My father was an Army officer, so naturally my family
moved around a lot when I was growing up. As a result,
I didn't make a lot of friends, because I knew that
almost as soon as I made them I'd have to say goodbye
to them. On top of that, I was an only child, so I
didn't have any brothers or sisters to play with. This
made me a fairly lonely kid, and I suppose I blamed my
father for that. And I didn't think that the
opportunity to travel all over the world was any kind
of consolation.
He wasn't a bad father, although he wasn't a really
great one, either. He was probably just your typical
military dad, gone most of the time and emotionally
distant when he was home. Everything seemed black and
white with him, there were clear definitions of right
and wrong, or the way he put it, "proper conduct and
improper conduct." He would show a lot of respect for
the adult men in his life, but women, in his
estimation, were on a slightly lower level, and kids,
including me, just didn't seem to count at all.
I didn't really put it in those terms in my mind as I
was growing up, but I understood it just the same, and
I eventually developed a negative attitude toward him.
I was a good kid, I behaved myself and got good grades
in school, did all my chores, kept my room clean and
stayed out of trouble, but at the same time I resented
just about everything about my father. His military
bearing, his sharp, almost aggressive way of speaking,
his spotless uniform, even his goofy crew-cut. He
seemed to be the totally wrong kind of guy to be my
father, and equally wrong for my mom.
Mom was five years younger than him, and a relatively
small woman. She was only five feet tall, slender and
shapely, with reddish brown hair that she always kept
cut shoulder length, dark eyes, a small ski jump nose,
high cheekbones, and thin lips. She'd always been
beautiful as far as I was concerned, and from the
things they said I knew that my father and the military
friends he would occasionally bring home thought so
too.
She was always kind and gentle with me, very
affectionate, always giving me hugs and kisses and
doing whatever she could to meet my needs and wants. No
small wonder that I tended to adore her, and I couldn't
understand why my father didn't adore her too. Like me,
he didn't treat her badly, but he didn't treat her the
way she deserved to be treated, either, and it was this
obvious lack of appreciation for his own wife that I
resented the most.
My father spent most of his time away from home, either
working at his regular assignment, out on field duty,
or gone completely on some classified temporary
assignment that he couldn't talk about. This left me
and Mom alone with each other nearly all the time,
which suited me just fine. My most fervent wish,
actually, was that a war would start somewhere and he'd
be gone for years, not just months. And eventually I
got my wish.
In the summer of 1990 I was twelve years old and we
were living in a two story house at Fort Lewis,
Washington, when Saddam Hussein's army invaded Kuwait.
My father's battalion went on immediate alert, and
within a month he was gone to participate in Operation
Desert Shield. We had no idea when he would be coming
back.
In the beginning Mom was stoic, the way Army wives are
supposed to be. She busied herself by getting more
involved with the charity work that the Officer's Wives
Association did, or by holding more dinner parties for
the military families that had been left behind. But
over the course of the next several months her
disposition slowly declined; she did less and less
volunteer work, threw fewer dinner parties and barely
saw any of her friends. It was like she was running out
of steam.
By the end of November she'd gotten to the point where
she never invited anyone to the house, and she only
went outside to do the grocery shopping. She spent most
of her days still in her nightgown and housecoat,
either watching television all day or simply sitting in
the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a cigarette,
staring off into space and thinking.
I did my best to help her out. When I got home from
school I'd pitch in with the housework, and I'd go
shopping with her on the weekends. I kept her company
in the evenings, sitting with her on the sofa and
watching movies we'd rented, and I'd listen to her
whenever she wanted to talk about something, even if it
was how much she missed my father. She would cry
sometimes, especially if there was news of the
approaching war on TV, and I would hold her and stroke
her hair and tell her everything was going to be okay.
And even when she was feeling good I made sure I told
her I loved her or how pretty she looked, or shared
some positive experience I'd had at school. Mom
obviously appreciated my added attention and affection,
and even came to depend on them.
But she became dependent on me in other ways too. On
the rare occasions when we did actually go out, usually
no more than a quick stop at a fast food place to grab
a hamburger, or the Christmas shopping we did together
in the middle of December, when we got home she would
ask me to turn on the lights before she would come into
the house, or before she entered a particular room. She
complained of her fear of the dark, or of strange
noises, and I would reassure her as if I was the adult
and she was the child. All of this behavior only became
magnified after January, when the war in the desert
actually began.
Mom worried constantly about my father's safety, she
watched the news practically all the time, and she
would ask me to check the mailbox several times a day,
hoping for some word from him and dreading a notice
from the government. When the ground war actually got
under way in February she became even more nervous,
claiming she couldn't sleep. She asked me if I would
sleep in her bed with her, to keep her company, and I
wanted so much to comfort her that I said okay. I
expected that it would only be a few nights, but Mom
found my presence next to her such a relief that I
ended up sleeping with her every single night, whether
she asked me to or not.
I knew, of course, that most kids my age would cringe
at the idea of sleeping in the same bed with their mom,
but I found the whole experience just as pleasurable as
she did. I liked having her next to me as I drifted off
to sleep, or waking up in the middle of the night or in
the morning to find her there with me. She was warm and
soft, and she always smelled so clean and pretty.
It was some time in the first few weeks of March, after
the war was officially over (although we still hadn't
heard from my father) that I began to get hard-ons when
I was in bed with my mom. Naturally, I discovered
masturbation around that time too, and got into the
habit of quietly getting out of bed, going into the
bathroom, and jerking off, then just as quietly going
back to bed. The sex fantasies I entertained then had
mostly to do with Malinda Perry, a lovely brown-haired
girl in my seventh grade class. She had a sweet smile
and a newly budding body, and I would imagine kissing
her and touching her breasts. I knew about all the
"other stuff" boys and girls could do together, but at
that time that was as far as my sexual imagination
dared to go.
I didn't exactly feel guilty about masturbating, but I
did feel somewhat embarrassed, and afraid that Mom
would catch me at it, and maybe even get upset with me.
That would have been bad enough, but if she'd somehow
figured out what I was thinking about while I did it,
that would have been even worse. Especially after I
began to include her in my fantasies.
It was impossible not to. After all, she was so
beautiful, and she was the only female in my life that
gave me attention, affection, hugged me, held me, or
kissed me. And she was there all the time, in the
comfortable and safe spaces of our home, even in the
same bed. And half the time, because of her depression,
she went around the house in nothing more than various
nightgowns, which tended to cling to her body and were
sometimes enticingly sheer. I'd noticed several times
the outline of her breasts in their thin fabrics, even
her nipples poking through.
I hadn't yet seen her naked (there were a few occasions
when I was younger, too young to be particularly
affected), but the more I thought about it the more I
wanted to. The fantasies I had about her were pretty
much identical to the ones I had about Malinda: just
kissing her and touching her breasts. The difference
was that, with my Mom, I never even considered the idea
of actually doing anything about my desires. But then
one day near the end of March, something happened which
would change all that.
I had just arrived home from school, and as I came
through the front door I could hear Kenny G burbling
through the air. I was familiar enough with Mom's moods
to know that Kenny G meant she would need my company.
I took my backpack up to my room, then came back
downstairs and found her in the kitchen, sitting at the
table with a cup of coffee, a cigarette burning in the
ashtray, and a magazine open in front of her. She was
wearing jeans and a blood red blouse with long sleeves,
and I could see that she'd brushed her hair, and even
put on a little bit of makeup, signs that she wasn't
feeling as bad as I'd expected.
I stopped in the doorway, just to look at her for a
moment, to appreciate how truly attractive she was.
Despite the anxiety it had been causing me, I liked the
fact that my mom was so beautiful, so thin and nicely
shaped. Even some of my friends had commented on it;
one friend, Tommy Birch, had told me just a week before
that he thought she was gorgeous. He'd actually said,
"Your mom's gorgeous, dude." I'd told him to shut up,
and even slugged him, though secretly I had to agree
with him.
Fortunately, Mom didn't notice me staring at her, or
even standing there. I finally spoke up, saying hi to
her as I made my way over to the refrigerator. My mom
said hi back, but she didn't look up. I got a soda from
the fridge, then went to stand beside her. Mom, with
her eyes still pointed down at her magazine, reached
out to touch my hand, but instead of finding my hand
her fingertips brushed my crotch. I felt a jolt of
surprise course through me and blinked. Mom, apparently
unaware that she had just touched my dick, absently
corrected her aim, found my hand, and clutched it
gently. I squeezed her hand a little and asked her what
she was reading.
"Just People Magazine," Mom replied.
She let go of my hand and slipped it around my waist
and, still not looking up, pulled me closer to her. I
put my arm around her, resting my hand on her shoulder,
and looked down to see exactly what she was reading. An
article about Christina Applegate, the actress from
'Married With Children,' with a small picture of her at
the top of the page.
I tried to read the article but the letters were too
small and far away. My eyes wandered a little and I
realized I could see right down the front of Mom's
blouse. This by itself might not have been such a big
deal, except that her blouse wasn't buttoned up as far
as she usually buttoned her blouses, and she wasn't
wearing a bra, so I could actually see all of both
breasts.
They weren't really large, but they weren't small,
either, sort of medium sized, and they were round and
firm and pale as milk. Her nipples were small and dark
pink. It was probably because I was actually seeing
them in person (the first breasts I'd ever seen outside
of the Playboy magazines I looked at with my friends)
and not through the flimsy material of her nightgown,
but it seemed to me that my mom's tits were the most
beautiful tits I'd ever seen in my life. I wanted to
just reach right down inside her blouse and touch them,
hold them in my hand, and the thought made my cock
suddenly and extremely hard.
It also startled me, and I reflexively took a step
backward. Fortunately, Mom didn't notice that, either.
She almost seemed to not notice me at all as she went
on reading her magazine, and after a few long moments I
summoned up the courage to move closer to her and look
down her blouse again. I stood there ogling my mom's
breasts for quite a while before I finally got too
nervous, afraid that she would catch me looking, and I
let go of her hand.
I told her that I had to go do my homework, which was
actually true, and she said, "Okay, but come back down
as soon as you can," that needy loving look on her
face. I told her I would, then went right up to my
room, shut my door, and masturbated furiously. The
orgasm I had that day was the most intense orgasm I'd
ever experienced. I had to sit down afterward, and just
think for a while, about what I'd seen, what I'd done,
and how wrong it was. I told myself I couldn't do it
again, I had to stop thinking about my mom in that way,
right away, and for the rest of my life.
I didn't, though. I got my homework done in record
time, then nearly ran back down the stairs to be with
her again, to maybe catch another glimpse down her
blouse. I couldn't manage that, but for the rest of the
evening her breasts were all I could think about. By
bedtime I had another hard-on and was more than ready
to sneak off to the bathroom to take care of it.
Normally, I would wait about a half hour or so, just
laying next to my mom, or cuddling up to her if she
wanted me to, until I was sure she was asleep, then I
would head for the bathroom. That was what I planned to
do this time, but as I lay there in the dark and
recalled the fabulous sight of my mom's breasts,
imagining reaching down into her blouse and taking one
in my hand, feeling and fondling it, I decided I
couldn't wait and went ahead and started stroking
myself under the covers. I did this for about a minute,
then suddenly got an idea in my head: what if I
actually did touch her, now, while she was asleep?
I stopped masturbating and turned my head to look at my
mom. She was lying on her back, her face turned away
from me, the blanket pulled up nearly to her neck.
Before I could think very much about what I was doing,
I turned over onto my side, facing her. I pulled the
blanket down to her waist and looked at her chest. She
was wearing one of her sheer nightgowns, and even in
the dark I could see the outline of her breasts.
Cautiously, I reached over and touched her, placing my
hand on top of her left breast. I was surprised at how
firm it was, and yet just as soft as I'd imagined. I
wanted to squeeze it but I was afraid that I would wake
her up. Instead I just moved my hand back and forth,
rubbing it lightly for a minute before switching to the
other one. I fondled both of my mom's breasts for some
time, aware of the increasing hardness and throbbing of
my cock.
Eventually I screwed up the courage to put my hand
inside her nightgown, right over her right breast. Her
skin was warm inside the cool silk of the nightgown,
and I could feel now her hard little nipple. I fondled
her for another minute or so, then simply rested my
hand on top of her breast while I used my other hand to
stroke my cock. Less than another minute passed before
I felt the pressure of approaching orgasm.
I stroked myself faster, and suddenly I was coming, and
it was right at that moment that I realized the mistake
I'd made. My cock was pointing straight at Mom, and it
was only half an inch away from her body, too close and
too late to keep my come from getting on her. It came
out in huge milky jets, more come than I'd ever seen
before, spurting onto my mom's hip, then running in
little rivers down onto the mattress. I groaned, as
much from concern as pleasure, but of course there was
no way to stop it.
When I was done I immediately looked up at Mom's face
to see if she'd woken up. I was relieved to see that
she was still asleep. But my sense of relief didn't
last long. I got out of bed, quietly went to the
bathroom and got a wash cloth. I did my best to clean
up the mess I'd made, then took the wash cloth into my
own bedroom and stuck it in the bottom of my underwear
drawer. When I returned to my mom's bed I climbed in
carefully, closed my eyes and, after a long period of
slowly calming nerves, fell asleep.
*****
The next morning I was pretty much living in fear,
expecting my mom to say something to me about what I'd
done. If I hadn't woken her up, then she would have at
least noticed the dried come on her nightgown, but it
seemed apparent to me that she hadn't noticed, because
she didn't say anything, and there was nothing out of
the ordinary in the way she acted. I was again
relieved, and as I walked to school that morning I
promised myself I would never do anything like that
again.
That night, however, I promptly broke my promise. I
simply couldn't resist the attraction of my mom's
fabulous body, right there next to me. I fondled her
again, this time actually pulling the bodice of her
nightgown down so that her breasts were bare and I
could see them as I caressed them. I was more careful
about jerking off, though; when I couldn't stand it
anymore I laid flat on my back and craned my neck so I
could look at her as I stroked myself, finally coming
onto my stomach. I also had a box of Kleenex ready this
time, so that I wouldn't have to get out of bed to
clean up.
I continued this behavior for the next few weeks, each
night becoming just a little bit bolder; fondling Mom's
breasts for longer periods of time, playing with her
nipples (and making them hard in her sleep), even
daring to slip my hand down between her legs, either
into her panties or her peejay bottoms, and touching
her pussy.
I became obsessed with my mom, and it went beyond just
my secret night time activities with her. I was almost
constantly thinking about her during the day, and when
I got home from school, if Mom didn't need me right
away, I'd run up to my room, shut my door, and
masturbate to sex fantasies of her. I didn't think of
Malinda anymore, or anyone else but my mom. And the
fantasies had grown, venturing into areas I'd been
reluctant to explore before; in addition to kissing her
and fondling her breasts, I began to imagine making
love to her, actually putting my cock into her pussy
and fucking her, or putting my cock in her mouth and
getting a blowjob.
I felt more and more guilty about these fantasies as
the weeks passed, but at the same time I tended to
suppress that guilt, forcing myself to not even think
about the wrongness of my behavior.
Eventually I might have managed to get control of it,
to let my conscience conquer my forbidden desire, but
then the fifteenth of April arrived, my mom's thirty-
fifth birthday, and once again things drastically
changed.
*****
She'd been in a good mood that morning, even humming to
herself as she made breakfast, and she brightened up
even more when I gave her the birthday present I'd
bought. It wasn't anything really special, just an
imitation jade heart-shaped pendant that I'd found at a
department store in the mall, but she obviously liked
it. She put it on right away, letting it dangle from
its chain between her breasts (an unintended benefit
for me), and she gave me an affectionate hug and kiss.
It was a Saturday, and we decided to go out for lunch.
We went to a popular sandwich shop, then walked around
downtown, looking in store windows. We had a good time,
Mom smiling and laughing, seeming almost like her old
self. But when we got home there was mail in the
mailbox, and before Mom even looked through it I got
this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. There
was a letter from my father, and Mom sat on the sofa to
read it. She got this look on her face, confused at
first, then sad, then even sadder. She touched her
mouth with her fingers and her eyes watered up; she was
making a valiant effort not to cry.
"What is it?" I asked, although I figured I knew.
"Your dad's not coming home," she said, her voice
trembling. "Not soon, anyway."
I took the letter from her and read it for myself. It
was very short and emotionless, to the point. He said
that he'd gotten reassigned to a post at Fort Benning,
Georgia, a teaching position at the Infantry School,
and that he wouldn't be returning to Fort Lewis. And
that was all. He made no mention of us going with him,
or when he would be sending for us. I dropped the
letter on the floor and looked at my mom, who seemed
stunned.
"It doesn't matter, Mom," I told her. "We don't need
him."
Mom's only reply was to get up and walk slowly and
unsteadily up the stairs to her room. I went up behind
her, but just as I got to her room she shut the door in
my face.
I spent the rest of that day hating my father and
wishing he would die in some kind of accident. Wishing
he'd died in the war, not for not coming home, or for
not sending for us, but for hurting my mom that way. It
was proof to me that not only did he not love her, but
that I was the only one in the world who did.
Mom stayed in her room the rest of the day, only coming
out to go to the bathroom. She wouldn't even let me
bring her anything to eat or drink. Finally, around
eleven o'clock, I put on my peejays and went up to her
room, knocked gently before opening the door, and said,
"Mom? You want me to stay with you tonight?"
"Yes, sweetheart," Mom's tiny voice came to me through
the darkness.
I went in and crawled into bed next to her. Mom
immediately turned onto her side, took me in her arms,
and held me tight as she cried on my shoulder.
Eventually, her tears ended and she moved onto her
back, sighed in a sad way, and said, "Good night,
baby."
"Good night, Mom," I replied.
I closed my eyes, expecting that I would just go to
sleep this time; doing anything to my mom when she was
feeling so bad, even though she would be asleep and not
know, would have been a really messed up thing to do.
Except I couldn't go to sleep. I just lay there in the
dark, painfully aware of my mom next to me, her
fabulous body, her breasts jutting up from her chest. I
got hard thinking about it, and finally, after almost
an hour of wrestling with my worst nature, I managed to
convince myself that it wouldn't be such a rotten thing
after all.
I turned onto my side and carefully pulled the bodice
of her nightgown down, then fondled her breasts for a
while. I even dared to kiss one of them, and laid my
cheek on it as I pulled the bottom of her nightgown up
and slipped my hand down into her panties to rub her
pubic hair and her pussy.
Eventually I got to the point where I had to masturbate
and I rolled onto my back. I took my cock out and
started stroking it, but about ten seconds after I
started Mom suddenly began moving next to me. I froze,
hoping that she was just turning over in her sleep,
especially since I'd left her nightgown pulled down and
her breasts sticking out.
After a few agonizing seconds she seemed to settle
down, and I let out a huge sigh of relief. But then, in
the next moment, I felt her hand on mine. It rested
there briefly, then slid onto my cock. Her fingers
wrapped around it, and in the dark I heard her whisper,
"Let me help you, sweetheart."
I was so surprised I couldn't even speak. All I could
do was dumbly pull my hand away, and Mom began to
stroke me. The way she touched me was so different from
the way I did it; my habit was to just jerk on it,
almost brutally, the end goal simply to ejaculate as
quickly as possible. But Mom caressed me, her hand like
warm velvet on the sensitive skin of my cock, moving
slowly up and down the shaft. It was, at that point in
my life, the most awesome sensation I'd ever
experienced. Normally, it took me somewhere around five
minutes to get off, but my mom managed to bring me to
orgasm in less than a minute. I felt it swelling up in
my balls, and suddenly I began to come, the hot sticky
globs squirting out onto my chest and stomach.
When I was done Mom asked, "Did you like that?"
"Yeah," I said, nearly breathless.
I could sense her smile in the dark as she said, "I'm
glad. I wanted to make you feel good, because you're
such a good boy, such a good son to me." She kissed my
cheek. "I'll help you get cleaned up now."
She sat up and turned on the lamp on her nightstand,
then picked up her own box of Kleenex and began to sop
up the stuff on my body. I looked at her and noticed
that her breasts were still hanging out of her
nightgown. They jiggled slightly as she cleaned up my
mess, and I could see that her nipples were hard.
Without thinking, I reached up and touched one of them.
"I suppose I should tell you," Mom said, "that I've
been awake the last couple of nights when you were
touching me."
"You were?" My voice was riddled with apology. I pulled
my hand away from her.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm not mad at you. In fact,
I like the way you touch me. It feels nice. You can
keep doing it if you want to."
"Okay," was all I could think to say.
Mom finished cleaning up and tossed the wadded Kleenex
into the waste basket on her side of the bed, then she
matter-of-factly pulled the top of her nightgown back
up, turned off the light, and lay down. She asked me to
cuddle with her and I moved closer, draping my arm over
her stomach and resting my face on her left breast. I
had my cock pressed against her hip, and in nearly no
time at all it was hard again. I fell asleep that way.
*****
The next day was a strange day for me. I spent most of
it in an anxious fog, unable to believe that what had
happened the night before had really happened, and
worried that it really did, and I was somehow going to
be blamed for it. Mom, for her part, acted pretty much
like she always did, sort of depressed and not
motivated to do much. She gave no sign that she even
remembered what she'd done, let alone felt bad about
it.
I began to think that maybe it hadn't happened after
all, but then, that evening, just after I finished
getting ready for bed, Mom asked me if I would like it
if we both went to bed naked this time. I said yes, my
eagerness embarrassingly apparent.
I quickly cast off my peejays, then lay in bed and
watched her take her clothes off, then watched her
climb into bed next to me, completely nude. She left
the night stand lamp on and the covers pushed down to
the end of the bed and, smiling, said, "You can touch
me now, if you want to."
I caressed her for about ten minutes, running my hands
all over her breasts, her belly, and through her pubic
hair. Mom asked me to suck her nipples, and as I did
that she led one of my hands back down between her legs
and showed me how to rub her pussy so that it made her
feel good. Within another five minutes she had an
orgasm, her body growing rigid and trembling as her
pussy got warm and wet around my fingers.
When she was done coming Mom directed me to lie on my
back, then started to stroke me just like she had the
night before. This time, though, she leaned in close to
me and kissed my face, then pushed her breasts up close
to me so I could hold them and suck on them while she
jerked me off. And the second time I came was even
better than the first. By the time I fell asleep that
night I'd given up all the anxious and negative
feelings I had about what we were doing.
*****
It went on this way for nearly two weeks. Each night we
would go to bed nude, kiss and caress and sexually
satisfy each other with our hands, but during the day
we went about our normal lives, pretending that nothing
unusual was going on.
Then one night, after we'd gone through the first part
of what had become our ritual, with me sucking her
breasts and playing with her pussy until she came, Mom
started to stroke me, but after about ten seconds she
paused for a moment, then leaned down over me and
kissed the end of my cock. Then, in the next moment,
she lowered her head further and took my cock into her
mouth.
I made a strange noise in my throat, a sound of shock
and surprise and pleasure, as my mom started to suck
me, her warm wet mouth sliding rhythmically up and down
on my cock. I could feel one of her hands on my balls
too, gently caressing them, and within less than a
minute I couldn't hold it in anymore and I came. My
cock throbbed with amazing force and I moaned
deliriously as I shot a full load of semen into my
mom's mouth.
Needless to say, I was in awe. I just lay there, gaping
at the sight of my mom with her lips clamped tightly
around my cock, her eyes closed, her throat working as
she swallowed my come. She was the most beautiful, most
wonderful woman on the face of the planet. The best mom
in the world.
When she was done she pulled her mouth away, wiped her
lips, cleared her throat. She smiled at me, even
laughed a little, and said, "No mess to clean up this
time. Did you like that, sweetheart?"
"Yeah," I said, sounding strange to myself.
"I liked it too." Mom lay down next to me, put her arm
across my chest, and kissed my cheek. "It's been a long
time since I've done that for a man."
I immediately thought of my father and wondered if he
was the man she was referring to. I inwardly cringed at
the thought, but at the same time I'd never even
considered the idea that she might have been with
anyone else. I suddenly felt confused, and even a
little angry, and told her I was tired and just wanted
to go to sleep. Mom didn't respond to that, just hugged
me, kissed me again, and said goodnight.
****
Another week went past. It was now some time in the
middle of May, 1991, and still we hadn't heard from my
father since he'd written us about his reassignment to
Fort Benning. Mom had gotten a little better; at least,
she didn't seem quite as depressed as she was before,
but I could tell that she was still worried about my
father, still wondering when or even if he was going to
write us again. It never dawned on me back then that he
could have called her on the phone, or that she could
have gotten in touch with him through the Army. I just
took my mom's word for it when she said that it would
be better for us just to wait.
It was a Friday afternoon when we finally got the
letter. I'd taken it out of the mailbox when I got home
from school and took it straight in to Mom, who was in
her usual place at the kitchen table. She opened it and
read it, the expression on her face remaining sort of
blank until she was finished and handed it to me. It
was a short letter, about half a page long, and as I
read it I felt a curious mix of anger and acceptance.
Dad wasn't coming home, and he wasn't going to be
sending for us. Instead, he said he'd met some other
woman, had fallen in love with her, and wanted a
divorce. I handed the letter back to my mom, telling
her the same thing I'd told her before, that we didn't
need him anyway. Mom just smiled a sad smile and
carefully folded the letter, put it back in its
envelope.
I expected things to get worse, that Mom would be
crushed by this new development, and that she might
spiral down into such a deep well of sadness that I'd
never be able to pull her out of it by myself. I even
worried that she might do something to hurt herself. I
kept a closer eye on her the rest of the day, even
though she acted like the letter didn't really bother
her.
That night when we went to bed I was hesitant to get
anything started, thinking that she might be upset, but
Mom didn't seem to be any more upset than she had all
day. In fact, she told me that she wanted to do things
a little differently this time.
"I want to go first," she said, guiding me onto my back
and taking my cock in her hands. "I'll do you first,
then you do me. How does that sound?"
What can I say, I was twelve years old with a beautiful
woman wanting to give me a blowjob. I said okay, and
Mom went right to it, moving down to my lap and taking
me into her mouth. She licked and sucked on my cock
with obvious relish, playing with my balls at the same
time, and in a matter of minutes I went off.
The next thing I knew Mom was lying next to me and
telling me that it was her turn. I dutifully cuddled up
next to her and began kissing and sucking on her
breasts. Mom sighed and ran her fingers through my hair
as she took one of my hands and moved it down to her
pussy. I started to play with her, rubbing her gently
up and down through her pubic hair and over her clit. I
even stuck my finger inside of her, which she liked.
Eventually, she came, her warm juices flowing around my
fingers, then she took me in her arms and hugged and
kissed me some more, telling me what a good boy I was.
I was sort of laying half on top of her, with her
breasts under my chest and one leg nestled between her
thighs, and my cock resting on her hip. I was still
hard as a rock, and after a short while Mom noticed.
"Well, look at this," she said as she reached between
us and wrapped her fingers around me. She started to
stroke me. "My big hard man. With his big hard cock."
Naturally, her words turned me on, but even more than
that, it was the tone of her voice, so soft and sexy. I
moved off of her, lay on my side, and took hold of her
wrist. I started to move her hand up and down on me,
trying to get another handjob. Mom let me do this for a
bit, then stopped and said, "Get on top of me,
sweetheart."
I didn't need to be told twice. I immediately rolled
over onto her and she spread her legs. I found my cock
resting on top of her pussy and started to rub myself
against it. I imagined doing this until I came on her
stomach, but Mom made it clear that she had another,
better, idea. She reached down again and grabbed my
cock and guided it right up to her pussy.
Instinct pretty much took over then. I pushed forward
and my cock slid right into her. I was so amazed I
couldn't have said anything even if I'd wanted to; not
only was the sensation itself incredible, but I was
fully conscious of the fact that I was actually
screwing a girl for the very first time in my life. And
not just any girl, but my own gorgeous mom.
Mom wrapped her arms around me, hugging me and pressing
her firm breasts against my chest. I buried my face in
the nape of her neck and began fucking her, awkwardly
and a little too fast at first, just sort of
mechanically moving my cock in and out of her, but as I
got more used to the situation I slowed down, quickly
learning to respond to the wordless signals my mom gave
me, to take my time and savor what I was doing. Mom
moved her body along with mine, rocking her hips and
pushing her pussy down onto my cock each time I thrust
forward. She sighed and moaned in my ear, said things
like, "Oh, yes," and, "Oh, darling, that's so good."
She kissed me and told me she loved me, and her sweet
soothing voice just spurred me on to a more urgent
passion. I got closer and closer to orgasm, and Mom,
apparently sensing this, started saying things like,
"Yes, baby, fuck me, fuck me, come inside me,
sweetheart." That did it for me. I finally came, my
cock erupting with the most satisfying orgasm I'd had
yet, pumping wave after wave of come into my mom's
body. My mom must have been coming too, because at the
same time she clutched me tight in her arms and dug her
fingernails into my back, and cried out as her body
shuddered beneath me.
And then it was over. We lay together in bed afterward,
just holding each other and catching our breath. I left
my cock inside of her, not wanting to take it out. Mom
continued to hold me, making soft noises in my ear and
stroking my back until I fell asleep.
*****
After that we made love almost every night. I felt
incredible, like I'd begun a whole new life. A lot of
things were still the same, of course; I still had to
go to school, still watched the same TV shows, still
hung out with the same few friends I had. My father was
still gone, and he was never going to come back. But my
relationship with my mom had changed forever. She was
much more attentive to me during the day, much more
loving and appreciative, and she held me and kissed me
a lot more than before. She was happier too, and she
wanted to go out to dinner sometimes two or three times
a week.
I loved going out with her, because she was so young
and beautiful, men always looked at her and admired
her, and being with her made me feel that much more
grown up. I had become the man of the house; while
other kids were still trying on their fathers' clothes
I had actually stepped into my father's shoes. I'd
taken his place, and I was treating her better than he
ever had.
About six months after Mom got that last letter from my
father she went to court and signed the papers that
meant they were divorced. It was kind of a sad day for
her, but it was one of the best days of my life. Not
only would I never have to see that miserable jerk of a
father ever again, but I finally had my mom all to
myself.
I continued to sleep with her on a regular basis
throughout my teenage years, and even into college. I'm
twenty-seven years old now, and I have a wife and kids
which take up most of my time. Mom is married too, to a
nice guy her own age. She's forty-nine and still
beautiful, and very Sunday I take her out to dinner,
just her and me. And afterward we go to a hotel
downtown, get a room, and relive those great and
strange days when we were alone together. My mom, even
now, is still the best mom in the world.
End
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The author does not condone child abuse, this story is
meant as an erotic fantasy not real life. Anyone acting
out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to
many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a
fellow convict in their local prison.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 47