Airport Hotel

She pays for two rooms but we only use one. It's inexpensive and functional, good enough for a night's sleep before I catch the early flight. She insists on driving me the hundred miles herself, leaving her family at home so that she can see me off properly.

It hadn't been too hard to find her. A few days of searching online and the woman who let me disappear from her life after giving birth to me twenty years ago appears in my inbox. After some nervous and uncertain messages, we finally meet. A few months later and we are here, lying together in the bed of an airport hotel room.

We are in the dark, face to face. She tells me that she wants to remember what it feels like to be this close to me. She touches me, as if exploring the sensation. She slips the strap of her nightie down over her shoulder. The softness of one of her hands slides inside of my shorts as the other caresses my neck and draws me close.

The shoulder length blonde hair, blue eyes and sweet smile make you notice her. But, at thirty nine, and with three children born in the last ten years, she is slipping gently into middle age. She is still attractive, but not in an obvious way. She still has something special.

It isn't just that for me though.

She talks a lot. And she smiles a lot. Any empty space is filled with her words and warmth. That is what makes me want to be close to her as much as I can. When she smiles at me, she makes me ache inside. I want her so much.

I am the complete opposite. Quiet to the point of shyness. She tells me that she loves that about me. I like it when she tells me that she 'loves' something about me. Anything. I just want to hear her say that.

Her hand twists through my hair, pulling me tight. She tells me that it's all right and not to be scared. I'm not. Why would I be. I feel safe. My lips press softly over the hardness of nipple and I sense her breathe out slowly as my mouth closes around her. She tells me that she wishes she had milk for me and I latch to her distended nipple.

We use our given names whenever we talk. Not just when we are around other people, but when we are alone. We don't use words that mark us out as mother and son. She speaks my name now, telling me that what I am doing feels so good.

Slowly, her touch moves down over the bare skin of my back. I feel the tips of her fingers stroke down my spine to my hips and find the waist of my shorts. She is the one who tugs at the fabric. She wants this. We both do.

Her thighs open for me and she draws me between. I feel her pushing to meet me as my cock slides inside of her. Our mouths come together at the instant our bodies join. Feeling her hold me. Tasting her kiss. Being inside of her body. These are the things that I need to soothe the ache.

Our bodies meld together as she hitches the calves of her legs around the backs of mine, holding me tight inside of her. She thrusts back at me in time with my movement. We fit together perfectly. Maybe that is a trick that nature plays. It doesn't matter to me who she is and who we once were. I know that nothing could ever feel as good as fucking her.

I spasm as the sensation of having her passes through me. She orgasms with me, her cry too loud to be contained by the thin walls between us and the room next door.

Afterwards we lie in each other's arms, stroking and touching in the warmth. She calls me her beautiful boy. That is as close as she comes to acknowledging who we are to each other, as we both drift to sleep.

I wake up in daylight. I sense a moment's panic, realising my flight will already have gone. But she is next to me, smiling that smile for me.

It doesn't matter. She tells me that I am not going home, and she is not going back. It is just us now. It has to be that way.