The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and desperation as I stood at the entrance of the prison, clutching two heavy bags of groceries. It had been a year since I’d last seen Marcos, my son, my everything. The COVID outbreak had kept us apart, and now, here I was, finally authorized to visit him. The guards had mentioned something about “intimate visits” being allowed again—whatever that meant. All I cared about was seeing him, touching him, reminding him that he still had a mother who loved him, even if he’d chosen the wrong path.I wore what I always wore when I wanted to feel confident: thin black yoga pants that clung to my wide hips and a white top that showed off my cleavage. I knew I looked good for 49, and I wasn’t ashamed of it. Life had been hard, but I’d worked to keep my body the way it was—curvy, strong, a reminder of the woman who’d raised a man on her own. Marcos’ father had been a thug, and now my son was following in his footsteps. But I still loved him. I always would.The door buzzed open, and there he was. Marcos. My boy. My heart skipped a beat as I took him in. He’d always been handsome, but now, at 25, he looked like a man. His shoulders were broader, his arms more defined, his chest fuller. Prison had made him stronger, tougher. But his eyes—those same dark, intense eyes—still lit up when he saw me.“Mama,” he said, his voice low and rough. He stepped forward, and I dropped the bags to the floor, rushing into his arms. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me close. I could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of my yoga pants, and for a moment, I forgot where we were. I ran my hands over his neck, his chest, his shoulders, feeling the strength in him. My son. My boy.“I missed you,” I whispered, my voice trembling. He didn’t say anything, just held me tighter, his hands pressing into the small of my back. I could feel the string of my thong beneath the fabric, and for a fleeting moment, I wondered if he could feel it too. But I pushed the thought away. This wasn’t about that. This was about us. About reconnecting.We sat down on the small bed in the room, the groceries spread out between us. The room was cramped, the walls a dull gray, the air stiflingly hot. But it didn’t matter. We were together. Marcos’ jeans were tight, hugging his thick thighs, and I couldn’t help but notice how much he’d changed. He’s a man now, I thought, a mix of pride and something else I couldn’t quite name stirring in my chest.“You need a shower,” I said after we’d eaten, glancing at the small bathroom in the corner. “It’s so hot in here. You’ll feel better.”He hesitated. “I don’t have any underwear, Mama.”I laughed, reaching into one of the bags I’d brought. “I thought of that. Here.” I handed him a pair of briefs, their fabric soft and new. He took them, his fingers brushing mine, and for a moment, our eyes met. There was something in his gaze—something I hadn’t seen before. But then it was gone, and he looked away, mumbling a thanks.I turned my attention to the TV as he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the room. My mind wandered, and I found myself thinking about how much he’d grown. Not just physically, but emotionally. Prison had changed him, but not in the way I’d feared. He was still my son, still the boy I’d raised, but there was a new maturity to him, a quiet confidence that made my chest swell with pride.When he emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist, I couldn’t help but glance at him. His chest was bare, his skin glistening with water, and I felt a pang of something I couldn’t quite place. He looked so…strong. So alive. I handed him the briefs, and he took them, his fingers brushing mine again. This time, the touch lingered, and I felt a jolt of electricity run through me.“Thanks, Mama,” he said, his voice soft. He turned away, and I watched as he unwrapped the towel, his back to me. My breath caught in my throat as I caught a glimpse of his body—the muscles of his back, the curve of his ass, the way his skin stretched over his frame. He was a man now, in every sense of the word.But then he turned, and I saw it—the tent of his erection pushing against the fabric of the briefs. They were too small, the fabric straining to contain him. He looked down, and then up at me, and we both burst out laughing.“These are for teens, Mama,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.I laughed too, trying to ignore the way my heart was pounding. “Oh, really?” I teased. “I barely had time to check the waist size.”I could ignore the way his semi-hard dick was making a tent-like effect on the underwear, revealing his balls and the base of his shaft. The fabric strained against him, leaving little to the imagination, and I felt a flush of heat rise to my cheeks. He’s grown, I thought, my pulse quickening. I tore my eyes away, focusing on the TV screen, but the image lingered in my mind. My son. My boy. A man. The contrast between the boy I’d raised and the man standing before me was stark, and I couldn’t help but feel a mix of pride and something else—something I wasn’t ready to name.He didn’t seem embarrassed, just amused, as if this were some private joke between us. I tried to laugh it off, to make light of the moment, but my voice caught in my throat. “Guess I didn’t realize you’d…filled out so much,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. His lips curved into a smirk, and he chuckled softly, the sound low and warm.“Yeah, prison’ll do that to you,” he said, his tone casual, but I could hear the undercurrent of something else—something that made my stomach flutter. He glanced down at himself, then back up at me, and for a moment, the room felt too small, too hot.“I’ll just put the jeans back on,” he said, turning to head back to the bathroom.“Wait,” I called after him. “I brought shorts too.”He paused, looking back at me, and I saw the way his eyes flicked down my body before meeting mine again. There was something in his gaze—something that made my breath catch. But then he nodded, and I handed him the shorts, my fingers brushing his again.He took them, and I turned back to the TV, trying to calm the racing of my heart. But I couldn’t help it—I glanced back, just once, and saw him standing there, the shorts in his hands, his hard cock fully exposed. My breath hitched, and I felt a warmth spread through me.

The narrator, a mother, visits her son, Marcos, in prison after a year apart due to COVID, finally able to have an intimate visit. Upon seeing each other, they embrace and catch up, with the mother noticing how much Marcos has physically changed and grown. During the visit, Marcos emerges from a shower, revealing his body, and they share a moment of awkwardness and amusement when his new underwear is too small.

The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and desperation as I stood at the entrance of the prison, clutching two heavy bags of groceries. It had been a year since I’d last seen Marcos, my son, my everything. The COVID outbreak had kept us apart, and now, here I was, finally authorized to visit him. The guards had mentioned something about “intimate visits” being allowed again—whatever that meant. All I cared about was seeing him, touching him, reminding him that he still had a mother who loved him, even if he’d chosen the wrong path.

I wore what I always wore when I wanted to feel confident: thin black yoga pants that clung to my wide hips and a white top that showed off my cleavage. I knew I looked good for 49, and I wasn’t ashamed of it. Life had been hard, but I’d worked to keep my body the way it was—curvy, strong, a reminder of the woman who’d raised a man on her own. Marcos’ father had been a thug, and now my son was following in his footsteps. But I still loved him. I always would.

The door buzzed open, and there he was. Marcos. My boy. My heart skipped a beat as I took him in. He’d always been handsome, but now, at 25, he looked like a man. His shoulders were broader, his arms more defined, his chest fuller. Prison had made him stronger, tougher. But his eyes—those same dark, intense eyes—still lit up when he saw me.

“Mama,” he said, his voice low and rough. He stepped forward, and I dropped the bags to the floor, rushing into his arms. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me close. I could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of my yoga pants, and for a moment, I forgot where we were. I ran my hands over his neck, his chest, his shoulders, feeling the strength in him. My son. My boy.

“I missed you,” I whispered, my voice trembling. He didn’t say anything, just held me tighter, his hands pressing into the small of my back. I could feel the string of my thong beneath the fabric, and for a fleeting moment, I wondered if he could feel it too. But I pushed the thought away. This wasn’t about that. This was about us. About reconnecting.

We sat down on the small bed in the room, the groceries spread out between us. The room was cramped, the walls a dull gray, the air stiflingly hot. But it didn’t matter. We were together. Marcos’ jeans were tight, hugging his thick thighs, and I couldn’t help but notice how much he’d changed. He’s a man now, I thought, a mix of pride and something else I couldn’t quite name stirring in my chest.

“You need a shower,” I said after we’d eaten, glancing at the small bathroom in the corner. “It’s so hot in here. You’ll feel better.”

He hesitated. “I don’t have any underwear, Mama.”

I laughed, reaching into one of the bags I’d brought. “I thought of that. Here.” I handed him a pair of briefs, their fabric soft and new. He took them, his fingers brushing mine, and for a moment, our eyes met. There was something in his gaze—something I hadn’t seen before. But then it was gone, and he looked away, mumbling a thanks.

I turned my attention to the TV as he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the room. My mind wandered, and I found myself thinking about how much he’d grown. Not just physically, but emotionally. Prison had changed him, but not in the way I’d feared. He was still my son, still the boy I’d raised, but there was a new maturity to him, a quiet confidence that made my chest swell with pride.

When he emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist, I couldn’t help but glance at him. His chest was bare, his skin glistening with water, and I felt a pang of something I couldn’t quite place. He looked so…strong. So alive. I handed him the briefs, and he took them, his fingers brushing mine again. This time, the touch lingered, and I felt a jolt of electricity run through me.

“Thanks, Mama,” he said, his voice soft. He turned away, and I watched as he unwrapped the towel, his back to me. My breath caught in my throat as I caught a glimpse of his body—the muscles of his back, the curve of his ass, the way his skin stretched over his frame. He was a man now, in every sense of the word.

But then he turned, and I saw it—the tent of his erection pushing against the fabric of the briefs. They were too small, the fabric straining to contain him. He looked down, and then up at me, and we both burst out laughing.

“These are for teens, Mama,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

I laughed too, trying to ignore the way my heart was pounding. “Oh, really?” I teased. “I barely had time to check the waist size.”

I could ignore the way his semi-hard dick was making a tent-like effect on the underwear, revealing his balls and the base of his shaft. The fabric strained against him, leaving little to the imagination, and I felt a flush of heat rise to my cheeks. He’s grown, I thought, my pulse quickening. I tore my eyes away, focusing on the TV screen, but the image lingered in my mind. My son. My boy. A man. The contrast between the boy I’d raised and the man standing before me was stark, and I couldn’t help but feel a mix of pride and something else—something I wasn’t ready to name.

He didn’t seem embarrassed, just amused, as if this were some private joke between us. I tried to laugh it off, to make light of the moment, but my voice caught in my throat. “Guess I didn’t realize you’d…filled out so much,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. His lips curved into a smirk, and he chuckled softly, the sound low and warm.

“Yeah, prison’ll do that to you,” he said, his tone casual, but I could hear the undercurrent of something else—something that made my stomach flutter. He glanced down at himself, then back up at me, and for a moment, the room felt too small, too hot.

“I’ll just put the jeans back on,” he said, turning to head back to the bathroom.

“Wait,” I called after him. “I brought shorts too.”

He paused, looking back at me, and I saw the way his eyes flicked down my body before meeting mine again. There was something in his gaze—something that made my breath catch. But then he nodded, and I handed him the shorts, my fingers brushing his again.

He took them, and I turned back to the TV, trying to calm the racing of my heart. But I couldn’t help it—I glanced back, just once, and saw him standing there, the shorts in his hands, his hard cock fully exposed. My breath hitched, and I felt a warmth spread through me.

A mother visits her son in prison for the first time in a year, authorized for an intimate visit. Their reunion is charged with sexual tension as they navigate their new dynamic, with the mother struggling to reconcile her love for her son with the forbidden attraction she feels. The visit takes an unexpected turn as they both grapple with their emotions and the physical changes that have occurred over the past year.

A Mother's Prison Visit

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