Visiting Hours
"His roommate's mom is staying for the weekend. She's thick, recently divorced, and sleeps in the room next to his. When he hears sounds through the wall that he wasn't meant to hear, everything changes."
Jake's mom arrived on Friday.
"She's going through some stuff," Jake had explained. "Divorce finalized last month. She needs to get away."
"No problem," I'd said. "She can have the guest room."
I didn't know what I was agreeing to.
Denise Carter was nothing like her son.
Jake was skinny, nervous, the kind of guy who apologized for existing. His mother was the opposite—tall, confident, taking up space like she was daring you to challenge her.
And her body.
Her body.
She was forty-eight, with dark hair cut short and eyes that seemed to see everything. Her clothes were casual—jeans, a flowing top—but they couldn't hide what was underneath.
Wide hips that swayed when she walked. Heavy breasts that moved under her shirt. An ass that made her jeans work overtime.
"You must be Tyler." She shook my hand. Her grip was firm. "Jake talks about you constantly."
"Good things, I hope."
"Mostly." Her eyes traveled down my body. Back up. "He didn't mention you were handsome."
I didn't know what to say.
"Mom," Jake groaned. "Please don't."
"What? I'm just observing." She smiled at me. "Thanks for letting me stay."
"Anytime."
The first night, I heard her crying.
Thin walls. I was in my room, trying to sleep, and I heard it through the wall—soft, muffled sobs. The sound of a woman in pain.
I almost went to check on her. Almost knocked on her door.
Instead, I lay there, listening, feeling like an intruder.
The second night, I heard something else.
Same thin walls. Same late hour. But this time the sounds weren't crying.
They were moaning.
Low at first, then louder. The creak of bedsprings. The unmistakable rhythm of a woman pleasuring herself.
"Oh god," she whispered—loud enough to hear. "Yes..."
I should have put in earphones. Should have turned on music, given her privacy.
Instead, I lay there, cock hardening, listening to my roommate's mother fuck herself in the next room.
The sounds built. Faster. More desperate.
"Yes—yes—fuck—"
She came with a cry she barely muffled.
Silence after. My heart pounding. My cock aching.
This was wrong.
I didn't care.
The next morning, she caught me looking.
We were in the kitchen—Jake at work, me on a day off. She was making coffee in a silk robe that was too short and too thin.
"Sleep well?" she asked.
"Fine."
"Really?" She turned. The robe gaped at the chest. "The walls are very thin here. I hope I didn't... disturb you."
My face went hot. "I didn't hear anything."
"Liar." She stepped closer. "I saw your light on last night. Stayed on for a while after I... finished."
"Mrs. Carter—"
"Denise." She was inches away now. "I've been married for twenty-five years, Tyler. To a man who stopped touching me a decade ago. Now I'm divorced, alone, and staying in a room next to a handsome young man who pretends he didn't hear me masturbating."
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"I want you to admit you liked it." Her hand came to rest on my chest. "I want you to admit you lay there, hard, listening to me. Wishing you could do more than listen."
I couldn't deny it.
"Yes."
"Good." She untied her robe. Let it fall. She was naked underneath. "Because listening isn't enough for me anymore."
Her body was a revelation.
Heavy breasts with dark nipples. A soft stomach. Wide hips and thick thighs. She stood there, unashamed, letting me look.
"I haven't been fucked in years," she said. "Real fucking, not the sad, obligatory kind. I've forgotten what it feels like to be wanted."
"I want you."
"Show me."
I crossed the distance. Grabbed her. Kissed her.
She moaned into my mouth—the same moan I'd heard through the wall, but louder now, unrestrained. Her hands tore at my clothes, and mine explored every curve of her body.
"The counter," she gasped. "Now."
I fucked her on the kitchen counter where I made breakfast every morning.
Her legs wrapped around me, pulling me deep. Her nails raked my back. She was loud—so loud—and I didn't care if the neighbors heard.
"Yes—god, yes—" She threw her head back. "This is what I needed—this is what I've been missing—"
I grabbed her hips and thrust harder. Her thick body bounced. Her breasts swayed. She screamed my name.
When she came, she clenched around me like a vise. I followed seconds later, filling her, claiming her.
We stayed there, connected, panting.
"Jake gets home at six," she said.
"That's eight hours away."
"I know." She kissed me. "Let's use them."
We did.
The kitchen. My bedroom. The shower. The couch.
By the time Jake came home, his mother was dressed, composed, watching TV like nothing had happened.
"Good day?" he asked.
"Relaxing." She smiled at me over his shoulder. "Tyler kept me company."
"Cool." Jake grabbed a soda from the fridge. "Thanks, man."
"No problem."
Denise's foot slid up my leg under the blanket.
No problem at all.
Sunday
She left in the morning.
"Thank you," she said at the door, hugging Jake. Then she turned to me. "For everything."
"Anytime, Mrs. Carter."
"Denise." She pressed something into my hand. "In case you ever want to... visit."
A business card. Her address. Her number.
Jake waved as her car pulled away.
"That went better than expected," he said. "She seemed really relaxed."
"Yeah." I pocketed the card. "Must be the change of scenery."
I visit her every other weekend.
Jake thinks I'm seeing a girl across town. He's not wrong.
Denise and I don't talk about what we are. We just are. She needs to feel wanted. I need something she gives me. The arrangement works.
Sometimes, lying in her bed after, she talks about finding someone her age. Moving on properly. Dating.
I tell her she should.
Then she climbs on top of me, and we both forget about should.
Some things don't need labels.
They just need to be.