I never imagined I’d find myself in such a position, but as a mother, you do what you must to protect your family. My daughter Kim had been struggling terribly with the baby blues after those precious twins arrived four months ago—they’re nine months old now, bless them. I’d seen the signs in her, the same ones I’d battled after her birth all those years ago. Back then, my own mum had stepped in to help Arthur through it, with kind words and tender actions that kept our marriage from crumbling. She called it “solving the problem,” and it worked wonders. Now, watching Kim and her husband drift apart, I knew I had to do the same.

It was a Friday morning when I popped over unannounced, knowing Kim was at her Mother & Baby group. He answered the door looking worn out, poor lad—late thirties, handsome as ever, but with that haunted look in his eyes. We settled in the kitchen with tea, and it didn’t take long for him to open up. He loved Kim dearly, supported her through everything, but the intimacy was gone. No touches, no kisses, not even sharing a bed without pyjamas. He was pent up, frustrated, and it was eating at him. My heart ached; I remembered Arthur in the same state, how close we’d come to losing it all.

I listened, nodding, and shared my story—how Mum had eased Arthur’s burdens with her caring ways. “Sometimes,” I said softly, “a little relief can make all the difference.” His eyes widened, but I saw the need there. “Let me cheer you up, love,” I offered, leading him to the spare room with its single bed. He stripped to his boxers, lay face down, and I started with a proper massage, kneading his tense shoulders, working down his back, his legs, those strong hamstrings. The room warmed up quick, the air thick with unspoken tension.

“Turn over,” I whispered, and when he did, I slipped off my blouse and shoes, standing there in my bra and jeans to get more comfortable. His eyes lingered on me—I’m 24 years older than Kim, but we share the same height, blonde hair, blue eyes. My body’s held up well enough, though softer now. I massaged his chest, his thighs, and there it was, his cock stirring under those boxers, growing hard. I couldn’t ignore it; I rubbed it gently through the fabric, feeling it thicken, longer and girthier than Arthur’s ever was. “That’s a fine one,” I murmured, pulling the boxers down to free it—thick, veined, the head glistening with pre-cum.

I stroked him slow and firm, cupping his heavy balls, rolling the foreskin back and forth, using that slickness to glide my hand. He groaned, and I leaned in, kissing his stomach, teasing a nipple with my tongue. “Touch me if you like,” I encouraged, and his hands were on my breasts in a flash, unhooking my bra to let them spill out—smaller than Kim’s, a bit saggier, but still perky enough. He squeezed them, pinched my nipples till they hardened, then slid a hand down to my bum, gripping it through my jeans. I was soaking already, my pussy throbbing.

I couldn’t wait any longer. I stood, shimmed out of my jeans and knickers, revealing my trimmed blonde bush. His eyes devoured me as I straddled him, guiding that hard cock to my entrance—hot, wet, ready. I sank down slow, feeling him stretch me, fill me up inch by inch till our bodies met. Oh, the fullness! I rode him steady, grinding my clit against his pubic bone, my tits brushing his chest with every bounce. “Cum inside me,” I whispered, my breath hot on his ear. “Release it all, fill me up, love.” He thrust up hard, and I felt him explode—spurt after spurt of warm cum deep inside, coating my walls as I clenched around him.

We caught our breath, agreed to keep it secret. “I’ll come back every Friday if you need,” I said, and he nodded gratefully. For four months, those 13 visits became our ritual—each one building on the last, massaging away his stress before he’d plunge into me, pounding till we both shuddered in release. I’d vary it sometimes, sucking him first or letting him take me from behind, but always ending with him cumming inside, that intimate flood easing his soul.

Then, as the twins turned one, Kim’s fog lifted. She brightened, laughed again, and I gently reminded her of a husband’s needs. Their bedroom warmed up, intimacy returned, and our Fridays ended quietly. He never told, and neither did I. But I know I saved their marriage, just like Mum saved mine—by solving the problem with a mother’s loving touch.