Mum’s The word
Mum’s The Word
You’re going to think this is a sad story, because it starts out sad. But don’t be sad for long, brothers and sisters, because it ends up pretty okay, at least to me it does. I’m Bobby, by the way, Bobby Henderson. That really doesn’t matter to the story, except that it’s about me and my mother, Claire Henderson. There are a few other people in it too, but they only matter a little. I’ll mention them later.
My mom’s story starts out like a lot of people hope their adult lives will start, with a good marriage to a good man who gave her a good baby – that’s me – and they were pretty happy, all things considered. But my father was killed in an accident at the plant and things sort of went to shit starting then.
I was only six at the time, and I don’t really remember too much about him. I do remember my mother crying every night for a long, long time after she told me he wouldn’t be coming home any more. She told me later that, in my six year old style, I tried to make her feel better, telling her that I loved her and that it was going to be okay. That’s what she always told me whenever something I thought was bad had happened. You know … sc****d knee, fell off a chair, stepped on a nail … that kind of thing. So, when I heard her crying I said the same things to her. As strange as it sounds, the words I said to her when I was six had a profound impact on our relationship, and would continue to have that impact for years and years. That will become clear later.
There was a huge insurance settlement that meant my mom didn’t have to work. She loved being a mother, and, as I was her only c***d (she had a miscarriage a year before Dad died) she had no one else to pour her love onto except me. I think all that love she had left over from loving my father got poured on me too, but that part comes later too.
It was 1956 then, and attitudes about single mothers were different than than they are today. A widow woman in those days didn’t have much to hope for unless she was wealthy. We were, but I didn’t know it then. Mom was approached by all kinds of gold-digging guys who brought her flowers and candy and the like, but she rebuffed them all. Later she told me she felt like Daddy could see her and it just seemed dirty to do the things those men wanted her to do. So, being independently secure financially, she bent her attentions to a lot of volunteer kinds of things. She was a teacher aide, and a Red Cross Donuts Dolly, and she worked at the homeless shelter sometimes. She went to the library, taking me with her, and read stories to c***dren one evening a week. I loved all those stories, and her sweet mellow voice as she read them. She had a knack for making up voices to go with the characters in the stories. She even made up a deep raspy voice when a troll spoke, and she actually sounded scary! To me at least.
And in the evenings we played games and watched TV and she asked me all about school and my friends.
My favorite time was bath time. In those days you didn’t take a bath every single day, like people do now. You took a bath when you needed one, and that was about it. A lot depended on what you did during the day. If you got hot and sweaty, you took a bath. If you didn’t do anything except sit in class, or something like that, you might not. I played outside quite a bit, with other k**s in the neighborhood, so I needed a bath more often than Mom did.
The first bath I remember for sure was when I was maybe ten. I have vague memories of baths before that. Whenever mom took a bath, she put me in the tub too. It was really no different than it was any other time. As she washed herself, and me, we’d talk about things and she’d tell me stories. I do remember the feel of her soft hands sliding around on my body … across my chest, or back, or along my arms. It felt good when she touched me. And I remember that almost every single time she gave me a bath she told me what a big, strong boy I was, and how handsome I was. She said other things too, but I remember those the most.
What happened when I was ten that made me never forget it was that she was sitting down in the tub, soapy water just under her breasts, and I was standing up while she washed my legs. We’d done it this way a thousand times.
But this time I got an erection.
Of course I didn’t know that’s what it was called then, but my little ten year old pecker reared its puny head and stuck straight out from my body like a flag pole off the facade at Macy’s. It was pointing right at Mom’s face like a little toy rifle. She never blinked an eye. When her hands slid down my belly they slid onto that stiff little thing and she washed it too.
“You’re a handsome boy Bobby. And a big, strong boy,” she said, like she’d said a thousand times before. “And you’ve got a big strong handsome penis that you can be very proud of.”
That was the first time I ever heard the word “penis”. All my friends called it a “dick”, but the way they said it communicated that it was a dirty word, so I never used that word around my mother.
Her hand slid under my penis to the little empty sack that was under there, more of a bulge than anything else. “And someday you’re going to have big strong handsome testicles that will be all full of nice sperm for some lucky girl.”
Now she was talking a foreign language, but her voice sounded mellow and sweet, like always, and I just assumed that whatever she was talking about was a good thing.
Then it was my turn to wash her. It had been my job, for as long as I could remember, to wash her back, and her hair, and I liked doing it. Her back was smooth and slippery in the bath water, and her skin felt good to my hands, like her hands felt good to my skin.
So I got behind her and washed her back and she handed me the shampoo like she had a thousand times before. We had a cup that we kept by the tub and we used that to capture fresh water to do her hair with. I loved pouring that cup of water over her head while she sputtered and acted funny. And I was rubbing my hands through her hair, getting up a good lather and my penis kept touching the back of her neck. It felt good doing that and I leaned forward a little, poking her more. She turned her head around and looked at what was poking her and then looked up at me with something in her eyes that made me feel all warm inside. Then she turned around and I finished up and poured three or four cups of water on her head while she sputtered and complained that she was drowning and called for help in a cartoon character’s voice.
We dried each other off too. When she was drying me she dried my still-hard penis and I asked her: “Is it going to stay like that forever?”
She smiled and said “No, it will get soft again. They always get soft again. It’s too bad, really, because they’re a lot more fun when they’re hard.”
I didn’t understand that either, but my worry that my pants would stick out at school went away. It did get soft later, when I was in bed.
But it got hard again the next time we bathed.
In fact it got hard again every time we bathed after that. She never acted like it was anything to worry about, so I didn’t worry either. She started washing it more than she had in the past, though, and it felt wonderful when she did that. Her hand covered it, leaving about half an inch left over and, as she slid her hand back and forth to get that half inch clean too I got that warm feeling again, like when her big brown eyes had stared into mine.
By the time I was twelve, she was washing my penis for ten minutes at a time. I had to have the cleanest penis in town, but I didn’t care, because it felt fabulous when she did that. I was too tall to wash her hair if she was sitting down now, and she got to her knees when it was time to wash her back and hair, and now my hard dick poked into her back, I got my body right up next to hers when I did her hair, rubbing my dick all over her back because it felt so good.
Then one day she was washing my penis when I felt something happening in my groin. It was a kind of pain, but it was a pain that felt good somehow. It made me bend my knees. But it happened so fast that I got scared. I made a noise and Mom looked up at me and I guess my face was showing something because she stopped.
Something made me say “Please don’t stop.”
“What’s happening Bobby?” she asked me.
“I don’t know. It feels funny and it hurts kind of, but I want you to keep doing that.”
And she started again, staring up at my face. The pain rushed back at me again and my gut clenched and it was awful … except that it was fabulous too! The pain streaked through my dick and it was so powerful that I had to sit down. I splashed water everywhere and bumped my head on the back of the tub. Mom was up and over me in a flash, worry in her eyes. I blinked and then grinned what must have been a funny looking grin because she laughed. She had the nicest, most musical laugh and all my worry that something bad had happened just fled. My dick felt wonderful.
“Don’t worry. It’s going to be okay. My big strong boy is close to being a big strong man,” she said. She leaned forward and kissed me on my forehead. And, like I said earlier, those words made me feel like everything was fine. What had happened was strange, and a little scary, but if she said it was going to be okay, then it was going to be okay.
Not long after that Jimmy Thompson snuck one of his father’s Playboys into school, and at recess he was showing it to a bunch of us boys. He opened it to the middle and there was a picture of a naked woman, standing by a bathtub. She was blond, like my mom, but had on a lot of makeup, which my mom didn’t wear. She didn’t look like my mother, but there were similarities. The guys were saying things like “Oh man!” and “Look at those tits!” and “You can almost see her pussy! and “Shiiit she’s sooo sexy.” These guys were salivating all over this picture and I couldn’t figure it out. I’d seen it all before, and much closer and in person, and I’d see again that night, or maybe the next. But I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut about it.
That was the first time I realized that maybe … just maybe, the other boys didn’t take baths with their mothers. I mean all us guys took showers after gym, and I washed myself perfectly well in there and didn’t think a thing about it. But taking baths with my mother was just as normal, and I didn’t think anything about that either. At least not until Jimmy brought that Playboy to school.
Andrew Tucker bawled that he was getting a hardon and grabbed his crotch. Two other guys said they were too and I realized it was because they were looking at a picture of a naked woman.
I learned a lot that day. the rest of the day I thought about those hardons I got in the bathtub … when my mother was naked.
And, to my credit (as she told me later), I asked my mother about it as we were getting ready to take a bath that night.
“Mom, can I ask you a question?” I said.
“Sure honey.” was her completely normal reply.
So I told her about the Playboy, and about what the guys had all said, and about their erections.
She had been taking off her blouse, but she stopped as I talked. I had already taken off my shirt and was standing there in jeans and socks.
She didn’t say anything for a minute, and she was looking everywhere except at me. I remembered I hadn’t actually asked the question.
“So my question is, do I get hardons in the bathtub because I think you’re sexy?”
Now she looked at me. “You think I’m sexy?” she asked.
“I guess so. You look kind of like the woman in the magazine, and they said she’s sexy.”
Now I should tell you that my thirteenth birthday was going to be in a week, which made my mother thirty-two. And she did look similar to the woman in the playboy, but also different, like they were sisters, maybe. Her breasts were different. The woman in the magazine had big round breasts that bulged off her chest and looked like they weighed a lot. The rest of her was normal. I mean she wasn’t fat or anything. My mother’s breasts came out from her chest and then turned upwards almost, coming to a point. The tips were darker pink than the rest of her and they kind of looked like eyes that were looking in different directions, one looking slightly to the right and the other slightly to the left. In one way they looked kind of like little ski slopes or something on the tops. The bottoms were round, like that woman’s in the magazine.
And Mom wasn’t fat either. Her waist was narrow above hips that spread out and then dipped back in where her legs started. She didn’t wear lots of makeup or anything, so her face looked plain, but I had seen her in makeup when she was going to a party or someplace where grownups did whatever they did, and she looked like the woman in the magazine then too.
“Well, I knew this would happen some day,” she said with a sigh. “I guess it’s time we had a talk.” she started buttoning up her blouse. “And I guess there won’t be any more baths together.”
I thought I’d done something horribly wrong. I felt my heart pounding in my chest and my eyes got full of tears and I said, “Please Mom, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Please don’t be mad at me.”
She looked startled and said, “Whatever are you talking about Bobby?”
“I don’t know!” I wailed. “But if we can’t have baths together any more you must be mad at me, and I don’t know why you’re mad, but I promise I won’t ever do it again. Please don’t make us stop.” I had suddenly equated bathing with my mother as a pleasure that was a privilege … that could be taken away for bad behavior.
She got that look in her eyes again and she jumped up and hugged me tight. ‘Oh, I’m sorry baby,” she said in those soothing mother tones. “I’m not mad at you. Not at all. You’re a fine young man, and I love you very much. But we need to talk about some things.”
I wiped my eyes, ashamed I was crying. Boys didn’t cry in those days. “Can’t we talk about it in the bathtub, like always?” I begged.
She looked startled. When I later thought back on it, while I just thought we were taking baths and feeling good, she knew exactly what was going on in the bathtub, and she assumed I did too.
She sat down on the toilet. “Maybe we can talk about it in the bath. But I have to ask you a question first. What do you know about sex?”
“Sex?” I said. “I don’t know. It’s how babies are made?” I asked hopefully.
“Do you know what two people do to make a baby?” she asked patiently.
I was lost. I heard the guys talking about tits and pussies and dicks all the time, and “getting it on” was mentioned a lot too, but it was all just words to me. I mean if somebody had never seen a car and they heard the words “bumper … clutch … tail light … headliner” would they understand how a car was made?
So, to my credit (as she later told me), I told the truth. “I don’t think so.”
She frowned and bit her lip. Then she said, “Bobby, when you see me naked, what do you think about?”
Now what kind of question was that? I was trying to please her, to make her happy so we could take a bath and I’d get to wash her hair and rub my dick against her back, but I didn’t know the right answers.
“I don’t know.” I started. “I think about how pretty you are, and about how good it will feel to wash your back, and about playing with the soap in your hair to make it stand up straight like Alfalfa’s cowlick on the Little Rascals.”
“Do you like it when I wash your penis?” she asked.
“Sure, it feels great.” I said back. “It’s my favorite part, especially when I get that pain that feels so good.”
“Do you know what that nice feeling is called?” she asked, looking curious now.
“It has a name?” I asked, surprised.
She muttered, “What are they teaching k**s in school nowadays?” and then looked up at me. I realized she hadn’t been asking me that question. That warm look that I liked so much was in her eyes. I could almost fall into those eyes when she did that. They looked like big pools of liquid chocolate or something. And of all the things I felt my penis start getting hard.
She stood up. “Bobby, I’m going to have to teach you about sex. It’s obvious the school isn’t doing it.” Neither of us knew that the sex ed part of Health wouldn’t take place until the year I’d be f******n, which was a whole year away. “There are things you need to know about, but it’s complicated. And I don’t want you talking with the other boys about anything we discuss. Deal?”
She was unbuttoning her blouse again and the relief that flooded over me was so strong that my eyes teared up again. I snorted and gulped and rubbed my nose and said “Okay … deal.”
So I got the lecture on the birds and the bees from my mother … in the bathroom … naked as a jaybird … with visual aides.
When we were both naked, instead of getting in the bathtub she sat down on the toilet seat and told me to stand in front of her. She reached out and cupped my penis and balls in her hand. “These are what the man needs for sex” she said, hefting them. My penis got harder. “The testicles are located in here,” she fingered the sack that, a year ago had been small and empty, but which, since then, had grown something in there that hurt if I squeezed them too hard. I had been worried about that. I was afraid I had cancer or something. I wanted to talk to mom about it, but I was afraid, so I never did. Now, just by describing my sexual organs to me, she put my mind at ease. “And, when you’re old enough, the testicles will make sperm.” She played with them a little longer. “Your friends probably call these your balls,” she said.
That was true and I told her so.
“Now this,” she said, putting her hand around my mostly stiff penis, “is your penis. Your friends might have lots of names for it, like cock or prick. When the balls make sperm, that sperm comes out of this little hole at just the right time.”
“Like when I pee?” I asked.
She smiled. “No, dear. It comes out when your penis is inside the woman’s vagina.”
“Oh,” I said. I had no idea what a vagina was.
She must have known that because she went on. “Your friends call the vagina a pussy, probably. There are other words for it too, but most of them are not very nice.”
I was confused. My penis stuck out a good four or five inches. I looked down at her hand, which was stroking my penis slowly. “But how can something like that go inside a woman?” I asked. “There’s no room for it.”
“Yes there is,” she said patiently. She spread her legs, opening up a part of her that I’d never really seen before. I’d seen the hair, but there was more, underneath that hair that I’d never known was there. It looked like she had a little sideways mouth, with two kind of floppy lips.
“This is my pussy,” she said. One of her fingers teased the two lips apart and there was a small area of darkness, like a little hole exposed. “And it forms a tunnel up inside me,” she said. Then, as I watched unbelieving, she slid a finger up inside her body. A whole finger … clear up inside her! When she brought that finger out it was shiny and wet looking.
“It’s wet!” I said, involuntarily.
“Yes, my body makes something slippery to help a penis slid up inside there. It’s a small place, and a man’s penis is big. It helps if there’s lubrication.”
“But how do you know when to … um … make some lubrication?” I asked. This was starting to sound more and more complicated.
Mom reached out and grasped my hard cock again. “Things happen automatically. Your penis gets hard when it wants to have sex. When a vagina wants to let a penis inside, it makes lubricant. Then, when the penis is inside the vagina, the sperm comes out.”
She went on, explaining what the sperm did once it was inside a woman’s body, and about how the egg, if it got penetrated by a sperm, attached itself to the wall of the womb and all that stuff. It was a lot of information.
I was doing fine until we got to the part where the baby comes out of the vagina. There was no way I would believe that a whole baby could come out of a tiny little place like that. It would kill them both. We got into an argument and she insisted that it happened that way and finally I gave up and said I believed her. But I didn’t.
Then we took our bath. Just like always.
I don’t know if it was fate, or maybe the fact that I now understood and my body caught up with my brain, but on this night, when she washed my penis and that wonderful feeling, which she had just named “orgasm” came over me, it wasn’t the same. This time that awful sweet pain was there, but then I felt something going through my penis that felt really soothing. It all happened so fast that I just had a fleeting recognition of that soothing, delightful feeling when something shot out of the tip of my cock and splattered all over my mother’s breasts.
Her eyes went all round and wide and she took in a big breath that she didn’t blow back out again. I was afraid she’d think I’d peed on her, even though I knew it wasn’t pee. But her other hand came up and rubbed at the stuff I’d shot out, spreading it all over her breasts. Her hand kept going, and as I looked down I could see more of the stuff oozing and dripping out of the end of my cock.
Then she was holding me, her arms around me, my cock pressed to her breasts and her arms on my butt. It was a little like being tackled in football, except nobody was moving and it felt wonderful. It seemed like I should be doing something with my hands, so I kind of stroked her hair.
I knew something important had happened. Then her lecture of only half an hour before came back to me. In an instant of clarity I had an idea. “Was that my sperm, Mom?” I asked.
Those deep brown eyes looked up at me and she smiled the widest and most brilliant smile I’d seen on her face in a long time. “Yes it was sweety. You’re a real man now.”
Then she explained what had happened and I learned a new word: masturbation. I’d heard of jacking off, but didn’t know what it meant and somehow knew that if I asked the guys I’d get laughed at. When she put a name to what she’d been doing to me when we bathed, I completely understood why the guys talked about it a lot. It had just never occurred to me that I could do it for myself. That was something Mom did. Plain and simple.
But then we got into an argument because she said that mothers aren’t supposed to masturbate their sons. She said that, now that I was a man, she should stop doing that, and that our baths should stop and all kinds of things I didn’t like at all.
I remember at one point I said, “If this is being a man I don’t want to be a man.”
She had a tinkling laugh and it came out now. “Bobby, you’re going to love being a man. Some day you’ll get to slide that handsome prick you have into some lucky girl’s pussy and you’ll squirt all that lovely sperm inside her and she’ll have your baby. It will be the best thing that’s ever happened to you. You won’t miss seeing your flabby old naked mother at all.”
“Really?” I said, interested now, despite the fact that I wanted to tell her there wasn’t an inch of flab on her anywhere. “When will that happen?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe in eight or ten years,” she said.
“Eight or ten years?!” I shouted. “I have to go without seeing you naked, or touching your soft skin for eight or ten years?!”
You know how little k**s at the store bug their parents so much, asking for something over and over and over again that the parents finally throw up their hands and give in? Well, I wasn’t little, but I could beg with the best of them.
My mother, though she kept saying that normal mothers didn’t do these things with their sons, continued to let me bathe with her. And each time she stroked me until I came. She usually rubbed my semen, another new word she taught me, into her skin, over her breasts. I wished I could do that part, but I never asked.
Over the next year it began to get a little crowded in the tub, as I put on three inches of height and my muscles somehow got larger. I also started growing hair in places where there had been only wisps of fluff before. My voice started cracking and then settled into a baritone that I thought sounded quite good.
On my f******nth birthday my mother did two things that I’ll remember forever. Oh, I’m sure she got me a birthday present, but I don’t remember what it was. But the first thing I remember about that day was that when it was bath time, and she said, “Bobby, you’re just getting too big for baths.”
My first reaction was that she was going to make us stop. I wasn’t quite as emotional on the outside as I had been before, but inside I was dying. My shoulders must have slumped, or I did something that she saw, because she smiled and said, “Don’t you take showers at school?”
Sure I did. “Uh .. yeah.” I said.
“Then we can start taking showers here at home too,” she said simply.
There was a big glassed-in shower in her bathroom, but I never went in there. The bathtub was in the main bathroom, the one I used all the time though, come to think of it, the only times I ever saw her in there was when she was doing laundry or we were taking a bath.
She led me into her bathroom, holding my hand like I was a little boy again. The shower stall was bigger than I’d thought it would be, and there was plenty of room in there for both of us. She turned on the water and then started taking her clothes off. I stood there for a minute, watching. There was something about seeing her take off her clothing in a place we’d never done it before that made it seem different somehow. I’d seen her naked hundreds of times, of course, but as her breasts came into view I saw again the pages of that Playboy magazine, and the woman standing there, showing her breasts to the world. I got instantly hard.
She looked at me quizzically and I fumbled with my shirt buttons, trying to catch up to her for some reason. When I slid my pants down and my cock flopped out she smiled.
“You always make me feel pretty,” she said.
“Huh?” I responded.
“Your erections … and the way you look at me. They always make me feel pretty,” she said, dropping the last of her clothes.
“You are pretty.” I said. She was. It was just a statement of fact. “You’re just as pretty as that woman in the magazine.” I said, unthinkingly. She looked confused. “The woman in the Playboy I told you about.” I added.
Her eyes lit up and she laughed. “The girls are going to have to watch out for you pretty soon,” she said, still laughing. “With a tongue like that they’re going to be in trouble.”
We got into the shower, which was all foggy by then and soon her hands were sliding all over my body. This was different somehow. Maybe it was because in the bathtub we had washed ourselves, mostly, with the exception that I washed her back and she washed my penis until I ejaculated. But this time she washed all of me, with long strokes of her hands that felt fabulous, touching so much more of me than before. It was fantastic. I just stood there and shook with the emotions it caused. She started washing my penis and made this sound in her throat that was kind of like a growl.
“You’ve grown so much in this last year,” she said, stroking me. “You’re a man in all but years.” She was close to me. “Your father would be so proud of you.”
Her hand, sliding up and down what Jimmy Johnson had only that day called a “love bone”, felt so good I moaned. Then she stopped. I made a sound of unhappiness and she laughed again .
“Tonight, as part of your birthday present, you get to wash me,” she said. “All of me.”
It was incredible. I had felt her back a hundred times, but as I slid my soapy hands all over her she felt so much different. I wanted to wash those breasts suddenly, and my hands cupped them and squeezed them, sliding over them. There were suddenly bumps on the tips of those soft round things, and I bent over to see them. Her nipples had always been flat before, but now they stuck out … way out … almost like my penis got bigger and longer and stiffer. She moaned as I tweaked one, feeling its texture.
“Wash me everywhere,” she said. She sounded like she had run some little distance, and was breathing deeply. When I didn’t move my hands she took one and shoved it down, between her legs, to that place where she had slid a finger into herself. “Wash me there,” she gasped.
I gave an experimental kind of rub and was astonished when my middle finger slid into a crevice of sorts. Mom moaned again and her knees bent a little as she opened her legs a little.
“Yes,” she panted. “Right there.” I moved my hand, feeling hair and skin and that crevice as one of her hands went to my shoulder and the other went to my chest. She pulled on my shoulder and pushed on my chest. I knew that when she washed my cock that it felt better when she went faster, so I started sliding my hand in and out between her legs. The tip of my middle finger found something deeper inside that crevice and slid into her body, like her own finger had.
“Yes, baby,” she groaned.
Watching her face told me this was something that made her feel very good. Not knowing anything else to do I slid my finger in and out of her and washed her more and more. She stumbled backward, pulling me with her until her back was against what I knew was the cold surface of the tile on the wall. Her eyes closed and she turned her face up as her mouth gaped open. Suddenly she shook all over and the flesh around my finger got tighter. She let out a long, whining moan that, had I not known was from happiness, I would have thought was from pain.
Something told me to stop rubbing and I froze, my finger still deep in her body. Her eyes opened and I saw something there that was almost scary. It wasn’t that loving deep look she had given me so many times. Her eyes looked almost cat like somehow … intense … like she looked when she was really really mad, only the rest of her face wasn’t her ‘mad’ face.
The hand she had on my chest went up to my other shoulder and she pulled me to her. I wanted to be up against her, but my hand was between us and I pulled it out from between her legs. Her breasts crushed into my chest, soft, yielding but somehow firm too, and her lips came towards mine. I knew she was going to kiss me but I’d never kissed anybody and didn’t know what to do. So I just leaned against her and waited.
When her lips touched mine they moved apart and then together again, almost like she was trying to take a little bite out of my lips. I had this insane thought that she was going to bite me for some reason. Then her tongue forced against my closed lips and I opened my mouth in surprise. She turned her head a little sideways and I felt her tongue go inside my mouth and dart all over. It was so strange. I thought I should be grossed out, but I wasn’t. In fact, something made me want to stick my tongue into her mouth. And when I did she crushed me to her with strength I wasn’t aware she had in her light, slim body.
I wish I could tell you more about that kiss, but the fact is I don’t remember much more about it than that. I got kind of light-headed and my mind sort of flitted off somewhere else for a minute.
When it came back she had stopped kissing my lips and was kissing my chest … then my stomach … and then she was on her knees in front of me, with the water pouring over both of us … and something hot engulfed my iron hard penis. I looked down.
It was her mouth.
I wish I could tell you more about how her mouth felt on my penis, but the fact is that my mind flitted off to make sure that wherever it went the first time was still there. When it came back I was spurting. Her mouth was sucking then. I felt like my whole insides was shooting out through my prick into her mouth.
Then I fell down.
I know it sounds stupid, but I did. I didn’t trip or anything. I just suddenly fell down. I felt myself going and sort of caught myself with my hands just as my tailbone hit the tile floor. It would have hurt a lot more if I hadn’t been able to do that. It still hurt a lot.
Mom was all scared and concerned looking and crawled over to make sure I was okay. The feeling of weakness passed and I told her I was okay and she turned off the water and helped me stand up.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, dripping and naked beside me.
“Yeah.” I responded. “I think it just felt so good for a second there that I didn’t want to stand up any more.”
She laughed and I felt better. She got a big fluffy towel and dried me off, and then herself. I was watching as she dried herself, and her breasts and everything were so beautiful. I looked down and my prick was standing straight out from my body again. I couldn’t believe it.
Mom looked over at me and that look in her eyes came back. She stood up and said, “I’m worried about you.”
“No … really … I’m fine.” I stammered.
“Well I’m still worried. I think you had better sleep in my bed tonight,” she said.
Okay, now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that a thirty-something woman who just blew her son in the shower wasn’t worried at all, and that he had to be completely stupid not to know what she really meant. But you aren’t f******n, with no experience … well with almost no experience … who just went through something that was still sending aftershocks through you.
But I was all those things. And I really didn’t know what she meant.
“Okay” I said. “But where are you going to sleep if I sleep in your bed?”
Remember … I told you I was completely stupid.
She smiled a tight little smile. “The bed’s big enough for two, and I think I need to keep an eye on you. At least for tonight. You know, like they say at the hospital when they make somebody stay overnight for observation? I’m going to put you under observation tonight.”
It sounded reasonable to me and, when she took my hand and led me to her bedroom, I followed. She let go of my hand and turned back the covers.
I said “I’ll go get my PJs.”
She laughed that delightful laugh that sounded like she was SO happy. “In my bed you don’t need PJs.”
So, naked as a jaybird, I crawled into my mother’s bed and, after she turned out the light, naked as another jaybird, she climbed in with me.
I know that, to you who are reading this, many years later, it seems I was an incredibly dense young man. To have my mother first masturbate me and then put my penis in her mouth as it spurted seems clear and simple to you as an indicator of where things might be headed. But remember, I was f******n, in a small town that was pretty conservative, and where talk of sex was restricted to the playground, or the infrequent sleepovers we had in those days. Sex education was just beginning to be talked about as part of the health classes taught in those days. And, for the most part, “Health Class” meant instruction on the importance of hygiene in combating disease. Those were the days when people didn’t take baths every day like most do nowadays. The ‘ration mentality’ of the war and the Korean conflict that followed had only begun to abate in the last ten years, and many people of my mother’s age were very frugal when it came to household expenses. Even though my mom was well off, due to the insurance settlement, we didn’t live a grand lifestyle. Other than the fact that there was no man coming home at the end of the day, you couldn’t have told us apart from any of our neighbors.
But a vibrant young woman, whose dreams of a family, dreams which, only a few years ago were ripe and ready to burst like buds on a tree in spring, were no longer viable, couldn’t be blamed for trying to revive those dreams. Those dreams wouldn’t have been understandable to a f******n year old boy, with his own set of problems and dreams. And the fact that she never told me, at least not then, how she was feeling and what she wanted out of life, is completely understandable now that I’m older.
She knew what we were doing was something that society would lambaste us for if anyone found out. She resisted what was slowly happening inside her as her passions grew and grew. She tried to find a man to sate those passions with, in the way our neighbors would have called “normal”. But the men she met were always compared against the standard of my father. And all were found to be wanting. She later told me that, as she spent time with these men, the thoughts uppermost in her mind was, “Would I want to bear this man’s c***dren? Would I be thrilled to welcome this man into my arms each day? Would this man be a fitting father for my future c***dren? Do I love this man?”
And each time she found, much to her dismay, that the answer was, “No,” to all of those questions. And, inevitably, after finding those answers, she’d find herself washing a boy … almost a man … who she did love. A man she admired, who had a good heart, whose innocence was something that fed her passions. A man she’d always be glad to welcome into her arms at the end of the day.
Can she be blamed so harshly for looking at me as a possible donor of the seed that would fulfill her dreams?
That night, as I felt her warm, naked body slide between the sheets of her bed, and press against mine, she was feeling that … maybe … her dream was back within reach. She wasn’t a predator. She wasn’t being mercenary about it. She just wanted what every woman wants … a man to love, and to cleave to, whom she feels safe with and loved by. And the emotions that were raging through her that night didn’t leave room to think about the ramifications of what she was thinking about doing.
I suppose a psychologist might say that the desires uppermost in her mind were so strong that they blocked out that part of her intelligence that would have told her she mustn’t do what she was planning at all. And, if she just had to do what she was planning, she mustn’t do it without taking the appropriate precautions. I, for one, think that the fact she had never been on any kind of birth control in her entire life had more to do with it than anything else. When she’d married my father she was a virgin, and they had wanted to start a family immediately. After he’d died she assumed that, if she decided to let a man into her inner sanctum, it would happen slowly … would evolve … that she’d have plenty of time to think about what to do before the gates of that inner sanctum were breached.
Now I know that you, the reader, who have had time to assimilate all that had happened thus far, are fidgeting in your seat, leaning forward … saying “What do you mean? She’s been playing with you sexually for years! She had years to prepare for this night.”
But you must understand that she never intended for our play to go as far as it had. She never anticipated wanting to swallow my prick … to take my semen inside her body. And when it happened it was as unexpected as when a virgin, thinking she’s going to the Prom only to dance and perhaps flirt with a boy, suddenly finds herself in the back seat of a car, Prom dress gathered at her waist, as something completely unanticipated thrusts through her barrier and penetrates her to her very core.
What I’m saying is that she was just as surprised at sliding between those sheets to join me as I was.
And her sigh of, “Oh Bobby,” as she did so was not a sigh of acceptance, or passion, or even lust, as you might expect. It was a sigh of remorse as that little part of her brain that knew she was doing something that would turn our life together on its head tried one last time to penetrate her passion and lust.
Had I said, “Yes?” or, “What Mom?” or any of the other possible things a normal boy might respond with when his mother says, “Oh Bobby”, things might have been different, and her conscience might have won the day … or night, as it were. But my response to feeling her warmth and nakedness and all that smooth skin against me was more of a, “Mmmmmmm.” And THAT response struck her conscience a slap on the face that knocked it back into the dim closet that her lust and passion wanted it to remain in.
The result was that I found myself being pulled on top of all that lovely naked skin. I felt her breasts flatten against my chest and her legs spread to make a comfortable saddle for me to lie in. I felt her lips find mine in a hot, wet kiss that sucked the breath from my lungs and made me light headed. And … I felt her hand between us on my rock hard penis … just before the tip of that penis sank into something so hot and so slippery and so … amazing.
There is an instinct in every man, when he feels that first tentative penetration, to push for more. I did, and in an instant, my whole prick was sheathed in that fabulous heat. My mother’s groan as, after years of having nothing in her, she was suddenly filled, was a sound I’ll never forget. And even though I have heard that sound many times since, that first one is the one that makes my blood boil every time I replay it in my mind.
Our first coupling was like the first French kiss a person experiences. It seemed to last only seconds, but, within those few seconds, it was like a raging wildfire in a hundred year old forest choked with fuel after a decades long drought. Her shudder of completion came as quickly as the sperm in my balls boiled over and exploded from my penis like a geyser at Yellowstone. I don’t even think we had time for me to withdraw and thrust, something I did after the first two explosive spurts of my ejaculation entered her body. And even then there was no rhythm to what I did. I just jerked spasmodically as my body tried to shove every drop of my seed available out into her hot sheath.
I gave a wrenching sob and my body pummeled hers as I emptied. I think her own climax was as complete a surprise to her as mine was to me. I don’t know how long it was after that – it couldn’t have been an entire minute – but her second sigh of, “Ohhh Bobby,” sounded like a thousand birthday cards rolled into one to my ears. Her gratitude for what I had just given her was astounding, and it struck into my brain like fire. I either stayed hard, or was was hard again almost immediately, and now the urge to shove and withdraw was strong. I assuaged that urge by rocking my whole body on top of hers, sliding toward her feet and then back toward her head. Her hands came to my back and helped me, and her little murmurs of joy at the feelings washing over her were like gasoline thrown onto a fire.
Again, I can’t tell you how long it lasted. Now it seemed to go on and on and on, and I wished for it never to end. I got my knees into a position that let me use them to shove forward and her legs opened wider as her knees drew up and pressed against my sides. I found that if I pushed up on my arms I could bring more force to bear on slamming my prick into her, and I wanted to slam it as hard as I could for some reason. She began whimpering with little soft, short high-pitched sounds and I felt that hot flesh surrounding my cock press on it, tightening. That felt good and I stayed in for a few seconds, loving the feel as, somehow, that flesh moved, almost like a ripple. I had never, of course, felt anything like that, and it was fabulous. It made me want to spurt again, and I suddenly found that I could do that. Staying deep inside her, feeling her vagina stroke me, I let everything in me surge through my penis. A pain I hadn’t even felt was suddenly soothed and I sagged back down on her breasts as my essence flowed into her again.
We both lay there, as if dead, except for labored breathing on both our parts. I rose and fell as she dragged air into her lungs and I tried to raise my body off hers again, to let her breathe, but her arms across my back tightened. Her unspoken command for me not to move let me sag back.
Sometime later she kissed my cheek, murmuring little, ‘Thank you’s into my ear. I was content to lie there as I felt little drips ooze out of my softening prick. I wanted it to last forever.
But, of course, it couldn’t. Eventually our combined body heat caused us to begin sweating, and that was uncomfortable. I finally rolled to one side and she caught my hand as I lay beside her, the sheets somehow thrown back, our naked bodies cooling in the air. For whatever reason there was no need for speech. I don’t know what was going through her mind – she never told me – but in my mind was the fervent hope that this wasn’t the only time that … whatever had happened … would happen. Some part of me knew that sex had taken place, but I don’t think it had sunk in yet.
Eventually, we slept.
I don’t know what woke me, but it was very dark, so I knew it was still the middle of the night. I felt my elbow against my mother, and it was warm there. Everything else had cooled off, and I shivered a little bit. I realized that my penis was hard again. Achingly hard, standing up off my little fluff of pubic hair, my penis seemed to be searching for something.
And now … I knew what it was searching for. I didn’t even think about what I was doing as I climbed back on top of my sleeping mother. Her legs had closed and I had to put a knee between them to spread them so I could get between her legs. I felt her head move and she made a sound in her sleep. I still didn’t know how to make happen what had happened before, so I simply did what felt good and that was to rub my stiff prong against her. She was still slick, though that slickness was now cold against my hot cock. I felt the bottom of my prick slide between those same two lips of skin that my finger had found in the shower and their warmth felt wonderful. Again I slid up and then back, feeling the whole length of my cock glide along her skin between those lips.
She woke up. I could hear a change in her breathing. Her hands came up to my sides and lay there lightly as I moved. Then her knees came up again, taking the place of her hands as they slid up onto my back.
“Feels nice.” she murmured.
Her right hand slid back down my side, between her knee and my side, and tried to force it’s way between us. I lifted a little and felt her find and grasp my hardness.
“Mmmmmm,” she crooned.
Her knuckles pressed against my abdomen, almost painfully as she pushed me further and I felt her bend my penis downward. Then there was that fabulous heat all around the tip again and I surged into her. She made that sound again and her hands came to my head. I could smell her … us … on her hands. As I strained forward, to be fully inside her, she pushed my head toward her breasts and I found my face full against one of them.
“Suck,” she said in a moaning sound.
I found a long, stiff nipple at my nose and adjusted until I could close my lips around it. I sucked and the sound she made caused my balls to tighten. It was hard to move in and out of her and suck at the same time, but I didn’t want to stop doing either. Her hands had moved to my butt cheeks and she pulled on them, and then moved her hands and what little give there was in my cheeks in a circle. I found I could do that and suckle at the same time. I didn’t know what a clitoris was, but she managed to make me crush hers and then massage it with the base of my cock while I sucked like a starving baby.
Her whimpers started again and they shot clear to something deep inside me that answered by grinding harder against her. Then that rippling feeling started up again as she gasped and cried out. It was like she knew where the switch was to make my balls empty themselves and I groaned as I felt that rush of soothing fluid flash through my penis again. there wasn’t anything in the world I wanted to do more than squirt her full of that milky looking stuff.
In the morning she woke me and said, “Once more before breakfast.”
I knew what to do then and, before I was even fully awake, I was seated in her heat again. This time, when her muscles started working on me I could see her eyes. They were wide open, staring into my face with that soft look in them that I had loved for so many years. And, as I felt my penis begin to jerk and spray inside her she said to me, “Yes, cum in Mommy … fill Mommy up with your magic potion.”
Breakfast was almost surrealistic after what had happened. She wore her robe, like she always did, and, though I don’t remember what we ate that morning, she fixed it like nothing had happened. We sat and ate as if nothing had happened either, though inside I was boiling over with emotions. The thought that that mysterious thing called “sex” had happened to me filled my brain. That it had happened with my own mother wasn’t uppermost in my mind. I know that sounds strange, but our relationship was so close already that this step didn’t seem that big a thing in that sense. But I knew that, despite their posturing and bragging, most, if not all of my friends, who “knew” so much more about sex than I did, hadn’t done what I had done last night. And that was huge to my f******n-year-old-mind. Suddenly I was at the front of the pack. Or would be if I told them what had happened.
But I didn’t want to tell them what had happened. It wasn’t because it had happened with my mother. It was because what had happened was so special, and so precious, I wanted to keep all of it for myself.
Mom put down her fork and stared at me. Her fingers picked the fork back up and fiddled with it. “How do you feel?” she asked.
I was young and not all that bright, but I knew what she was talking about. I felt like my answer was the most important answer of my whole life. And, unable to put everything that was threatening to break my skull open into words, my mouth just said, “Good.”
It was a typical sounding f******n year old response to a very atypical question. Those of you who are parents knew what I’m talking about. You ask for information and you get a one word response that sounds flat and unresponsive. I saw her eyes change and her mouth tighten up so that the corners made little creases. They were the only wrinkles on her face and I usually only saw them when she smiled. But she wasn’t smiling. Intuitively I knew that my answer had fallen flat.
I tried again. “Good isn’t the right word.” I set out tentatively. “I don’t know the right word … words.” I said. “There are all those words they teach us in school. They call them superlatives. But none of them are superlative enough.” I floundered, unable to communicate.
Her eyes changed again and I saw the wrinkles almost appear again … this time because of the beginnings of a smile. “So … what happened … would you say you were glad it happened?” she asked. Now she was frowning a little bit … worried.
“Oh yes.” I said. “I wish it could happen a lot.”
“Really? With your mother?” she asked. Then she looked like she wished she hadn’t reminded me it had been with my mother. She looked more worried.
I said. All my life I had been taught the nicest thing you could say to someone. I had been taught it was important to say those words, because people needed to hear them. So in my young mind, those words had a special power. I said them now. “I love you Mom.”
I could see confidence flow back into her face. “What if I told you we shouldn’t have done that?” she asked. “What if I told you people would think what we did was wrong?”
That was simple for a young teen boy. “Are you sorry it happened?” I asked.
She looked startled. “No,” she said. She looked like she was going to say more, but didn’t.
“Me neither.” I said. “I don’t really think it’s anybody else’s business if you’re happy and I’m happy.” I added. I got that fearful feeling in my throat … that feeling of peril, like when I thought she was going to stop the baths. “Do you think we could do it again?” I asked.
She gave me a level look. “You’re my son,” she said.
“Duh.” I said before I could stop it. It was another typical teen response and I felt stupid for saying it. “What I mean is I know you’re my mother.” That didn’t sound much better.
She frowned again. “I am your mother, and you aren’t grown quite yet. That means I’ll still be making decisions for you … about what you can and can’t do. You aren’t going to like some of them. You’ll get mad at me sometimes.” She looked earnest. “I mean I still have to act like your mother.”
“Of course” I said. “But I don’t get mad at you very often. Most of what you make me do makes sense. I just don’t like doing it sometimes. I’m usually not mad at you, really. I’m just mad because I have to do something I don’t want to do.”
“Well, that’s nice to know,” she said. She looked startled again. “But still, there will be times when you’re mad at me.”
I thought about that, and what had happened, and the last few years, when I had gotten mad at her and it made absolutely no difference at bath time. “Mom, I don’t think there’s any way in the world I could be mad at you and do what we did last night. It would be impossible. Even if I wanted to be mad I couldn’t stay that way if we were doing that.”
“Do you know what that was?” she asked. She blushed. “I mean what we did?”
“It was sex, wasn’t it?” I was sure … but still nervous about being wrong.
“Oh yes, my darling, it was most definitely sex.” she laughed. She told me later she started to tell me it was good sex, but decided not to.
“And we can do it again?” I asked, leaning forward. I had high hopes for her answer.
“And when do you think you might want to do that again?” she asked. She was teasing, but I didn’t know it.
It was Saturday. I didn’t have to go to school or anywhere else. “Now?” I asked hopefully.
My mother laughed, and her laughter made my head want to explode. It was a laugh of pure joy, that I knew I was responsible for. It was the kind of laugh a c***d burns to hear when they are performing for their parents, wanting approval. But this laugh made my cock stand up straight and strong.
She stood up. “We’re all stinky from last night. We need a shower,” she said.
That was just fine with me.
While the shower warmed up we stood there naked, looking at each other. I really examined her this time … all of her. Her hair was mussed, but she had a rosy healthy look to her that I’d never noticed before. I stared at the nipples I’d chewed on and sucked. They were long and stiff, which looked different than in the past. She opened the shower door and stepped in, holding the door open for me.
This time when we washed it seemed hurried. She stroked my stiff cock a few times and then kissed me on the lips. She said “I don’t want to feel it on my skin right now. I want to feel it inside me.”
That was just fine with me too.
I don’t think we were really dry when we ran to her bedroom. She jumped on the bed and I was on her like a lion on a lamb, climbing on top of her before she even got settled on the bed.
She giggled and laughed and pushed at me, calling me a bad boy, but I knew she didn’t mean it. She made me fight to get between her legs and I suddenly realized it was a game. I swooped with my mouth and captured a stiff jutting nipple, sucking hard and her hands came to my head, holding me there, instead of fighting. But her legs were still closed and I had to force one knee between them.
I had a sudden flash of her, on her knees in the shower, her mouth sliding along my rigid pole and I thought of the boys in my class talking about “eating pussy”. I had a sudden urge to taste her and I jumped off, licking down her body from her breast, across her abdomen to the beginning of her hair. She gasped and made a sound in her throat and her hands pushed my head. Her legs opened, as if springs had suddenly been released and I dipped my tongue down to those soft flaps of flesh at her opening.
My head didn’t fit in there and I couldn’t get to them like I wanted to, so I scrambled across her leg and, knees firmly on the bed, leaned in to lick and suck and probe with my tongue.
She tasted wonderful. It was tangy in a way, but it tasted like nothing I’d ever had in my mouth and I loved it instantly. One finger slid between my face and her body and it stopped.
“Lick there” she gasped. “Suck there.”
I didn’t know what she meant, so I reached in with my fingers and spread her open, pulling those loose lips to each side. She was so pink! I hadn’t expected her to be so pink. Her fingertip was rubbing circles around a protrusion at the top of her opening. It almost looked like a picture I’d seen in science class of a pupa, with the resident forcing it’s way out to become a butterfly.
I nosed her finger out of the way and sealed my lips around the lump she’d been rubbing. Her squeal of delight was electrifying. I didn’t know what this thing was, but I could tell she loved having it sucked on, just like her nipples, so I sucked with a vengeance. Her sex got wetter and wetter until my face was sliding around, all slippery and covered with juice, but her reaction to what I was doing was so much fun that I kept on.
Her hands grabbed my hair and gripped painfully as her hips lifted up off the bed and she cried out in that grunting, gasping, yipping way that I knew now meant her muscles were rippling inside. Her hands left my hair and beat on the sheets beside us as she thrust her sex up into my face over and over again in rapid jerky movements. I lost my grip with my lips on the thing that was so much fun to suck and licked at it instead, wiping my tongue across it as many times as I could until her hands pushed me away from her.
She was gasping for air, but managed to get out, “Ohhh Bobby …. baby … nobody’s ever done that for me before … Oh sweety, come here.”
She pulled me up, grasping for my prick, which was wet from stuff leaking out of it. She brought it to where I had been licking and I knew what to do this time. I shoved and she moaned, “Yeeeesssssss,” as I sank into her.
Then she talked to me. I don’t remember everything she said, but it was things like, “Cum in me baby … shoot in Mommy … give Mommy your special present.” She never mentioned the word “baby” – not then. But she told me that was all she could think about at the time. She had crossed the final frontier and wanted me to impregnate her. I have no idea what I would have though at the time if I knew that. But my instinct was to give her exactly what she was asking for, and it didn’t take long.
And as I spurted deep inside her she cooed in my ear. “Yes, baby … yes … give me all of it … shoot it deep.”
After that, my mother made herself available to me any time I wanted her. That sounds tacky or something, and it wasn’t like I’d walk in and say, “Okay, Mom, strip and spread ’em.” It wasn’t like that at all. There were times when she was horny and let me know it, and asked me to love her physically. And there were times when I was agitated and wanted to be next to her, or in her, and she always seemed to be ready then too. What seems odd now, but not then, was that we maintained separate bedrooms.
It seems odd now, because when I look back on it, our physical relationship was more that of a husband and wife, than of a son and mother. But I think she always thought of me primarily as her son, and secondarily as her lover. She knew I’d be bringing friends home, and that there needed to be a “boy’s bedroom” for me to take them to. I suspect that she thought I’d meet girls and want to bring them home too … that maybe I’d try to get them into my bedroom to do what all boys and girls do when they get a chance and don’t think they’ll be caught.
And … she brought men home. Even though I filled her with my prick almost daily, she told me she needed to date. I didn’t understand it, but she told me quite seriously that these dates she had didn’t affect the way she loved me, and never would. As a boy who, every time I kissed a woman – my mother – ended up in bed with her, I didn’t understand how this could be. But even though I saw her kiss several of them, I never saw her take one into her bedroom. And believe me I peeked. But, while she might make out a little on the couch, and while I saw one or two of them caressing her in places I didn’t like their hands to be, I took her at her word that these men were not competition for me. Eventually I was able to go to a friend’s house when she wanted to bring a man home and think of other things than what they might be doing. Part of what helped me with that was that very few men got brought home more than twice.
But for me there were no girls. Not for the next three years, anyway. And that’s because of several things. First of all I had the dream lover that all boys want, but few ever have. My mother was an accomplished lover, even though the only other man she’d ever had was my father. She was aware of things they’d never done, and her willingness to experiment led us to hours and hours of cum-spurting joy. All I had to do was tell her what I’d heard about, and we tried it. She even let me take her anally one time. She liked it, but I didn’t care for it much. I couldn’t get around the idea that she’d be putting my cock in her mouth sooner or later each time we made love. And kissing me. Those things and anal sex just don’t go together well in my mind.
Another thing happened that caused me not to look at other girls for more than just friendship. It happened about three months after that first wild night we spent in her bed. I got home from school and she had cooked one of my favorite dinners. That, in itself wasn’t strange. She did that often when she was horny. In fact, she taught me to cook because that made her horny. Whenever she suggested that we have a cooking lesson I knew I’d be in for some hot sweaty sex, often in the kitchen itself, before the meal was served. And then more thrusting, rutting fun after we’d done the dishes. As young as I was, I could get it up five or six times before my penis lay limp and dead for hours.
So, when I smelled a roast in the crock pot, my dick got stiff. She was making a salad as I came in, and had on an old sweat shirt and sweat pants. That was another signal that she gave me sometimes. She knew I could get my hands inside those garments easily and when she had them on, that was all she had on. That day was no exception. I walked up behind her and slid my hands up under the shirt to cup her naked breasts. She sighed and put the knife down she had been cutting carrots with. Then she turned around and kissed me, long and deep.
“Supper will wait,” she said.
Then she took me by the hand and led me to my bedroom. Making love in my bed was one of the things we did relatively rarely, usually when she was extra passionate about something. In my bed there was a lot of what I grew to think of as, “Mommy talk”, when she’d call me her son and herself my Mommy, and urge her son to put his thick young spunk in her pussy. When we were in her bed, she called me man names and herself a wide variety of things, not necessarily all complimentary. I think she worked out her frustration with the taboo nature of our relationship in her bed.
At any rate, on this day she wanted me on the bottom and she rode me gently, obviously trying to make it last. Her muscles were so well developed now that, if she wanted to, she could make me spurt within a couple of minutes after getting me inside her. But today she didn’t use those muscles. She just rocked and leaned over, asking me to suck her nipples.
It was while she was doing this that she said “Bobby, my baby, you know I love you.”
My mouth was full of turgid tasty nipple and I made a sound something like, “Mphfft”, meaning “Of course Mom.”
“And you love Mommy too, don’t you sweety? You want Mommy to be happy, don’t you?”
This was different. Her voice sounded different … nervous somehow … maybe worried. I let the nipple pop out of my mouth.
“What’s wrong Mom?” I asked.
“Ohhh Bobby honey … I’m pregnant,” she moaned.
I went cold.
Don’t laugh. At that moment all I could think about was those men she had brought home. I didn’t think even once about the gallons of young, potent sperm I’d packed into her womb.
I got ready to ask her if she knew who had made her pregnant. I was running over the tone I would use in my head, trying to decide what tone would be right. I’m really glad I thought about that, because if I’d have asked that question I know now it would have broken her heart.
She began rocking harder, and those muscles of hers started rippling. She could do that now without having an orgasm, and it meant she wanted to feel me spurting in her. I didn’t feel much like spurting at that precise moment though.
She leaned over again, looking at my face. That soft, “Mommy loves you more than anything,” look was in her eyes. “Bobby made a baby in Mommy’s tummy.” she sighed.
I thought I’d never be able to breathe again. My breath just stuck in my lungs like it was glue. My heart, however, started trying to tear its way out of my chest.
“Is that okay, baby?” she asked, her voice a whine. “Please tell Mommy you still love her.”
Now you have to understand where I was in life at that time. This story makes it sound like I must have been a man. After all, I did manly things … at least in bed with my mother. But remember that this whole relationship had been a series of … baby steps … no pun intended. I was still a f******n year old boy, even if I was one who got to do things that were normally reserved for men. And all the time I was doing those things, to me it was just something that Mom and I did that was wonderful and felt great, and that I loved.
I hadn’t been trying to make a baby. I’d just been loving my mother.
It had never occurred to me that I even could make a baby in my mother. Sure, I knew that it was how babies were made, but I just assumed that, like lots of other women, she’d do whatever women did to avoid making a baby. And I knew women could avoid making a baby if they wanted to.
And it was suddenly crystal clear to me that my mother had gotten pregnant … on purpose. And I was smart enough to know that a woman who had multiple partners couldn’t exactly choose which of those partners made that baby. Which was why I said, “But what about those men?”
It was the same question I am glad now I didn’t ask. But it wasn’t asked in the way I’m glad I didn’t ask it … if you know what I mean. It was an honest question, not loaded with accusation or spite or anger.
She kept milking my cock, which had hardened even more for some reason. “Silly boy. If a woman gets pregnant, people expect there to be a man in her life. I had to make it look like there were men in my life. None of those men got to do what you do. They didn’t get to do this.” She rocked harder, impaled on my rod. “I wanted Bobby’s baby, not some other man’s. But I didn’t ask you first sweetheart. I should have asked you if it was okay. Do you forgive me? Do you still love me?”
I answered her by flushing her full of my teenaged semen, bucking upward, now trying to make the baby I’d already made. And her response was gratifying. “Ohhhh baby, thank you, I want your baby sooooo much. You’ve made me a very happy mommy.”
Talk about growing up fast. As the last of my sperm-laced semen oozed into her clasping pussy, I tried to imagine me … a father.
Well, to make a long story shorter, I just couldn’t. And she didn’t expect me to, really. She wanted a baby and I gave her one, and that was enough for her. Single mothers weren’t all the rage in those years, but she didn’t seem to mind what other people would think. That they thought it was because of one of the men she’d been seen ushering into the house was enough for her. She could now watch her belly swell with a c***d she already loved and be happy.
And swell it did. Being pregnant did nothing to dampen her enthusiasm for getting my pants off. If anything it made her even more horny. And, now that she didn’t have to bring men home any more, we had even more time to lie in bed, loving each other.
One thing I noticed was that her taste changed. She had always been tart and tangy before, but her taste was more mellow now, and the fluids she produced for me to lap and suck up were thicker somehow. They were just as slippery though. My soon-to-be fifteen-year-old penis wasn’t all that huge, and her pussy was still tight, expanding only enough to accommodate my teenaged girth, but the lubrication she made while her belly grew bigger and bigger with our c***d was so slippery that I could often slide in and out of her hot tunnel for as much as half an hour before the friction brought her what she craved. I could cum faster than that if I wanted to, or if she wanted me to, but I gained a little control over things and our baby grew to make it difficult for us to fit together comfortably. In the end I had to be on the bottom all the time, which was okay with me, because I could cup and caress that bulging abdomen while her pregnant pussy sucked the cum from my balls.
And I had grown to love that baby too. I didn’t know exactly how to think of it … as a brother or sister … or as a son or daughter. Son or daughter was much harder for me to get my mind wrapped around.
In the end, it turned out that my passage had made it easier for my daughter, who was born at 11:42 PM, the day before my own birthday.
In those days women stayed in the hospital longer after having a baby than they do nowadays. I couldn’t stand it. I got on my bike and rode it down to the hospital. The nurses knew my Mom was a widow and single, and that she had had an “accident” as they called it then. But the fact that her fifteen year old son – I proudly made sure they all knew it was my birthday – had ridden his bike to see her and to stare in awe at his “little sister” made them all make those, “Awwwww” sounds that tend to stiffen a boy’s prick. Two of them flirted with me a little. They were probably no more than twenty years old, just out of nursing school, and had no idea how dangerous their flirting might have been had they taken it a few steps further. But I have to confess, seeing my daughter in that bassinette made me look at those young women with a man’s eyes, and the thought of making their bellies swell with my c***dren flashed through my mind.
Of course the hospital staff wouldn’t let me hold my little sister. But Mom did. I was in the room with her, just sitting as we talked about nothing, when they brought the baby in for her to feed. The nurse asked her if she wanted me to leave so she could feed the baby in private.
“No, he’s going to have a major role in taking care of her.” said my mother. “We are family, and I’m not embarrassed that he see what happens.”
The nurse, whose name was Nancy, and who was one of the ones who flirted with me, smiled widely. She looked at me and said, “Fifteen today and you get the best present a woman has to offer.” I tried to look suitably awed that I was going to get to see a naked breast. Nancy had no idea. Then again, maybe she did. I noticed that her own nipples had suddenly pushed through her sturdy bra and made dents in her uniform shirt. She closed the door and my mother fed our daughter.
It was different seeing her breast in this situation. They had gotten bigger, of course, as her pregnancy progressed, and they looked so full that I thought they must hurt. My daughter knew exactly what to do when that fat nipple was presented to her and she latched on just like I did.
My mom shuddered and her head fell back as she let out a little sound. “It stings” she said. “But then it feels good. I’d forgotten about that.” The baby ate noisily and I fidgeted, my prick hard. Mom looked up at me. “I named her Dawn,” she said. “I hope that’s okay with you.”
I hadn’t even thought about her name. It was all too new and strange. “Dawn.” I said the name, letting it roll around on my tongue.
“She’s the dawn of our new family.” said my mother. “But mum’s the word,” she cautioned. “If we’re going to have more babies we need to keep the origin of this one a secret.”
Like I was going to go tell all my buddies I knocked my mother up.
I rode back home, after being chastised by my mother for having ridden over ten miles on busy streets on my bicycle, and all the time smiling at me. I cleaned the house and made up some dinners I could freeze so there’d be things to eat when she first got home.
Dawn was loud. That’s what I mostly remember about her in the early days. That and that I got to do something new. Dawn was a lusty eater, but even she couldn’t compete with Mom’s overflowing breasts. As a consequence, not long after she came home, Mom called me into the living room where she was feeding our baby.
“Bobby, honey, would you do me a favor?” she asked.
“Sure Mom.” I said. I always said that.
“Your daughter only emptied one breast and then fell asleep. The other one hurts. Would you be kind enough to suck the milk out of it for me?”
I have to admit I was hesitant at first. My mind recoiled a little at the thought of getting milk from my mother’s breast. I didn’t know what it would taste like. I knew it was kind of … well milky, but it was more clear than it was white, or at least it looked like it to me when I saw drips of it on her nipples. But I had learned to think about things differently than most fifteen-year-old boys, and it occurred to me that I loved sucking those nipples, and that suggested it was a natural thing for a man to do.
So I did.
I lay down on the couch on the side opposite of the arm she was cradling our daughter in and latched on. I gave a tentative suck and tasted sweet, but not much. Then I heard her make that sound … kind of a whine … and her head arched back like it had in the hospital and tasted just flooded my mouth.
Man-Oh-man, I was hooked almost instantly. It was warm and sweet and there was so much of it. It just slid down my throat and I began making noises myself.
I loved it so much that she almost couldn’t wean Dawn when it was time. Dawn got less and less and I got more and more. By then, of course, we were making love again, almost daily, and if we did it before she fed Dawn she leaked all over the place. I didn’t mind, because I just lapped and sucked her milk as her pussy sucked my milk out of me. But it was a hassle for her, because I’d be at school and she’d be full and hurting, so we agreed that that part of our fun was over for a while.
It turned out to be about eleven months. When she quit nursing and dried up, I promptly put another baby in her womb. She was giddy because she only had one period after Dawn was born before I made her stop having them again. And this time I was trying. It took her longer to figure it out, because she wasn’t expecting her periods to be all that regular. She was at a well-baby checkup when she asked the Doctor if he could run a pregnancy test … just in case. Doc Carter had taken care of her through the first pregnancy, and had gotten to know her better than most people as a result. He didn’t know who Dawn’s father was, but he knew there was no regular man in her life. She told me about what he said when he came back with the news that there was another bun in her oven.
“You know Claire ,” he said gravely. “It’s possible to have sex and not get pregnant.”
She said she blushed, but then firmly told him that she had wanted a big family when Dad was alive, and since he couldn’t give it to her she’d just have to make do, even though she wasn’t interested in any of the potential ‘donors’ as potential husbands. She said he shook his head and then grinned. “Well, it’s your life. I kind of wish I wasn’t married Claire.”
Did I tell you already she was Playboy Bunny material? Even after Dawn was born she kept her shape. We went on long walks pushing Dawn’s baby carriage, and then usually burned off even more calories having hot, sweaty sex afterwards. When men looked at her on the street … and men did look at her … it made her horny. It made me want to do such a good job that she wouldn’t think about those other guys.
We decided to name this one Dodge if it was a boy and Chastity if it was a girl. That’s because of Mrs. Hornblower, who lived next door. Mrs. Hornblower was about eleventy-nine years old, all wrinkled and dried-up looking. She still wore hats every time she went out of her house, even if it was just to check up on me to see if I was mowing her yard the way she wanted me to. She’d sniffed a lot when Mom was carrying Dawn, but she went on the moral offensive when our second baby began to show. She reminded my mother of all the reasons it was a sin to have c***dren out of wedlock and said how disappointed she was with Mom and things like that. It got so Mom tried to dodge her every chance she got … hence the name Dodge. We couldn’t think of a name for a girl that would meet those requirements, but Mrs. Hornblower talked about chastity and purity so much that it was kind of obvious when I mentioned it. What little girl would want to run around being called “Purity”? Especially when she was about sixteen or s*******n, which we knew would happen at some point.
We decided that the powers that be had opted for Dodge because she had a boy. We laughed about it when she said she was neither pure, nor chaste. Not around me anyway.
Well, I could go on, but you’re probably tired by now. I’ll cut to the chase and tell you that, by the time I went off to college and met the woman who would bear my official c***dren, I had impregnated my mother a total of four times. She had exactly seven periods from the time I crawled into her bed the first time, to the time she tearfully kissed me goodbye as I drove off to start my degree in Biology. Naturally, I followed that up with an M.D. with a specialty of … Obstetrics. It just seemed to be the thing to do.
Mom went on the pill after I left. She had her hands full and said four – five counting me – was enough to satisfy her. I asked her why she was going on the pill, kind of jealous like, and she just smiled at me.
“You’re going to come visit me sometimes aren’t you?” she said, trying to sound injured.
I did, too, as often as I could, at least until I met and married Darla. Since then? Well, I’ll leave you with a little bit of mystery in the story.
I now have seven c***dren, four who call me brother, and the three my wife Darla gave me who call me Daddy. They’re all great k**s, and I love them all to pieces. We made the world a better place by bringing those k**s into it. We have no regrets at all.
Gotta go. Mrs. Abernathy next door is going to watch the k**s while we go on a little trip. Darla is giving a lecture series about how to combat Dutch Elm disease.
Mom has graciously offered to let us use the spare bedroom to save on motel costs, since the lectures are at the State Agricultural College ten miles down the road from where she lives. Darla thought that was a great idea, since with all my brothers and sisters there I’ll have something to do while she attends all those boring meetings.
I’m pretty sure I won’t be bored at all.