Lover or Son?

**Lover or Son?**

by Pan

*Like all good erotica, this story was inspired by the television show Emily in Paris.*

***

The young woman failed to hide a smile as the older man sat beside her. He looked confident - more confident than his looks warranted, if she was being honest.

She'd only been in Paris for a few weeks, but was constantly surprised by the brashness of the locals. Was the stranger French-hot, a metric she hadn't known existed before being transferred to the European city?

Or had he immediately pegged her as an American? She'd quickly learned that all women in France - men, too, if she was being honest - had a chronic case of Resting Bitch-face. Simply by smiling, she gave her nationality away.

But perhaps he'd simply been attracted by her unique fashion sense and decided to try his luck.

Whatever the reason, she decided to humor him. Perhaps it would distract her from her hot, unavailable French neighbor. Or at the very least, give her a good story for her ever-increasing audience on social media.

Or, hell, perhaps he'd smile, and upgrade from French-hot to Actually-hot, and Emily would find herself adding a new love interest to her currently-running storylines.

"*Bonsoir*," he said, and a shiver ran up her spine. Despite spending almost a month in the country, she still couldn't help but find the accent attractive. It really was a beautiful language; something as simple as a greeting rolled off the tongue so elegantly.

*Focus,* the young woman told herself, and returned his greeting.

Now it was the stranger's turn to hide a smile, something he did completely unsuccessfully. "American?" he asked, and she let her full US smile shine through.

"Is my accent that obvious?"

His response was a simple "Oui," but the twinkle in his eye made her heart skip a beat.

Forcing herself to turn away from him, the American woman pointed at the couple sitting several tables in front them. "I've been trying to work out these two," she said, not even bothering to ask if he spoke English. It was Paris. Everyone spoke English.

"Mm?"

"What do you think?" she said in a slow drawl. "Mother and son...or lovers?"

Her question piqued the interest of the stranger, and she felt a sense of disappointment fill her as his intense gaze left her. The two of them watched the pair in silence for several minutes; a middle-aged woman, a man who looked to barely be out of his teen years.

Not an uncommon pairing in France, but certainly not one that guaranteed a sexual relationship. They'd ordered a charcuterie platter, and the woman was happily, slightly dominantly, feeding items from it to the man sitting across from her.

In American, there would have been no question - back home, it would unquestioningly have been the action of a lover. But in France, where even familial relations were more familiar, it didn't even give a hint as to their true relationship.

After the pause was starting to border on uncomfortable, the Frenchman turned his attention back to the American. She felt a shiver go up her spine at his complete, unadulterated attention.

"Lovers," he stated confidently, and for a moment the young woman was whisked away. She could picture it so clearly: herself and this stranger, lovers. She could see them entangled in bed, her naked form on his. She could imagine, almost involuntarily, what it would be like to feel his hardness pulsing inside her, in her mouth, her pussy.

She'd never before given a man her ass, but it was impossible not to imagine him in her ass. He would be a skilled lover, she was certain. He would be slow, gentle, focus on her pleasure...and expect the same of her.

And she would. Without a shadow of a doubt, the young woman knew that while they were together, she would devote herself to his pleasure. She would satisfy him, make him want her, need her, crave her.

It was a heady feeling, and one she desperately wanted to indulge. Her fingers twitched, as though fighting the urge to reach down and undo his pants, to expose the dick that she could picture with startling clarity.

As quickly as the feeling arrived, it disappeared, its absence almost hurting. She felt an ache between her legs, as she desperately missed something she'd never had.

"No," she said firmly, speaking just as much to her own fantasies as to what he'd said. She wasn't the kind of woman to go home with a stranger. She was a respected professional, a successful businesswoman. An American!

She didn't just pick up random men at cafes. No matter how much she tingled at the thought of it.

The Frenchman's eyebrows rose. "You seem very sure of this," he said with a half-smile.

"I am," the young woman replied, wondering how obvious it was that she was trying to convince herself more than him. She reached over and took a sip of her wine, letting it warm her cheeks.

"Then perhaps we should make a wager" the older man said, impressing her with his perfect English. His accent still came through in every syllable, dripping down her spine and warming her to the core.

"A wager?" she echoed uncertainly.

"Yes," he continued. "I say it is a lovers' rendezvous. You claim..."

"They're mother and son," she said, glancing at the pair in front of them. The moment she looked away from the older man, she felt alone. More alone than she'd felt in her weeks in Paris. More alone than she'd felt since her American boyfriend had broken up with her.

God. How could she be missing a man who was sitting right in front of her? A man who she'd literally just met moments ago.

The pair in front of them hadn't moved. It felt to the young American as though a lifetime had passed, but as she'd been talking to the stranger, they hadn't so much as shifted position.

They were still staring into each other's eyes. In the way that...yes, in the way that lovers did, but that didn't mean anything. They could just as easily have been an expressive French family.

"They're mother and son," she said again, turning back to the stranger's cool eyes, wanting to lose herself in them. Wanting to dive in and never surface, to drown in the depths of his gaze.

"So then," the Frenchman said confidently, "we are at an impasse." The young woman found herself nodding at his words.

There was a long pause, and she couldn't help but break it.

"So, what are we betting?" she asked, not even noticing that she'd agreed to the wager.

"The wine," the older man replied, his voice dry. "If you are right, I will pay for the bottle."

Her eyebrows rose. She'd only ordered a glass; when had an entire bottle appeared in front of them? An expensive one, by the looks at it.

Without knowing how, she knew with total confident that the man had expensive taste. Excellent taste, too.

*That's why he chose you,* she told herself, before trying to swat the thought away. He'd sat next to a young, pretty woman; it wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement.

She let herself glance down for a moment, confirming without a doubt that he was a wealthy man; his clothes bore the label of an expensive Italian designer, and his wristwatch looked like it was worth more than her parents' car.

"And if you win?"

Relative to their annual income, an equivalent bet would've been for her to buy her a candy bar. She could afford the wine, but she'd be pinching pennies for the next week.

"If I win," he said, a wicked look flashing upon his face, "you remove your underwear, right here. And then, you come home with me."

The young woman's eyebrows shot up. The suggestion was completely inappropriate! She didn't think of herself as a prude, but no one but a complete slut would agree to such outrageous terms.

Worse yet, the moment he'd made the suggestion, she couldn't help but imagine it. Standing up on the busy street, peeling her panties away from her soaking wet crotch, slowly lowering them for all to see. Handing them over, symbolically giving herself to him.

And then quite literally giving herself to him - going home with the stranger, bringing her earlier fantasy into reality. Her mind flashed to what it would be like: lying on her back, spread-eagled. Her skirt raised, exposing her panties and thighs. Him kneeling between her legs, his hands exploring her body...

She knew nothing about the man (not even his name!) but she could somehow imagine his abode in full, rich detail. She could practically smell the expensive cologne he wore, hear him breathing heavily as he roughly fucked her, his balls slapping against her ass in time with his thrusts.

She could imagine his mouth, kissing her neck and breasts as he rode her, his cock thick and hard inside her tight pussy. She knew that if she went home with him, she'd do everything he asked. She'd completely devote herself to his service, his pleasure her sole purpose.

Every part of her body was tingling at the thought of it, at the idea of submitting to him. Of being owned, if only for a night. Of going home with him, giving herself to him in any way he desired.

She couldn't. She wouldn't. It wasn't something a respectable woman would ever consider.

So why did she want it so bad?

Waves of arousal coursed through her as she imagined what he'd do to her body. As she pictured him taking her, fucking her, owning her.

The American woman met his gaze coolly, completely unaware that her slender fingers were lustfully stroking the table. The stranger's eyes were wide, his expression rapturous as he watched her.

"Very well," she said firmly.

"It's a bet," he said with a half-shrug, as though this was something that happened to him several times a week.

With that, his attention turned from her to the couple in front of them, as did hers.

She'd bet that they were mother and son. But as she watched them, acutely aware of the stranger's focus leaving her and moving to the French pair in front of them, she couldn't help but wonder if she even wanted to win the bet.

***

Marie smiled at her son as she chose another meat for him. She loved her son deeply; since he'd left for Paris, she rarely got to see him, and did all she could to make the most of their time together.

He'd been working so hard; Marie knew that he often stayed late in the office, working ten hours a day, or sometimes longer. He'd been promoted rapidly within the company, but it meant that he was under constant scrutiny. Most French companies were known for their laissez-faire attitudes, but Jean-Paul was working for the Parisian branch of a German company; they had high expectations and exacting standards, and her son worked hard to meet them.

He'd lost weight from stress, and so the middle-aged woman lovingly insisted that he ate, feeding him from the board as they spoke.

"Jean-Paul," she said in French. "Do you really have to work so late tomorrow night? I know you've got a deadline, but it's my last night in town. Surely no one will mind if you take just a single early night?"

"Mama," he smiled. "I just need to finish up the reports to send to Berlin, and then I'll be free."

"You work so hard," she tutted, and he let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Please, don't worry about me. I am learning a lot. This is just part of the job."

"I know," she said gently, moving another piece of meat in front of his mouth. Again, he shot her a grin and let out a sigh, before happily taking the food from her fingers.

"I'm fine," he insisted.

"You're such a good boy," she said, leaning forward to kiss his cheek.

It was in that moment that something changed. Neither mother nor son knew exactly what, just that things were...different. It was as though a man with powerful psychic powers had suddenly turned his attention to them, unleashing the full capacity of his mind to win a bet with an attractive young American.

One might wonder why he didn't simply alter the American woman, but it would be a foolish question. God works in mysterious ways, and while this man wasn't a deity, he had powers beyond that of any ordinary man. And if God works in mysterious ways, then it can be safely assumed that the extremely powerful work in *fairly* mysterious ways.

If one were to theorize - never a good idea, frankly, when men with transcendent powers are involved - one could suppose that he was toying with the American, or (even more likely) he was toying with everyone. For someone of his power, one could posit that the goal was not simply sex (which must surely be easy to attain for someone with that level of power), but that the toying was, in itself, the ends.

But neither Marie nor Jean-Paul thought any of this. All they knew was that something had changed.

What they didn't know was that soon, everything would change. Forever.

"You're such a good boy," Marie repeated, softer than the first time. She moved her hand to her son's leg, and neither of them questioned it. It felt right, like something she should be doing. Like it was completely natural for a loving mother to rest her hand on her son's exposed thigh.

It was warm in Paris that evening, and the young man was wearing shorts. Unusual garb for an office in Paris, but the branch manager was German, and frequently wore shorts to work. Jean-Paul had decided - perhaps unconsciously - to mimic his boss's ensemble. He had no idea how obvious the move had been, and how much everyone (including said German boss) secretly thought less of him for it.

But that night, the choice of garb was worth all the secret ridicule. Marie moved her hand up her son's leg, stroking his thigh, feeling the muscle flex beneath the fabric of his pants. It was warm, and soft, and...

There was a shift in the air.

The couple had no way of knowing, but the Frenchman sitting just a few tables away had briefly been distracted. With great power comes great opportunity, and even while in the middle of a gambit, his attention had been briefly drawn to a passerby, a woman whose long legs and exposed skin had caught his eye.

A woman who suddenly had an overwhelming, impossible-to-ignore urge to pass by the same area the next day, at around the same time. This would cause an incredible disruption to her life - she'd been due to catch a train to Antwerp - but that didn't matter.

Nothing mattered but passing by at the same time the next day, wearing an equally revealing outfit.

"Um..."

Marie blinked twice, and realized that her son was staring uncomfortably at her hand, resting firmly on his upper thigh.

She pulled her hand away as though she'd just touched a hot stovetop, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. The older woman had no way of knowing, but this action had caused a nearby American woman to be filled with hope and disappointment simultaneously, a confusing mix that she didn't want to dive too deeply into.

"So," Marie said, asking the first question that came into her head. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

Somehow, the question made Jean-Paul even more uncomfortable than the feeling of his mother's hand on his thigh had, and he squirmed under her gaze.

"No," he said with a sigh. "I barely have time to do laundry. When do you think I'd fit a girlfriend in?"

Marie opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, the strange fervor returned. It was like a heat, or an itching. A haze, descending onto the table, making her see her son in a way that she never had before.

In a way that no mother should ever look at her son.

"Jean-Paul," she said with a sigh, her hand reaching out to take his. "I know your job is important to you, but please remember to give yourself some time off. There's more to life than work."

"I know," he said quietly, allowing his mother to squeeze his hand, to start stroking his palm with her long fingers. Had her fingers always been so long? Had her nail polish always been so...red?

"You need a girlfriend," she whispered in response, a slight blush appearing on her face.

Jean-Paul stared into his mother's eyes. How had he never before noticed how attractive she was? His eyes lingered on her lips, and the slight smile that played upon them, as though she knew what he was thinking.

She was beautiful. No, more than beautiful. She was...sexy.

It wasn't something any man should think about his mother. Jean-Paul knew that, but it was impossible to deny. His mother was sexy. Her bust was small but perky, her waist narrow, and her hips slim. Her hair was swept back, and there was a light dusting of makeup on her face, enhancing her features without covering them.

She wasn't dressed like an old woman, but was instead wearing a modestly-cut dress with a plunging neckline that showed off her cleavage. Jeal-Paul licked his lips as he stared at her chest, wondering how often he'd seen her in this outfit. She'd been wearing it all day; how had he never before noticed how...how sexy it was?

It wasn't like his mother was dressed like a whore. It was subtle, the way her clothes hugged her figure and accentuated her assets. It was elegant, rather than slutty. Classy without being gaudy, like the woman sitting a few tables away, staring at them.

As Jean-Paul's eyes ran up and down his mother's body, he realized he hadn't said anything in response to her words. He'd just been looking at her...no, more than looking at her. Checking her out.

Checking his own mother out. And very much liking what he'd seen.

Jean-Paul let a cheeky smile appear on his face. "Why do I need a girlfriend," he said, reaching out to pour his mother more wine. "When I have you?"

It was something he'd said before; the line was practically a stock response to this particular line of inquiry. But there was something different about the words this time, they both knew it. It was normally a dumb joke. Today, it was charged, electrified by the sudden tension between them.

Marie's blush deepened at her son's words. She wanted to reach out and touch his thigh again. Every part of her wanted to make contact with her son, to feel him under her fingertips, to run her hands over his smooth skin. She wanted to be close to her son, closer than she'd ever been before. Closer than she'd been with anyone except her husband.

But she resisted the desire. The feeling of his thigh under her hand had been magnificent, but she'd seen the look on his face at her touch.

He didn't want her. Of course he didn't. She was his mother, after all.

Even though she wanted to be so much more.

All of a sudden, the heat between them flared, intensified. Like a watching American had made a sad comment about being right, about their relationship being familial.

Which it was, of course. She was Jean-Paul's mother. He was her son.

But something about his words - the words she'd heard so many times before - stuck with her. They rang with truth, in a way they never had before.

Why did he need a girlfriend, when he had her?

Could her son see her as something more? Had he ever considered what she could do to fill the void in his life? The aching, throbbing void that only a lover could fill?

He didn't have a girlfriend. He didn't need a girlfriend. All he needed was her.

Marie's face grew red, her eyelids fluttering as she tried to maintain her composure. He needed her. He needed his mother.

He needed his mother to do everything a girlfriend would do.

Unable to stop herself, Marie's eyes flicked down to her son's crotch. She'd seen him naked hundreds of times. She'd changed his diapers for years.

But she'd never seen his penis as an adult. She'd never seen it as a...as a *cock*.

She wanted to. She wanted him to pull out his erection, to let mama take care of it. God she wanted to take care of him.

He didn't need a girlfriend. He only needed her.

Marie's hands were trembling as she gulped down the wine. Her pussy was aching, throbbing with need. Jean-Paul needed her. His cock was hard, and his balls ached with need. He needed her, needed her like the air he breathed.