The Weekly Ritual - Sex Stories

The Weekly Ritual

I'm not exactly sure how it started, this strange little weekly ritual between my mother and me. But I know it started innocently enough. Dad worked the night shift on Wednesdays, which meant Mom and I had the house to ourselves.

At first, we just ordered takeout and watched TV, happy to indulge in some guilty pleasures without Dad around to tease us.

But over the past few months, our Wednesday nights had evolved into a whole thing. We'd worked our way through several shows, incorporating little elements from each one into our routine. After binging a few seasons of The Great British Bake Off, we'd added a baking component, with Mom whipping a delicious dessert recipe to enjoy with our shows. During our Jane the Virgin phase, Mom would narrate our evening like the Latin Lover Narrator.

Currently, we were a few episodes into season 2 of Bridgerton. We'd adopted the posh British accents, calling each other Lady Amy and Miss Eva as we obsessed over the romantic entanglements of the characters. It sounds silly but there was something about slipping into this imaginary world with Mom that gave me a giddy thrill. For a few hours, we shed the boring ordinariness of our real lives.

Our Wednesdays had definitely become the highlight of my week...

This particular night was a late one for me. Between band practice and student government after school, it was 7pm by the time I got home. As I walk in the door, I'm greeted by the warmth of the working oven and the smell of ...

... something chocolatey emanating from it.

Mom is bustling around the kitchen. "Ah Lady Eva, how was school my dear?" she asks in her mock posh accent.

I smile, taking in her appearance. Even dressed down, my mother manages to look effortlessly beautiful. Her wavy blonde hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and as she turns around and smiles at me, a few strands fall softly around her face.

At forty-five, she could still easily pass for a woman in her mid-thirties. Her skin was smooth and glowing, with only the faintest of laugh lines around her sparkling blue eyes. She had a graceful, slim figure that she maintained through regular jogging and strength training. With me being eighteen now, people often mistake us for sisters when we're out together.

Just the other night she asked me if I was embarrassed when that happened. "Are you kidding? I'll take it as a compliment that people think I'm the sister of an absolute milf!" I joked. Mom smacked my arm, calling me ridiculous as we both cracked up.

I notice she's already changed into her usual Wednesday evening attire: an oversized, grey sweatshirt that hangs loose on her petite frame. The shirt hits mid-thigh, just barely covering her shapely hips and toned legs. It's soft and worn-in, with a faded university logo that I don't recognize. I think she's had that thing since college. I keep meaning to steal it from her, it looks so cozy. But for now, it's become her staple TV-watching uniform.

Remembering my role, I put ...