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(Roman tells himself - 'It's okay.')
He doesn't want to be here. In fact, he'd love to be as far away from here as fucking possible. Somewhere - anywhere - else right now than in his bed, in his room, in his house.
"My strong, beautiful boy," his mother whispers into his hair. Every word a breath against his scalp; itching. She speaks softly, voice hushed, but Roman can't shake the sickening feeling that she knows he's faking it.
Olivia always knows when he's pretending to sleep. Why would nights like this one be any different?
Dropping the pretense is too overwhelming a prospect, though. Facing the reality of what's happening, becoming an active participant. So Roman keeps it up. Schools his face into a mask of serenity even when he feels the hand on his stomach drift lower. Nausea rises up in him. It takes all his concentration not to grimace as he swallows down bile, sharp and acidic.
(it's okay. it's okay.)
Nights like tonight aren't too common. Olivia has to be in a very specific mood, events have to line up just so. His mother comes to his bed often, but usually she's kind enough to keep her hands above his waist.
Usually.
Fingers slide under his boxers. Roman feels his skin crawl; maggots squirming just underneath, eating away at his flesh.
Olivia wraps her hand around him.
(she knows you're faking)
"You made me very proud today," his mother whispers, lips closer to his ear this time.
Roman tries to think about everything that happened today, tries to catalog through his memories of every single, fucking thing he did and said, to find what might be the source of her pride. If only he could focus, then he'd figure out whatever it was for future reference - so he never does it again.
But Mother is stroking him. Underneath his clothes, he can feel now how slick her fingers are (ohgodohgod this is new, it's her on her hand, not spit, not lube) as she starts lazily jerking him off.
Bile is back in his throat. His dick is already hard, something obscene coiling in his groin.
That's the worst part. Not the revulsion. Not the stupid charade that he's asleep, and she prefers it that way. It's the fact that he gets off on it, no matter how much he tries not to.
It's the way she squeezes a little and he can't bite back a soft grunt.
How good her thumb feels circling the head of his cock, its leaking tip, making his hips spasm.
When her lips press to his temple and she moans because he's starting to writhe.
Olivia lets him pretend he's asleep, she gives him that, but they both know she knows the truth. One of these days she might take that away from him, the threat of it looming, and Roman has no idea what will happen then.
"You have no idea yet of your potential," she coos, sweetly, and moves her hand faster.
(i don't care, i don't care, please stop, please don't stop)
Roman bites down on his tongue so hard it bleeds. Her fingers tighten enough that he hisses through his teeth.
"My boy," she gasps, as though she's the one getting worked up and edged toward an orgasm - but Roman feels her other hand at his head, fingers carding through his hair. "My beautiful boy."
He comes easy then, sharp and intense, swallowing his own blood. Eyelids flutter but never fully open; he keeps enough control for that at least. Grimaces despite himself when her fingers keep stroking throughout, past the peak, smearing his own cum over the length of his cock.
Olivia (mother, mom, mommy) pulls her hand out from his boxers and kisses the crown of his head. "Sleep well, darling," she bids him a little too loudly for his comfort. Like a ghost, she's gone. Only his weight on the mattress, bedroom door shut.
Already his cum is drying sticky and gross on his skin, but Roman can't move except to blink away hot tears.
(it's okay. it's not okay.)