We're just getting started.

You wake with a start, drenched in cold sweat while the first rays of morning reach between the curtains. Looking around, you're in your room where you went to sleep last night, your TV still playing the cartoon you put on to cover your breakdown. The memory of the dreams fade, but the acute terror of being crushed by something remains for a lingering moment. The cold morning air feels crisp on your wet skin and you throw the covers off the bed then start peeling off your shirt and pants which you forgot to do last night. You shiver a moment and get out of the bed, glancing at the clock which reads 6:58 am. You drop your clothes in your laundry basket and walk quickly to the bathroom. Already the sounds of your mother preparing breakfast for herself and you can be heard from the kitchen.

You go straight for the tap and begin slurping handfuls of water as you awoke desperately thirsty. You finish and look up into the mirror and see that your eyes look puffy, like you didn't get enough sleep even though you're sure you've slept at least ten hours. Your skin is pale and sickly looking, and there's little scratches all over you where you clawed at yourself in the night.

I need a shower. You say to yourself. The shower takes a moment to warm up which you spend removing your soiled boxers. The masculine scent of your dried load assails your nostrils, reminding you of last night's peeping session. Why? How could she do that? How could she be attracted to him? He... He tortured me.

You get under the water and try to let it wash over your soul, wash the bad thoughts and worse memories away. It helps a little. You sit down in the tub and wrap your arms around yourself as the water falls down on you. You turn the knob so the water is as hot as it can get. It burns a little on your scratches but you don't mind it. You want to disinfect yourself of all the horror you've experienced recently. For about ten minutes you just stay like that, you feel as though you're on autopilot as you stand and begin to wash yourself, starting with your hair and working your way down. When you're finished, you exit the shower and brush your teeth before making your way back to your room to dress. Making your way down to the kitchen, you find your mother just finishing preparations for a nice breakfast.

"Hey baby boy." She says as she smiles at you from the in front of the stove. "You're up early. I was just going to wake you. I thought you could use a nice, warm breakfast after all the stress from yesterday." As she speaks she returns to the eggs she's finishing up, flopping them down on a two big plates next to some bacon and toast. She turns the stove off and moves the plates to the table.

"Thanks." Was all you could muster as you took your seat across from her. You look purposefully down at your food and begin to eat quickly and in silence. Your mother eyes you as she sips her coffee.

"Baby?" You keep eating. "Is everything alright?" You can't believe she has the gall to ask that now.

"Fine." You mutter between bites.

"A-Alright." She says hesitating, sadness and worry clear in her voice. "You never came down and got that plate I left you, you must be famished." She begins to eat her own breakfast. She tries halfheartedly a few more times to engage you in conversation but you give short, terse answers and finish your meal. You take your plate to the sink and rinse it before putting it in the dishwasher and exiting the room quickly. Your mother watches you go with a furrowed brow but she must prepare for work. This may be your last summer vacation before college but she is almost always on a tight schedule year round.

Up in your room again you play a really bloody action-rpg to work off some more stress until you hear your mother leave for the day. You look out the window and watch her get into her car and drive off then return to hacking and slashing for a couple hours. Eventually you get bored with it and decide to get something to eat before doing some chores. You go down to the kitchen and microwave the plate of leftovers from the dinner you skipped last night. After wolfing it down and washing the plate, you head to your room to collect your laundry. Your mother thought it was important to teach you how to keep your own house for when you lived on your own. So despite definitely being able to afford a maid, she insisted on splitting the household chores evenly between the two of you. She was expected to find time to do her tasks and you yours.

You descend the stairs to the basement that also serves as a laundry room, your laundry basket clutched against your body as you carefully move down the steps unable to see your feet. You're pretty good at this from years of practice and make it down with no trouble. The washing machine is open so you toss your first load in, along with some soap. After starting the machine, you turn to head back up to sweep the kitchen but your eyes fall on your mother's laundry basket at the bottom of the stairs. She must've brought it down earlier so she could do it later and you didn't see it as you came down. Your vision immediately rests upon the sporty thong your mother wore to her appointment with that bastard. It's lying on top and you can see the workout clothes below it as well. The tight black pants that hugged her luscious rear and the top that squeezed her breasts so tightly together.

Why did she dress so sexy for that? You find yourself thinking. I don't know, I guess she looks like a fucking goddess no matter what. Rationalizing as you approach the basket. Like peeping, the fascination with your mother's undergarments was something you'd long outgrown, or so you thought as you stare down at the little black thong. You see it is soiled with a combination of sweat and other of her most intimate excretions. She really goes hard at the gym. For some reason you're tempted to pick it up. The image of you burying your face in its pungent scent flashes through your mind. You think of what your mother's skin smells like and wonder if it will be similar. You're disgusted with yourself as you realize the idea is making you hard.

It's too much. A wave of arousal and shame washes over you as it did last night. Perhaps your recent misfortunes are causing you to regress in your feelings of helplessness. Perhaps you are acting out in frustration out of jealousy and impotent rage. Either way, you fish out your dick and begin fondling yourself as you bend down to pick up the thong. You hold its smooth, absorbent material in your free hand. You can detect faint traces of its scent in the air as you work your shaft and rub the head of your cock with your thumb, your oozing precum serving as lube. You dive in and inhale deeply. The salty, ripe odor that fills your nose almost makes you cum immediately but you manage to hold back and savor it a little. It's different from how you imagined. You feel so depraved knowing you're ready to explode to the sweet aroma of your own mother's sopping wet cunt, that she fingered like a horny schoolgirl while moaning Chris's name, mixed with the bitter odor of her sweat.

That last thought is what ultimately drives you over the edge. Without thinking you cum right on the concrete floor, your face still buried in your mother's soiled thong. In the afterglow, the scent no longer pleases you as much and you drop this wicked thing now charged with your shame and lust back where you found it. You pull your shorts back up, trying not to make a mess with your sticky hand. You wait a moment to get your legs back under you after the intensity of your orgasm. Slowly and deliberately, awash in bodily painkillers and self loathing, you ascend the stairs to wash your hands and get something to clean the floor.