

"Max--"

But he was already walking toward the stairs, his lanky frame swallowed by the hallway shadows. She heard his door close upstairs.

If Max is good with this, fuck it. I'm doing it.

The thought was a lit match. It might blow up in her face. It might burn the whole house down. But she reached for her phone anyway.

******************

The next evening, Monica stood in front of her bedroom mirror for twenty minutes. She'd settled on a burgundy top, tight enough to show the shape of her breasts, low enough to hint at cleavage. Dark jeans that hugged her ass. She'd done her makeup--not too much, just enough to look like she hadn't tried too hard. Her hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders.

The doorbell rang at seven.

Tommy stood on the porch in a button-down shirt, his ginger hair slightly damp, like he'd showered right before.

"Ms. M--"

"Max got called into work," she said, the lie smooth on her tongue. "Double shift. Last-minute thing. Come in, come in."

He stepped inside, handing her a pie he'd picked up for dessert. "That's too bad. I haven't seen him in a few weeks."

"He was disappointed. But he said to tell you hi."

They settled in the living room. She says have some wine with me and hands him a glass of red. They start making small talk. His classes at community college. Her latest campaign. His soccer season, which was going well. He was easy to talk to, she realized. He'd been in and out of this house for years, and she'd never really noticed how comfortable he was around her. How he looked her in the eye when she spoke.

Or maybe she'd never let herself notice.

He was so young and vibrant, why would he be into me, but she told herself don't think just go with it. She saw it now with a clarity that made her pulse skip. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his shoulders filled out that button-down. Soccer had carved him into something lean and solid, and his hands--resting on his knees as he talked--were a man's hands.

"Ms. M, this wine is really good."

She set her glass down. "Call me Monica. For goodness' sake, you're a man now."

His cheeks went pink. "Monica. Okay."

The small talk stretched another ten minutes. She couldn't focus on a word he was saying. Her mind kept circling back to the plan, the reason he was here, the thing she was about to do. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore.

"Tommy." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "There's a reason Max isn't here tonight."

He paused mid-sip. "What do you mean?"

"I mean he knew I was inviting you over. He told me to tell you he had to work." She held his gaze. "He told me to go for it. As long as it was just sex."

Tommy's wine glass hovered in front of his mouth. He lowered it slowly. His eyes did a double take, scanning her face for the joke.

"Did you just say....?" his voice cracked

"Ms. M." He stopped, corrected himself. "Monica. Did you just say what I think you said?"

She nodded, letting a slow smile spread across her lips. Seductive. Deliberate. "Max said you liked me, and I've been in a dry spell and thought you might be able to help, even though I'm an old broad."

He looked at her bewildered in more ways than one, and said, stammering. "You--you are the hottest woman I know."

Something loosened in her chest. The part of her that had been bracing for rejection. She stood. She leaned over him, close enough that her perfume reached him, close enough that her cleavage dipped into view above the burgundy neckline.

His breath caught.

She pressed her lips to his. Soft. Testing.

Pulling back. "Good, Tommy?"

His hand came up fast, cupping the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair. He pulled her back down and kissed her again--harder this time, his mouth opening against hers. The wine was on his tongue. His other hand found her waist, gripping like he was afraid she'd disappear.

Her pussy clenched. On fire. The phrase wasn't hyperbole. She could feel the heat radiating from her center, the wetness already gathering. She hadn't been kissed like this in decades.

She pulled back, breathless. "Follow me."

Her hand found his. She led him toward the hallway, toward her bedroom, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. His footsteps behind her were steady. Certain.

She didn't look back.

********************************************************

Her bedroom door clicked shut behind them. The sound was a starting pistol.

Monica turned to face Tommy, her back to the bed, and what she saw in his eyes almost made her knees buckle. Not just lust--though that was there, bright and unmistakable--but something closer to awe. He looked at her like she was a gift he'd been handed and was terrified of dropping.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah." A shaky exhale. "More than okay."

His hands found her hips. Tentative at first, then surer, fingers pressing into the denim. She arched into the touch, and his eyes dropped to her chest. The burgundy fabric stretched taut across her breasts, nipples already peaked against the thin material. She hadn't worn a bra.

Tommy noticed.

His thumb ghosted over her right nipple through the shirt. A shiver ripped through her, sharp and electric.

"Can I--" He swallowed. "I want to--"

"Yes," she breathed.

His mouth descended. He didn't lift the shirt. Instead, his lips closed over the fabric, the heat of his breath bleeding through, and when he sucked, the friction of cotton against her nipple made her gasp. Her hand flew to the back of his head, that ginger hair damp against her palm.

He licked. Slow. Deliberate. The fabric darkened where his tongue traveled.

"Jesus, Tommy."

He switched to her left breast, same treatment--mouth sealing over the nipple, sucking until she felt the pull deep in her core. Her hips rocked forward without permission.

He lifted his head. His lips were wet. "Can I take this off? Please?"

"Please," she echoed, and the word came out needy, desperate, nothing like the composed woman who'd hosted dinner. She didn't care.

He peeled the burgundy top up and over her head. Her breasts swung free, heavy and full. Tommy made a sound--low, guttural, almost pained.

"Monica." Just her name. But the way he said it was a poem.

His mouth found bare skin now, and the difference was seismic. No fabric barrier, just the wet heat of his tongue circling her nipple before drawing it deep. She moaned--loud, unguarded, a sound she hadn't made in years.

His hand slid down her belly. Not rushing. Letting his palm learn the terrain he'd apparently fantasized about. When his fingers reached the waistband of her jeans, he paused.

She nodded before he could ask.

The button popped. The zipper rasped down. His hand slipped inside, past her panties, and two fingers found her cleft.

"You're already wet."

"Wet as fuck," she corrected, and hearing herself say those words--fuck, the way she said it, low and raw--made her clench around nothing at all. "You did that, Tommy. Please don't stop."