Tricked By Sons (Fake Anger)

Ayana’s Pov

My husband had already left for work, and my sons were in their room playing video games, the distant, muffled sound of video game gunfire and shouting drifting down the hallway. I was sitting on my bed, my head resting on the headboard, while scrolling through my phone.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The heavy, impatient knock on the door didn’t startle me.

“Come in,” I called out, not even needing to look up to know who it was. Only my youngest son, Polito, knocked with that kind of blunt force.

“Good morning, mommy,” he murmured, stepping into the room with his usual slow, heavy-footed stride.

“Morning, sweetie,” I replied. My eyes were locked on my phone.

Without a word, he climbed onto the bed and settled his head heavily in my lap like he’d been doing since he was 10 years old, and the world felt so big for him. He was 19 years old now, but some habits never quite faded. My eyes were locked on my phone.

I kept scrolling.

Then, the mood in the room shifted.

His hand moved, his palm flattening firmly against my chest, his thumb beginning to trace slow, heavy circles right over the thin cotton of my tank top. I didn’t even look down at him. I knew when Polito was truly sad or furious or overwhelmed at school, he still required some kind of physical comfort with the most urgent and even forceful kind of need, a habit he had depended on since childhood as a way of getting me to stop doing what I was doing and pay attention only to him.

“You’re angry about something, baby?” I asked, thumbing past another social media post. “Or just tired?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his fingers spread wider, his grip tightening as he began to caress the curve of my breast through the fabric, the pressure deliberate and demanding.

This was still part of the routine, at least I thought it was, until his thumb started tracing across my nipple through the fabric of my top. Slowly. Methodically. And suddenly there was a burning jolt that shot right through me.

“Polito?”

He remained quiet. He continued caressing my boobs and making circles on my tit.

“Polito.” I lowered my phone. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

He remained quiet, the silence in the bedroom growing heavier, thick with an unspoken tension. His fingers hooked under the hem of my tank top and lifted it. The air conditioner’s cool air hit my bare skin just a second before the sudden, intense heat of his mouth did.

“What are you—”

“Just a few minutes, mommy.” His voice came muffled against my breast. “Let me suck for a few minutes. I’ll feel better.”

My mouth opened, but no words came out of it. He’d always been the needier one, always seeking comfort at my chest when he was not happy. This was… maybe this was just that. Regression in the face of something he couldn’t name.

To my own surprise, I adjusted my position, sitting up straighter against the headboard to give him better, completely unobstructed access to my breasts.

His mouth latched onto my nipple, and the pull was immediate. So unnaturally familiar and utterly foreign at the same time. The wetness of his tongue on my nipple, thick, heavy, and timed so rhythmically it ignited some unknown sensation all the way down my spine with an almost jolt that left me momentarily unable to breathe. I felt my head fall back against the wood of my headboard before I could help it.

“Suck Momma’s breast,” I murmured, the words slipping out unbidden. “You’re still mama’s little boy.”

“Thank you, mommy, your breast tastes good,” he whispered against my breast, his hot breath flaring over my wet nipple.

His other hand reached for my left breast, squeezing it with a pressure that made me forget that I was his mom. He continued sucking and squeezing my breast. Completely lost in the rhythm, taking everything I was giving him.

“Yes, son, suck momma’s breast, squeeze it.”

“Yes, mommy,” he said, squeezing my tit.

“Are you feeling better now, son?” I asked him.

“Not feeling better yet, mommy,” he replied, his lips never fully losing contact with my breast as he spoke.

“Go ahead and suck mommy’s breast as much as you want, son,” I whispered to him.

I let out a soft moan, which rumbled throughout the otherwise silent room. He continued suckling on me, his mouth moving up and down against me.

The door suddenly opened again.

Daniel was standing in the doorway. His eyes moved from Polito’s lips on my breast to the fiery blush of my chest. There wasn’t a hint of surprise in his expression, just heat and awareness.

“Spoiled brat,” he said, but his voice had gone thick. “Mom, can I…?”

The question hung unfinished in the air.

I should have said no. I should have covered myself, pushed Polito away, demanded to know what had gotten into both of them. Instead, I nodded.

Daniel sat on the bed beside me. His mouth found my left breast, and the dual sensation—two mouths, two tongues, two sets of suction—drew a sound from somewhere deep in my chest that I didn’t recognize as my own.

I dug my hands into their hair, my fingers tangling in the strands as I pulled them both tighter against my breasts. God, I knew they were my sons and that I shouldn’t feel anything like this, but it felt sooo good, better than their daddy’s mouth.

“This feels sooo good,” I moaned out loud, closing my eyes as the pleasure washed over me in waves.

Polito’s fingers kneading my thigh and Daniel’s hand gripping my hip. The motherly instinct began to blur, replaced by something darker, and hungrier.

My thighs pressed together. Daniel’s palm moved from my hip to my inner thigh, finding the frail heat of my shorts and spreading out. Polito did the same, and both of them were working up agonizingly slow strokes.

“Boys…” The word came out breathy, wrong. “We need to stop this now...Your dad might walk in anytime.”