She went into his room to get an old coat of hers out of the big wardrobe. At least he was out for once. The room smelt so stale - did he never open a window, or change his clothes often enough and dump the old ones in the laundry basket, which was all he had to do, damn him, while he lounged about all day and she had her job to cope with plus the housekeeping on top of it. And there all over the floor by his bed were those girly mags of his, most of them lying as open as the cunts they flourished, with all those gross cocks sticking up at her. Why couldn't he at least have the manners to put them away so that she would not have to confront them? Then on the table beside his bed that crumpled handkie. She stooped for a disgusted sniff. Just as she thought - fresh too. What a waste. So pathetic.
Well, she was angry with him but that was partly because she was worried. He wasn't a boy of fourteen or fifteen when these things were to be expected. No, Keith was eighteen, and had no girl friend and as far as she knew must still be a virgin, which was fine in itself if he was saving himself for the right girl, but there didn't seem to be any girl at all or ever had been. His friends just a few mates from his schooldays. And no career worth the name - only odd jobs he took on to earn a bit of pocket money. And however often she urged him to go to College to learn something specific, and however often he agreed with her, as he always did, nothing ever seemed to happen. She couldn't be nagging him all the time. In fact if he had disagreed with her she would have felt more respect for him - at least he would have showed some spine, been something of a man.
The trouble was she felt guilty about it all. She had done her best. Divorced for ten years. No man in the house, because none of the odd men she had gone out with were ones she wanted to have living with her or to move in with herself. And anyway men were reluctant to take on a divorcée with a child, and especially an over-dependant child, so it was all a vicious circle - the longer he hung around at home the less likely she was to find a new partner. She had done her best to be both father and mother to him, but she seemed to have failed, and that was that. Meanwhile her ex. had re-married and lived abroad and confined his attentions to the boy to Christmas and Birthday presents and the odd brief visit every year or so.
At least Keith was out of the house this evening, and who knows, something might come of it - one of his mates had taken him clubbing, a rare event, and one that never seemed to have led to anything, but you never knew, this time with a bit of luck perhaps. After all there were plenty of shy and desperate girls out there as well as men. She made her way back to the sitting room, where she settled in her arm chair. Apart from her nausea at Keith's bedroom, her evening had gone well. She was away from work, she had showered and changed, she had enjoyed a light supper with a couple of glasses of wine. The glasses had then extended to most of a bottle - a weakness, but then one needs the odd treat - and here she was with a glass and the remains of the bottle beside her and she could read a book or watch the tele. So she snuggled herself down - and in fact fell asleep.
When she woke she realised she had not slept long - only a nap of half an hour or so - which quite often happened when she could relax after work. Her mind reverted to that room of her son's. She would damn well shove his blasted mags under the bed herself, and whip out of there everything that need to go in the wash, including that handkie of his, which at least might encourage him to keep his private life more private. She threw back a last full glass from the bottle to get herself going again, felt all fired up for her task, whisked over the landing and charged into his room.
There he was on the bed, his trousers and grimy white pants round his ankles, his right hand working away on his cock and his left holding up a girly mag in front of his eyes. He was propped up on a pillow in the shirt and jacket he had worn to go out. He looked at her horrified, dropped his mag, and spread both his hands over his cock to hide it.
Such a thing had never happened before. Her first instinct was to shoot out again. But instead she snapped, lost her temper. She strode over, sat on his bed, dragged his hands off his cock, and grasped it and started pumping it herself. He looked terrified, a rabbit in the headlights of her glare, and made half hearted efforts to push her hand away.
"What on earth do you think you're doing," she shouted at him, "Why are you back so early? Why couldn't you stay and make an effort and get yourself a girl friend instead of coming back here and doing this, you and your damned mags. I bet you've never seen a real girl. Don't you have any idea that a girl might want it too? That there are girls out there as shy as you are, wanking away at this moment wishing some man had the guts to ask them for it? That a girl might even like you? What do you think women are, what do they do? What do you think I do? Don't you think I masturbate when I haven't got a man, but at least I do have one from time to time, I do make some effort, and you do nothing but lie about here."
In fact this tirade only occupied half her attention. The rest was with her hand round his cock. At first the cock had winced and shrunk in his terror but now it had revived, a fat warm stiff cock. She was enjoying holding it. Though heaven knows what she thought she was up to. She had to stop, recover herself, get out. Damn it though, he was so stuck anything new would be better than nothing.
