Author's Note: This is a hardcore story. It's a love story, as almost all of my stories are. But it's hardcore and make no mistake about that. If stories about scat offend you, if the thought of eating shit disgusts you, then read something else. I have plenty of stories out there that don't look into this theme. But if you're curious, as I was when this story sprung, like Athena from Zeus's brow, full-blown one morning as I woke, about how something, hell, about how pretty much anything, can be an act of love, well, come along. Let's see how David and his mom explore the limits, all the while making all they do acts of love. It's up to you, Gentle Reader, but for me, this is something I want to explore.]
I was watching my favorite pornstar, Curvy Sharon 42HH, who regularly did "mommy" porn. She would offer the viewer, her "son," for example, his first blowjob. Or be caught in the bath and show "son" all about a woman's body, or get caught masturbating, or be filmed in a lesbian shoot. She has dozens of videos and thousands of pictures floating around on the web.
I think the thing that fascinates me so much about Sharon, and who knows, that might even be the name on her birth certificate, is how much she reminds me of my mother. Oh, Mom's a brunette, her black hair shot through with grey since she was 30, and it's worn short where Sharon's thick blonde hair hangs well down her back. But Mom's body is so much like Sharon's it's actually kind of spooky. She has the same boobs (Mom's bra is "only" 40 FF), the same bubble butt, the same almost-belly-apron, and the same cellulite.
Anyway, I was watching Sharon when I heard Mom clear her throat. Almost instinctively I shut my laptop, even as I knew it was too late. Her hands came down on my shoulders, and her cheek brushed mine as she reached past me to open the laptop.
"Whatcha watchin', Honey?" she asked.
I groaned and said, "Nothing you want to see."
She giggled, and whispered, her breath making warm, moist little puffs in my ear, "Oh, you know me, Honey. I like to see lots of things."
When you're raised by an alcoholic single mom, well, some lines get pretty damn blurry. So I opened up the laptop and the video started up again.
"Like this, Son," Sharon was saying as she accepted an erection into her mouth.
I felt Mom's fingers dig into my shoulders.
We watched, her fingers continually digging into my shoulders, as Sharon slowly fellated her "son." In the closing scene her smile was the smile of a perfectly satisfied woman as her "son's" semen, what she hadn't swallowed, noisily and greedily, dribbled out of the corner of her mouth, and the video cut to credits, it was a professionally done piece, as all of Sharon's are. Mom breathed out a long-held breath.
"Oh my," she said in a soft, breathy voice sounding like Sharon.
Then the pressure on my shoulders was gone and I watched her leave the room. I'm pretty sure she was putting extra swing into that big bubble butt for me.
I went back to the paper I was working on, my dip into internet porn had been a diversion, and looked up some data on enrollment in Medicare, Medicaid, and S-CHIP, the State Child Health Insurance Program if you're interested although why anyone not taking a course in Government Economics and writing a course paper on the economic impact of government-funded single-payer health insurance would be is beyond me. This was a graduate-level class as I started working toward my Master's Degree.
I was living at home, tending to my mother as the tumor in her brain slowly killed her, making her crazy along the way. The sexual disinhibition was just part of the process. She was self-medicating with a quart of vodka every three days fighting against almost constant headaches. And the strange thing, the truly strange thing, is that she seemed even healthier and certainly happier than she had when she put me on the plane for my four-year stint in the Air Force, doing my trick for my country and along the way, financing the college that I was attending now.
I hadn't planned any of this, but when she came to my bed, my second night home, naked and needy, I hadn't said "no." And when she told me of her, as she put it, "little problem in her head," I held her while we both cried.
"Make love to me, Davey," she asked, and I did, slowly, gently, thoroughly, watching her face turn beautiful as I took her through orgasm, and then the years return as she relaxed and smiled.
Here we were, three years later, not quite husband and wife but far beyond boyfriend and girlfriend although mother and son was never forgotten. To say she was sexually disinhibited is to say Jimmie Johnson is a pretty good driver. She was borderline nymphomaniac, and her need seemed to grow more intense as her little problem spread.
But even after three years, she could still surprise me, as she did now, when I walked into the bedroom and found her lying in bed, her chin propped on her palm, the bedspread and top sheet laid artistically across her hips. She had put on her makeup, a bit heavier than she usually wore it, and had on her simple strand of pearls. She was recreating the scene from the video we had watched earlier.
I wasn't surprised at all when she crooked her finger, beckoning me, and said, "Come here, son, let mommy teach you something."
She may be dying, an alcoholic, and crazy, but her mind is still damn sharp. She might have missed a couple of lines, or got some of them garbled up, but for the next ten minutes, we came mighty damn close to recreating that video. Her voice was soft and breathy, different from her normal sort of hard-edged enunciation. And as she directed me, just as Sharon did in that video, my body was reacting.
She did all of the work. If you watch that video closely I think Sharon is actually using a rubber dildo for the scene. Mom used my erection. She's an expert with her mouth, but it was the way she was talking through it that really got to me. She would stroke and tell me what she was doing. She would lick and suck and explain how it should feel.
Normally, after oral sex, Mom prefers the facial and hair conditioner, but this time she took my release in her mouth, swallowing noisily as Sharon had done in the video, and then letting the final big dribble out of the corner of her mouth.
She went off script then when she said, "Thank you, Honey, for your beautiful gift."
And she went to sleep.
For the next couple of weeks, our sex life was, well, hyperactive, which is to say, "normal." She was kind of a breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midnight snack girl, and at 25 and healthy, I could keep up with her. Well, the beer I consumed in quantity and the pot I smoked in clouds helped. Breakfast was typically, well, "regular" sex, missionary or doggie position. Lunch was a quickie, often oral. That "schedule" was part of my being a serious student. I would study, or teach, or attend classes, or work on papers from 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. Then, at 5:01, I'd turn off the desk lamp and we could party.
And party we did.
It was a couple of weeks after "mommy" taught me about blowjobs before I realized just how crazy she had become. Well, okay, let's be honest here, how crazy we both had become.
It was Friday, and I was done early. I taught my last class at 2:00, and had no papers to work on so I headed home.
In the house, I headed to the bedroom and changed out of my school/work clothes. When I taught I wore slacks and a button-down, Oxford cloth shirt. I changed quickly into a pair of cut-off shorts and a T-shirt, this one proclaiming "I don't play guitar because I'm good at it. I play guitar because I like it," and went in search of my mother to see what treat she might have in store.
I heard some rattling in the kitchen, surprising since she cooked rarely, and when I went through the door I stopped cold.
I recognized the scene.
She had obviously been watching more of those Curvy Sharon 42HH videos. This was a scene out of one of the kinkier ones.
As I stood there, watching, she bent over, opened the oven door, and pulled out a pan of cookies. The sweet scent of baking filled the room, all the more surprising because I could not remember her ever baking.
She had recreated the outfit from the video. She had on a red net top, almost a body stocking, that covered her from the waist up. It covered her partially anyway, a scoop neck and short sleeves leaving pale skin showing while even where she was covered it left her completely naked, her big boobs on display through the red net. She had on an apron I didn't remember ever seeing before, something looking like Gramma had passed it down with a homey pattern on the material and lacy trim. From the waist down she wore white leggings so tight the cellulite of her ass showed through until they ended right at her ankles. The bright red pumps with three-inch heels finished the image.
And I had seen it before, except Sharon was blonde with long hair and Mom had that black, salt and pepper hair. Mom even had on black horn-rim glasses, another feature I didn't remember seeing before.
"Oh, hi Honey," she said, mimicking the dialogue from the video, "would you like a snack? The cookies are still warm, but I think there's some lunch meat in the refrigerator."
She paused, for dramatic effect, and smiled her sweet smile.
I saw it coming and my dick suddenly got hard.
"Or would you like one of Mommy's special snacks?" she asked.
My knees actually got weak.
In the videos, Sharon is the only one who speaks. So I had to fill in the "son's" side of the dialogue.
"You know how much I love your special snacks," I said, not moving. In the videos, the "son" doesn't approach until the next scene plays out.
"Well," she said, giggling softly, "I hope you're hungry."
That last line was off-script and I felt a little quiver in my belly, but I stood still, waiting for the scene to play out.
She was back on script as she took the apron off, turned her back to me, and sort of walked in place as she worked the skin-tight pants down, not all the way down, just far enough to expose her big ass.
"Okay, Son," she said in that soft voice, "here you go."
She turned, faced the sink, bent at the waist, reached back, and spread her cheeks.
Now, don't get me wrong. Analingus has always been part of our lovemaking. She enjoys the special intimacy of feeling me spread those cheeks and then blow on that special sensitive place. She's one of those women with enough padding back there that there is a distinct deep tunnel before you get to the puckered exit of her alimentary canal. That tunnel was always damp and darkly stained.
So I moved behind her, still fully dressed, and got to my knees.
The smell was there, strong, but not really unpleasant. I thought the word "earthy" was appropriate as I kissed the insides of her asscrack, her gluteal cleft to be precise, and inhaled deeply, enjoying the special intimacy of, well, "servicing" her like this.
"That's right, Son, get in there," she said and the little catch in her voice told me I was getting to her.
So I did. I pushed deeper and probed with my tongue. The dampness, as it always did, got to me and I felt myself get even harder as I probed and she squirmed.
And then I felt the sudden heat in my bowels as my adrenal glands flooded my system. I was panicked as I felt her powerful anal sphincter muscle start to bulge.
"I hope you're hungry," she had said, and I thought, "Oh, Jesus, she's going to do it.
"All special for you, Son," she said.
In my last sane thought during an insane event, I thought, "Stop this, David. STOP IT! Just pull away. Tell her it's too much."
But I didn't.
Instead, I buried my cheeks in that damp tunnel, opened my mouth, and welcomed her special snack.
Did I mention I was living in Crazytown with my mother? Hell, I had taken out a lease and was hoping to convert it into a contract to buy. I was hooked and I knew it. She might be crazy, but so was I. I think the only difference between us is that I recognized that this was insane and I don't think she did.
I felt her bulge against my mouth and I opened wide, not just accepting her deranged desire, wanting what she was offering. She bulged further and I felt, with the tip of my tongue, as that special snack started emerging. It was hard and oddly lumpy. I barely stopped the giggle that tried to force itself out when the image of a Baby Ruth candy bar came clearly into my mind's eye.
I felt it entering my mouth and I could tell, I don't know how, that she wasn't pushing. She was just letting her body's natural function slowly push out what it was done with.
And it was such a special joining together that it didn't feel dirty at all. It felt like a special intimacy.
I bit it off and pulled back far enough that I could focus as I chewed and savored Mommy's special snack. There was no taste, well, just a hint of an odd taste that I couldn't really identify. I chewed slowly, enjoying the feeling of what was in my mouth, as I watched her asshole, distended with what was slowly emerging from her body. Only the end, the part in my mouth, showed that hard lumpiness.
What I saw now was soft and round and as the second inch started to push out it was drooping from its own weight. I knew, down at that non-thinking level, almost a cellular level, that Mom wouldn't want me to waste her special snack, so I reached up and supported it as it slowly emerged and I chewed and swallowed.
I took my next mouthful, and there was no hesitation now, like I was taking a bratwurst into my mouth, my fingers guiding it until I had to bite it off.
But I couldn't keep up. Mom's a big woman and he shits big and even though she wasn't pushing, what came from her came faster than I could eat.
I cupped my hands as that long soft bratwurst doubled and then tripled before she pinched it off and I watched as her anus became, once again, that tiny puckered rosebud I knew so well.
She turned then, those white pants still down past her ass, and smiled at me.
"You like my special snack, don't you?" she asked and her smile was the smile of the little leaguer who has hit his first home run.
"I love it," I said, smiling, knowing my lips and teeth were brown-smeared.
She reached down and drug her middle finger through the pile in my hand like it was peanut butter or the leftover frosting from a cake, and sucked her finger. Her face puckered up like she had just taken a bite of lemon. "I guess I'll be sure to eat plenty of sugar before I make you another special snack," she said, giggling.
"Do that for you if you want," I said, smiling, "but I like it just like this."
As she watched I lifted my hands and took another bite.
She smiled at that and said, "Let me get you something to drink."
I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised at that point, but I was when she reached up into the cabinet, brought out a water glass, and held it between her legs while she filled it with her urine. I watched and chewed, noting on some level that what filled the glass was a healthy pale yellow color and didn't foam at all.
She watched and when I swallowed she held the glass to my lips and tipped it up.
It was warm and salty, just a hint of the alcohol she consumed in such quantities, and, God help me, delicious.
She pulled the kitchen chair over and watched as I continued eating my snack, offering me a drink from time to time.
And then, as if this whole scene wasn't crazy enough, as if we weren't inhabiting a world where the Red Queen might well start demanding heads be removed, she asked, in a perfectly conversational way, "Would you rather have Mommy's special snack on a plate?"
I almost lost it then. I did cough leaving spatters of shit on the floor by my knees. And I realized she was asking a serious question.
I swallowed and said, "Honestly?"
"Of course, honestly," she said in that same casual way.
"Then, well, no," I said, "I like it this way."
She giggled and said, "Pervert."
And then I did laugh.
"I'm on my knees, with a pound of your shit in my hands, another half pound in my belly, drinking your piss, and I'm the pervert?" I said.
She smiled and said, "Yep. Just like I like it."
I opened my mouth wide and as she watched pushed her snack in until my cheeks bulged. I left brown smears on my lips and cheeks when I did that.
Holding her eyes, I began chewing with my mouth open.
After I swallowed I grinned and said, "Kiss me, pervert."
It was a good kiss, all lips and tongue and passion and, yes, love.
As I finished Mommy's Special Snack, I was so goddam hard I hurt.
I finished my drink too, without hesitation.
"I can think of other uses for that beautiful ass of yours," I said, standing.
"Oh goody," she said, giggling a little, "Dealer's Choice?"
"Dealer's Choice," I said, taking her hand and leading her into the bedroom.
She crawled up onto the bed, staying on all fours. In that position I could see the way the long crack of her beautiful ass blended into the long slot of her FUPA, that's Fat Upper Pussy Area for those of you who don't pay attention to the Urban Dictionary or spend much time looking at porn. Her ass was smeared, she hadn't wiped after all, and her pussy was shiny with her excitement.
I kept her nether lips waxed and smooth, and her age showed there as much as anywhere with the wrinkles of her full labia and the way those delicate pink inner lips peeked out.
I quickly undid my belt, unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, and pushed them down far enough to get my cock free. Then I mounted her.
I took her vaginally first, but that was mostly for the lubrication her body provided. I thrust a few times until I was nice and slick and then took the "dealer's choice" option and entered her anally.
As I played "dealer's choice," swapping holes with every second or third thrust, she was almost chanting. "Yes, Baby," she would say, "That's right pervert. Fill me up, Honey." She was talking almost constantly until she came, spraying her release all over my cock and balls and jeans.
I didn't slow down as she came, I just kept swapping holes and thrusting away. She was grunting and laughing and cumming again every few seconds.
When I came I happened to be up her ass, but that wasn't particularly planned. It was just the luck of the draw.
We lay there, spent, sharing giggles and touches for a while.
"Maybe," she said, giggling, "you can make me a snack sometime."
"Maybe," I said, "we can make a meatloaf snack."
We were still giggling when she fell asleep. Well, when she passed out.
I wasn't far behind her.
But here's why I'm torn. This story has a very low reader ranking, a 2.69 the last time I looked. But it also has a high number of "favorite" indications. So I can't decide if I should continue it or not.
I'll say this. Chapter One was probably (I won't say certainly because, like any other storyteller, I'm not really sure how David and his mother's relationship will progress) the most riddled with scat. There may be other surprises, indeed, probably will be.
Anyway, I know how it worked out in the real world of the 1960s, but I'm hoping for a better outcome for this beautiful couple. Damn, my mind does wander early in the morning, doesn't it. Let me start that again.
I'll say this. Chapter One was probably the most graphic in terms of scat. Oh, I enjoy the human body, especially the female human body, in all of its shapes and functions. But elimination shouldn't be the focus of a love story although that particular video does get to me, every time I watch it.
And don't worry, like all of my stories, it will continue to be graphic. We read stories in Literotica for the sex after all. And I think I do a pretty good job of writing clear descriptions of physical love in all of its forms. And, yes, it was my mother who taught me that phrase you've seen often in my work - - Good sex is almost always messy but never dirty.
So take a few seconds, when you finish Chapter Two, and let me know what you think. Should I continue this (mostly) autobiography or should I drop it?
And now, Gentle Reader, let's see how David and his mother handle the proverbial morning after, shall we?]
I woke, and the memory was there, full-blown, in detail. I didn't have to open my eyes to see her, bent over, holding her cheeks spread, her turd slowly emerging. I could remember the earthy scent and that odd, almost tasteless taste. My jaws worked, slowly, almost involuntarily, as I remembered the feel of Mom's special snack in my mouth as I chewed and swallowed. The image of the salty, slightly bitter taste of her hot piss was so clear I could almost taste it again.
I smiled at the memory.
As I came fully awake, the now took over from my memories. I felt her warmth beside me. I heard her soft snoring. And I smelled her, the light scent of her sweat and the faint underscent from what we had done last night.
I smiled then, as I realized I wasn't hungry, well, I wasn't the ravenously hungry I usually felt when I woke. And then the thought hit me and I wondered if I would have trouble digesting Mommy's special snack.
Something about the realization, thinking about it, tipped me over the edge. I ran for the bathroom and started throwing up about halfway there. I slipped and fell and started laughing hysterically. Then Mom was there and she was laughing too even as she started wiping my face with a wet handtowel.
"Maybe," she started and then broke into more howls of laughter. It was contagious and I joined her, laughing and puking and gagging and laughing until I couldn't breathe anymore.
"Maybe," she started again when we had ourselves under control. She was still washing my face with that wet towel and I realized I was sweating. "Maybe Mommy's Special Snack isn't such a good idea."
And I felt one of those little rushes in my belly as my adrenal glands squeezed.
"Mom," I said, holding her eyes, "we both enjoyed it. But maybe as a special treat, not a regular thing."
"Only if I can have a special snack too," she said.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
She grinned then, that crazy-eye grin that told me she was being as serious as she ever was.
"I can't wait," she said and giggled.
She helped me up, got me into the bathroom, and helped me sit. I couldn't miss the interesting little brown semicircles on her ass as she left me there.
I sat and peed and pooped, my head hanging and my belly aching. When I was done I stood, flushed, and found Mom on her hands and knees, a bucket and a towel there as she cleaned up my mess.
I watched, fascinated, as she performed that domestic chore.
She smiled up at me and wiggled her stained ass.
"A quick game of Dealer's Choice?" she asked.
I smiled.
"As tempting as that is, Mom," I said, "I'm desperate for a shower and breakfast."
When she grinned I laughed and added, "Not one of Mom's Special Snacks. Maybe an omelet?"
"Pussy," she said, giggling, and accepted my hand and stood.
We showered together, it didn't turn sexual as it often does but it was, as always, sensual.
I scrubbed her face, cleaned the smeared residue from last night, and then shampooed her hair. I always enjoyed doing that. Her hair is thick and coarse and when it's wet it's like I'm running my fingers through a bunch of ropes.
"What would you think if I went blonde?" she asked.
"I'm not sure I'd recognize you," I said, laughing.
"Welllllll," she said, drawing out the alvolar lateral "L" sound, "Sharon is blonde."
That stopped me.
"Mom," I said, serious now, holding her eyes with mine, "I enjoy Sharon's videos because she reminds me of you. I don't want you because you remind me of her."
She smiled at that and said, "I know, honey, but I think I'm due for a new look."
I laughed and said, "You're crazy."
She gave me an odd look and said, "That, my love, is beyond dispute."
"But a good crazy," I added, kissing her and using that opportunity to start on her back with the soap.
We did each other's bodies then, washing thoroughly, giggling a lot as we found well-explored ticklish and sensitive places.
To finish I covered the faucet with the bell-shaped adapter I had made, set the water flowing through the douche syringe making sure all eight of the holes streamed freely, and slipped the syringe into her until I felt it bottom out. She shivered and smiled and kissed me.
"Flush me out good," she said, deliberately garbling her grammar, "After last night I need it."
So I did. I slowly increased the volume of hot, feeling it as it flowed over my hand until it was as hot as she could stand, and let it run cleaning her out after last night. Then I added cold until what flowed over my hand was just warm but the volume was higher, it was spraying out of her now. To finish, I cut the hot feed suddenly until the water running over my hand was cold and she shivered. I cut the flow and hung the syringe and adapter hose to drain.
We toweled each other dry, always fun. And then we padded naked into the kitchen.
I had that quick flash of yesterday and her cookie baking but this was more like it. Mom doesn't cook much. We do a lot of take out, delivery, or going out. But she does do breakfast well and I always like watching her move around naked.
She started with a hard pull on her vodka bottle and then poured two glasses of orange juice, adding a healthy pour to hers before putting them on the table and getting to breakfast. She broke a half dozen eggs into a bowl, added a splash of milk, and whipped them vigorously with a fork, making her body jiggle in interesting places and interesting ways. While the eggs were coming to room temperature she laid a half dozen strips of bacon on one pan, taking time to put on her apron - "Bacon pops" - she said, as she always did, set the big cast iron pan on a burner to begin heating, sliced two English muffins in half and put the halves into the big four place toaster, and quickly cut a potato into little cubes, her knife work making more interesting jiggles.
We ate then and I had enough self-awareness to recognize how bizarre it was to be sitting naked, sharing a breakfast with my mother, and chatting casually about Mom's desire to emulate a porn star.
"You know," I said, finishing the omelet and then popping the last little cube of fried potatoes into my mouth, "I did enjoy your special snack."
She giggled and said, "Well, I do aim to please."
I leaned across the table and touched her nipple.
"This," I said, rolling her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, "would be an even better snack."
Her eyes got big for a moment and then, without a word, she got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen.
She was back in just a few seconds with her cell phone in her hand. She held my eyes for a moment and then touched the screen. After it lit up she started scrolling. I watched as she touched again and then found my eyes with hers. She was smiling.
"Hi Sarah," she said, "This is Arlene Morgan. I need to schedule an appointment with Dr. Bob." Pause "No, Dear, it's not an emergency." Pause "Well, it's kind of a personal matter." Pause "No, I don't think it will take long." Pause "Really? This afternoon? Oh, Sarah, I'll tell him he's not paying you nearly enough." Pause "Two fifteen? I'll be there and thank you again, Dear."
"What was that all about?" I asked.
She reached down and lifted her heavy breasts, rolling her nipples. "I want to give you everything you want," she said, "so I'll talk to Doctor Bob to see what it takes to become a good cow for you."
I laughed at that.
"And how will you explain it to him?" I asked, curious now.
"Well," she said, and I watched as her eyes moved up and right as she thought, "I'll just explain that your cousin Rose, my favorite niece, doesn't want to have droopy boobs after the baby's born so I've volunteered to be her wet nurse if I can."
I chuckled and said, "Very good."
There was a cousin Rose, but since she was seven or eight, it was unlikely she was going to have a baby anytime soon. But purely as a story for her doctor, I thought it held up pretty well.
"Now," she said, "We seem to have a few hours before my doctor's appointment. Any ideas on how to fill them?"
I laughed. "Fill you, don't you mean."
She giggled again. "Well, now that you mention it."
"Well," I said, "chores first. I'll wash, you dry."
"I must have been very good in a former life to deserve you," she said, standing and starting to gather up the dishes.
We did the dishes, me washing, her drying. I wasn't surprised when, as she put the last plate up, she snapped my ass with the wet towel. It was a good hit. I felt a welt when I reached back to touch. She giggled and then squealed, dropping her towel and running away.
"Oh, that's gonna cost you," I said, following slowly, stalking her.
I caught a glimpse of jiggly ass as she ran around the corner, laughing.
" Now why, in the world, would she run into the office?" I asked myself.
In the office, Mom was standing beside my open laptop, and as I walked in, still moving deliberately slowly, still "stalking" her, she bent over, giving me an interesting view of heavy breasts hanging free, hit "Enter," and pulled the office chair out, obviously offering it to me.
So I sat and watched as the "Curvy Sharon 42HH" screen came up with its fancy brown border, the word "Curvy" in a purple script font in the upper left corner, the word "Sharon" under it in a yellow heavy-serif font, "42HH" under that in a purple san serif font, the quarter page five-panel montage of Sharon in various states of undress in the upper right corner, and the title, "Mommy Deals with an Intruder" centered in the bottom third of the panel in another san serif purple font.
"I haven't seen this one," I said over my shoulder as Mom laid her hands on my shoulders.
"I paid to subscribe," she said.
By then the show had started. It was typical Sharon porn. She was doing housework, wearing tight, Daisy Duke cutoffs that showed her gluteal sulcus, that sexy line where her bubble butt met the top of her thighs, and what looked like a man's work shirt, unbuttoned but tied under her breasts, looking kind of like a bra but, when you got down to it, functioning as a titsack. As always, she was made up, had on her engagement ring/wedding band set and a strand of pearls, and her nails, french cut and white, drew attention to her hands and the toes that peeked out from her sandals.
Some music was playing in the background and I realized it was Etta James' incomparable version of I'd Rather Go Blind."
Then, as she often did in her videos, she started talking to herself, setting the scene.
"I need to get the house cleaned up before my son gets home," she was saying, a little breathless suggesting she had been working physically hard.
"Oh, darn it, look at that spot," she said and then bent at the waist, very artistically, as the camera zoomed in on her big butt.
"There," she said as she stood, and looked at her watch. "Oh, wait," she said and I couldn't help but roll my eyes. Who writes this crap, but at least there was some sort of plot, unlike so much of what you see if you surf porn very much. "That's right, he's staying over at Georgie's tonight. Well, I guess I'll just do a sandwich for dinner and then," and she looked directly into the camera, "maybe I'll get into my secret box."
There was a knock on the door in the background and her eyes got big.
"Who's there?" she asked.
"Utility company, ma'am," came an off-camera voice, "there's a report of a gas leak in the area and I need to take my sniffer into your basement."
"Oh, dear," Sharon said, adding a dramatic back of the hand to the forehead, doing her best Scarlet O'Hara imitation.
"Coming," she called.
As soon as she opened the door it crashed open, I gave the special effects guys an "A+" for that one. It looked authentic.
A guy all dressed in black was on her, his gloved hand digging into her hair and twisting, making her yell.
"Please don't hurt me," she said over and over.
Mom's hands were massaging my shoulders and we watched the whole thing, one hour and 17 minutes based on the little line across the bottom of the screen.
Sharon was slapped, shutting her up, raped with much yelling and carrying on, and then handcuffed to the bed while her rapist got on the phone and invited friends over to "join the party."
This was different from the "usual" Sharon video. I wondered, in that corner of my mind that was studying economics, if she had made enough during her glory days to retire in comfort or if she would sink deeper and deeper into degradation until, like so many common whores you read about, she wound up giving blowjobs in the bathroom for a drink. She WAS starting to show her age, especially in this video, evidently fairly new. A closeup of her neck showed an incipient wattle and there were three little skin tags in that wrinkled skin where her arm met her body.
As the camera got close, showing how the belt they were using on her ass was leaving real stripes, it caught a red blemish that I later looked up and found was a dermatofibroma, a little red bump with a cluster of dark coarse hairs. As she was being pushed around her breasts had lost the fullness that always made her so attractive and, if I'm being honest, had always reminded me so much of Mom. They were, well, an old woman's tits now.
I watched the whole thing, aware of Mom's hands on my shoulders massaging gently and the occasional sudden intake of her breath as she watched with me.
It ended with Sharon, haggard with her hair in tangles and matted, looking like someone had opened a half dozen yogurt containers and poured them over her head, onto her face and boobs, and her face, where you could see it, showing the raccoon eyes of streaked mascara. Her nose was running, she was drooling and whimpering, and it hit me that this wasn't acting. Those bruises on her boobs and ass were real and that dark circular bruise where, in one scene, one man had punched her in the kidney.
"Mom, what happened," an off-camera voice asked.
"I'm okay," Sharon replied, her voice thick, "help me up," as she tried to stand and almost collapsed.
A figure entered the frame, his back to the camera, face carefully avoided, and helped her to her feet.
"I'm okay," she said again, leaning on him, "help me clean up."
As they walked out of the room, the scene slowly fading to black, her "son's" hand moved down, casually cupping her ass, and she giggled.
I stood, turned, and met her eyes.
They were shiny, and the womanscent of her arousal hit me like a shot of concentrated Viagra. My cock jumped erect.
"Mom," I said, my own breathing pretty ragged. Hell, that video got to me too, I won't deny it, "Is that what you want?"
And, oddly, that seemed to break the mood. I watched her eyes move up and right as she thought, those little vertical lines between her eyes showing her concentration.
"Davey," she said, taking my hands, and since she was being so serious the touch wasn't sexual, "that little problem in my head is affecting my sensitivity to nerve stimulus."
For about the bazillionth time I was fascinated by how rational she could be about something that was killing her, and how thoughtful she could be even as she drank a quart of vodka every three days. I guess, when you get down to it. I was just taken with how damn smart she was.
"And you think what we just saw would help?" I asked.
And there were those little concentration lines again.
"Davey," she said, holding my eyes, "I honestly don't know, but I'm willing to try."
"Come here," I said, and wrapped her into my arms.
I held her and kissed her and held her some more.
I didn't say anything, I just took her by the hand and led her into the front room. I stood her, as close to the exact center as I could, still saying nothing, and then opened the curtains and pulled up the Venetian blinds on the two big windows.
I went back to her, kissed her quickly, and said, "Right now I'm going to give you a good old-fashioned American blow job, right here where anybody walking by can see, I'm going to make you cum like a garden hose, and then I'm going to send you off, smiling, to your doctor's appointment. When you get home, well, depending on how my research goes, I just may give you what you want."
"Davey," she started but I cut her off with a kiss. When I broke the kiss I slapped her cheek, not hard, but enough to sting I figured, and said, "Hush and accept what I offer."
I eased to my knees, cupped her big butt in my hands to hold her to me, used my forehead to butt her belly up and out of the way, and started at her with my mouth and tongue.
Mom was the one who taught me that good sex is often messy but never dirty. I made this beyond messy. I made it sloppy. I used my saliva to lubricate her as I licked and sucked. But I didn't have to do that much because she's a pretty wet woman and soon enough she was flowing and I was lapping at her like a dog with a wound.
Her nectar, her natural lubricant, the product of the mucus membranes lining her vagina and the deeper Bartholin's and Skene's Glands, was thick and white, oily and salty. I love her taste and her scent and licked and sucked and swallowed noisily, demonstrating how much I enjoyed her.
And she responded. Soon enough her hips were thrusting and her fingers were entwined in my hair, twisting, hurting, pulling me to her.
"That's right, Honey," she was saying over and over, "eat Mommy's pussy."
When she came, I squeezed her ass drawing a yell that merged with her "YES" becoming something like "AAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhYESSSSSSSSSSSFUCKEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."
My mouth was full suddenly, and the way she pulled me to her, her ejaculate, her release, her pure pleasure, was forced up into my sinuses and out my nose. I was drowning as I tried to swallow and coughed, spraying her belly and my face.
"EAT IT!" she yelled, yanking me back, pressing my face against her while she sprayed a second time.
I swallowed. It was thick and oily and salty, like the biggest oyster you can imagine.
I loved it.
She was panting now, and when she pulled me away thick strings of her white love honey hung from her dangling lips so I bent forward and slurped up her beautiful gift.
"You know Mommy loves you, don't you," she asked.
"I know," I said, looking up at her, loving her.
"And you know how much you love to eat Mommy's pussy, don't you?" she asked.
I wondered how many videos she had watched since she subscribed. This was exactly the kind of thing Sharon would have said, but I couldn't remember that line from any I had watched. But the answer she needed was pretty obvious.
"I love eating your beautiful pussy," I said.
She smiled then, a sweet smile, released my hair, and said, "Okay. I've got to get ready to visit the doctor now," and walked out of the room.
It's amazing what you can find on the Internet. As soon as Mom left I started research. I started with the obvious, entering the Google search term "rape fantasies." I discounted the first couple of articles, the ones that dealt with "rape fantasies" in terms of being little more than rough, or even "frisky" sex. It seemed to me that Mom, especially with the video she had shown me, was looking for something more than that.
A few things quickly became clear. In my mind, I almost composed a "How to Rape Properly" textbook. The outline ran something like this.
It must be unexpected.
It must be sudden.
It must be violent.
It must leave visible evidence.
I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but as read and pictured doing it to Mom I found that I liked the image.
That led me to a more serious search. Something she mentioned got to me so I started checking into "loss of sensitivity." It turns out, although I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised to learn this, that there's a clinical term for it. Hypoesthesia is, literally, a mashup of the Latin hypo (below, as in hypodermic for below the skin) and the Greek aisthēsis, sensation.
Several specific diseases and conditions were identified as being associated with hypoesthesia. Mom's little problem in her head wasn't among them, but I figured it made sense. If we're being honest here, and why wouldn't I, it's not like you and I will ever meet now, is it Gentle Reader, I have always assumed that the tumor in her brain was a good part of her sexual disinhibition, another term I ran across while doing this research. I mean, hell, until a little over a year ago she had been June Cleaver, well, more Mary Tyler Moore. A good mom who dated a little. And then, one night, she crawled into my bed, all warm skin and soft boobs and wet pussy, and, well, here I was today, researching how to properly rape her
And that thought led me down yet another path.
The Google search term, "How to properly spank a woman," left me with a fresh set of guidelines to develop. Well, not "guidelines" as much as understanding a pretty basic concept. The trick, it turned out, to properly spank a woman was to remember the old story about how to boil a frog. You don't drop the frog into boiling water. Even a creature with a brain the size of a Number 8 buckshot will jump out if that happens. You drop the frog in a pan of cool water and turn on the heat. By the time Kermit figures out what's happening, he's too relaxed to move.
That's how you properly spank a woman. You warm her up, slow and easy, allowing her to accept a deeper, more painful, and, my favorite turn of phrase, more meaningful spanking. I made a mental note, feeling an anticipatory tingle in my hand as I pictured Mom across my knees, her panties around her knees, hobbling her, as her ass turned first pink and then red under my loving palm.
The thing that was so surprising, though, was how much formal academic research was available on the subject. Much of it focused on a growing movement among Christians to accept the need for what they tagged Domestic Discipline. I scanned through a dozen articles on why, in a "true Christian" family, the wife must be submissive to be proper. I got a little tingle in my belly when I encountered a few articles from an organization called Female Led Relationships on the need for a wife to "discipline" her husband.
But I focused on technique mostly, because, deep down, I knew I wouldn't be able to refuse Mom anything. And the more I read, well, the more I wanted it.
One of the things that help me maintain a 4.0 grade point average is my ability to focus. I don't think I'm smarter than the other folks in class, well, maybe a little smarter, but I focus and am prepared. That's why I'm at my desk until 5:00 p.m. and don't waste a lot of time in the student union. I was into a completely new topic, researching and following where the research led, and when I'm in that zone, well, time kind of loses meaning.
I was definitely in the zone right then. I had about a dozen tabs open on the computer screen and was bouncing back and forth, comparing what different articles said. I was fascinated by two articles I had found, one by a wife who claimed she "needed" the discipline or she just "got out of control," and the other by a woman who claimed she hated the discipline but loved her husband. And I found both of the arguments persuasive.
I jumped and spun on the desk chair, my hands coming up as I stood, all of those hours spent in a karate (well, a Shaolin do) dojo kicking in when I felt hands on my shoulders.
But she knew me too well and had stepped back and was giggling.
And I stared.
Not only had she gone blonde, she had done it properly. Her eyebrows were reduced to delicate arches, tweezed from her formerly heavy, very dark brows. The most obvious thing, though, the thing that took my breath away, was the way her hair, in that same honey blonde shade Sharon had, hung well down her back. I would later learn it was done with something called "weaves," and it felt so real that after the first shock, I didn't notice it. It looked natural.
And I recognized the outfit she had on. It was a shiny green blouse I hadn't seen before and a tight black skirt. I knew without seeing it, that under the clothes she would be wearing a nursing bra, black panties, and thigh-high nylons that fit so tight at the top hem that her thighs would bulge out above them. The black horn-rimmed glasses completed the transformation.
I had seen it before. The video she was imitating was called "Curvy Sharon 42HH Nursing in My Bare Butt Girdle," and she had the look down perfectly. She wore no jewelry, but I could see that besides the time spent changing her hair, she had her face done professionally. And she looked great.
And I was looking at Sharon, come to life. A fantasy had come into my life.
I covered the three steps between us while she stood still, an odd little smile on her face.
I held her eyes with mine, laid my palms on her cheeks, holding her so she couldn't look away, and said, "Hello, Sharon."
"Do you like it," she asked, looking up at me, eyes bright.
I slowly ran my fingers up the back of her head, letting that thick blonde hair run through them as I slowly pulled my hand away. Her eyes closed as I did that. I couldn't feel where her hair ended and the extensions began.
"I love it," I said.
Those shiny eyes overflowed then and tears started running down her cheeks.
It turns out, my Sharon is pretty when she cries. The tears just added to her natural beauty and when I bent to kiss them away the salty taste was addictive. Even the way her nose ran was pretty. The shiny sheen it gave her upper lip wasn't off-putting at all. The kiss was slick and salty and I liked it.
"Come on, Honey," she said when I broke the kiss. She took me by the hand and led me into the front room where she had me sit on the big wingback chair that we practically never used.
"Okay, Son," she said as she bustled (another word you see written but never have the opportunity to use) into the room, "It's bedtime."
When I didn't move she smiled and said, "Oh, all right, I know what you want."
She sat on the couch and unbuttoned her blouse slowly, saying, "You need your snack, don't you?"
"Yes," I said in a soft voice.
"Well, Honey, Mommy needs it too," she said.
Even knowing what was coming, I leaned forward, my eyes locked on her hands as she pulled the blouse loose and to the side, showing her bra, something new, something I hadn't seen. It was heavy-duty, the phrase "industrial strength" ran through my mind, and so white it glowed.
I realized I was holding my breath and let it out.
"Ooooooh, you look hungry, Son," she said as her fingers started working the little hook where the cup of her bra met the shoulder strap.
My mouth was watering and I was swallowing to catch up.
"Starved," I said and she giggled.
Her fingers got that hook undone and she took her right breast out.
And that's the way to put it. She just used her fingers to pull the cup flap down and took it out. There was no strip tease involved. Nothing alluring. No soft noises, or hums, or little sighs. She just pulled it out like a piece of meat.
"Is this what you need, Davey?" she asked, "Mommy's teat?"
And she pronounced it "teet," as Sharon did in the video.
"Please," I said, my voice breathless because I was so goddam aroused right then it was as if I had just run a couple of miles.
She worked both of her palms under her breast and her thumbs met at the top. She lifted it, and it overflowed her hands. She jiggled it and her own breath caught.
"Okay, Honey," she said, scooting to her right so she could be supported against the arm of the couch, "come on."
I was harder right then than I think I've ever been. When I stood I had to adjust my erection before I could move.
She giggled softly, her hands busy, massaging her breast, her teet as she called it, and she said, "Take off your pants, Honey. You don't need them."
I damn near fell on my face and the line from that Blake Shelton song ran through my mind making me laugh. "I fell down, tryin' to kick off my jeans," the line went, and I damn near did as I did that awkward two-step to get my shoes and socks off before I got busy on my belt. But I managed to strip from the waist down uninjured.
It took a little squirming and adjusting to work out the logistics of what we both wanted. I am, after all, quite a bit bigger than the baby who would normally be doing what we both wanted me to do.
But we worked it out.
My head was cushioned in the crook of her arm as she used her left hand to lift her breast, her "teet" as I was now thinking of it, and brush her nipple, a hard little pebble now, against my lips.
My shoulders were on her lap and I was turned slightly as I took her nipple into my lips. This was a first for me and I just didn't know what to do.
But Mom/Sharon was a good teacher and she knew how it worked. She used her fingers to gently push and it felt natural to open my mouth and take her areola and then some tissue into my mouth.
And nature took over. This was instinctive, far below the level of thinking.
I "latched on," a term I didn't yet know, not sucking now but holding enough vacuum in my mouth to make a tight fight. And my tongue started massaging her nipple and areola, both very firm now, against the roof of my mouth. This was so far beyond any breast play I ever engaged in the term doesn't even begin to apply. I was nursing. I was suckling. I was trying to draw nourishment from her body, and my body knew what to do even if I was still figuring it out.
"Oh, Jesus," she almost sighed as she brushed my forehead lightly and then let her fingers trail down my body until she found my erection, throbbing with my need.
The term "timeless," or even "time stood still," applies here.
This was intimacy beyond intimacy. And as a sexual activity, it wasn't necessarily better but it was completely different from anything I ever experienced before. As I nursed I could hear her soft breathing, the gentle little humming sound she made, and an occasional little catch in her breath.
As for me, her hand held me and she was stroking me so gently, so slowly, it could have gone on, well, forever, and I wouldn't have cum.
Timeless.
I nursed and she stroked and I realized that her womanscent was in the air.
For the first time, I felt her finger work between the corner of my mouth and the flesh of her teat and I felt the loss of our connection as she "broke my latch," another term I would later learn.
She giggled softly.
"Easy, Baby," she said, that soft little laugh striking me as one of the most sex-laden sounds I ever heard, "I'm getting sore."
I pulled away and saw how swollen her nipple and areola were, and I had to revise my list of the sexiest things I'd ever seen. This was the new number one.
I watched as she freed her other teat and did that lift-and-offer thing. I scooted down a little, the position feeling natural as I laid my head in the crook of her other arm and latched on.
I felt a sudden tension in her body, she gasped, and her womanscent flooded my senses as she came.
I held her nipple and areola in my mouth but didn't nurse until she relaxed.
"Oh, Jesus," she sighed as she relaxed and I started suckling again.
Time had no meaning.
Her hand kept up that slow, gentle stroking, and when I came, some fraction of forever later, I understood, at least a little, what had happened to her. Hell, what was happening to her as I would feel that little tension in her body and a fresh wave of her womanscent would hit those pheromone receptors and my body would respond.
When I came it was after a slow buildup of pressure, of need. There was no, well, no urgency. There was none of that frantic urge for completion. What I felt was that sensation all men understand. It was the instant when ejaculation starts, when my body had hit the peak and the demands of evolution were being met. But rather than the sudden burst of release, that sudden hard contraction deep in my belly that nature demanded I do to send my sperm deep into my mate's body in search of an egg, this held right there at that point of initiation.
I didn't squirt.
I didn't pump.
I flowed.
And it kept going.
I felt Sharon's body tense with me and this time her womanscent changed subtly with her release, with her, well, "completion" seems like a stupid word but I think it fits.
And it kept going for both of us.
In the end, it was me who brought this perfect intimacy to completion. My body gave one final pump and the sensation was just too intense. I jerked away from her hand and what it was doing, but the movement, almost a spasm, made me release her teat too.
And I knew, beyond any coming back, that my mother had become Sharon. That little problem in her head had taken her to a new place. And I loved her just as much in her new persona.
Oh, Son," she said in that breathy Sharon voice, "you left me unfinished."
She smiled at me, a cute, kind of sneaky smile.
"You seemed pretty finished to me," I said.
"That was good, Honey," she said, "but I didn't, you know, really cum."
"But I've seen you watching me before," she said. "You didn't know that, did you?"
"No," I said, but I knew where this one was going.
"You stay right there, Son," she said.
There was that word again. She "bustled" out, all jiggly hips and ass. She was back in a minute and handed me a beer before bustling out again.
This time, when she came back into the room, yes, "bustling," she ignored me. And I recognized the video.
Jesus, with the blonde hair she was Sharon. She was still in the shiny green blouse and the black skirt. But there was something different. I could see her moving, almost frantic, searching for the television remote. She pushed the button and I heard a news station's talking head, well, talking.
"No," she almost whimpered, "where is it."
She was breathing rapidly, her voice was breathy, and she was saying, over and over, "Where is it? Where is it?"
I had seen the video. Hell, I had watched it enough times I even knew its title. This was Fantasy Fuck brought to life.
She was dancing from foot to foot like a little girl who needed to go to the bathroom as she worked the remote. "Where is it?" she said and pushed buttons frantically, "God, I'm too late."
She was carefully ignoring me, her attention completely on the television and the remote.
"Oh, God, I missed it," she was saying, almost in tears she was so frantic.
Then, suddenly, her face relaxed.
The television volume was low but I heard the driving beat and a man's voice calling out numbers.
And Sharon's face took on a look that can only be called bliss.
"That's right," she was saying as her fingers worked at the buttons of the shiny green blouse. I noticed her fingers were trembling so badly she was having trouble with the buttons but I made no effort to help. This was, after all, her show.
She didn't take the blouse off after she had the buttons unbuttoned. She pulled it open, putting big tits on display but left the sleeves buttoned.
"Oh yeah, baby, move like that," she said, her eyes fixed on the television as her fingers pulled up her skirt. I could see black panties and black thigh-high nylons.
And then I realized I could hear the soft buzzing sound of a vibrator. Her fingers were busy, under the elastic waistband of her panties, and she was starting to squirm, her legs scissoring slowly.
"Oh, YES," she cried and stood, pushing the panties past her ass before collapsing back onto the chair.
She scooted forward so she could spread her legs wider and I could see the big flesh-colored dildo that was in her pussy and, as I watched she pulled the wire of the controller she held in her hand and a little silver egg stretched her a little more before popping out and hanging there from the wire.
"Oh yeah, oh, Baby, like that," she was saying, her voice almost droning, a prayer or a chant. And her fingers were pressing the little buzzing silver egg to her clitoris.
That dildo was SO realistic I expected to see a human being attached to it. She was masturbating with it. The balls hung loose and there were tufts of hair peeking out.
Now her hand was down there and she was pumping it in and out. She reached for the controller and the pitch of the buzzing got higher as the little vibrator sped up. Her voice got higher along with it.
"Yes, oh, God, baby, yes," she was sort of whining.
I went off-script then. In the video, she finished and was saying things like, "Oh, that was a good one," as the screen faded to black.
But I wanted to participate.
So I got up and took a couple of steps toward her.
"Mom!!!" I said, trying for shock and surprise in my voice, "What are you doing?"
She froze, her eyes going big.
And she started ad libbing.
"Son!! What are you doing home?? I thought you had class," she said, only her mouth moving.
"Mom," I repeated, moving closer so I stood over her, thinking, in one of those weird non sequiturs my mind does sometimes, that I should "loom over" her for impact, "What? Are. You. Doing?" I carefully enunciated each word.
"Oh, Son," she said, eyes still big, still not moving, and surprising me as a blush spread from her face down, "I have needs, and since your father left....." and she let it trail off.
"What needs?" I asked. I was WAY off script here. In her videos, Curvy Sharon is usually in control. But it seemed to be working so I pushed ahead.
"Oh, honey," she said, blushing, "Something a mommy shouldn't say to her son."
I moved behind her then and laid my hands on her shoulders.
"What needs?" I asked again, my mouth close to her ear, my voice as low and breathy as I could make it, and my hands slowly moved down to cup her breasts.
"Honey," she said, her voice a high-pitched whine, "Please don't make me say it."
"What? Needs?" I asked once more, my thumbs and forefingers rolling her nipples and enjoying the feel of her areolas tightening as I did it.
"I NEED COCK!" she yelled. "OKAY! MOMMY NEEDS A BIG COCK STUCK IN HER PUSSY SOMETIMES! OKAY!!?? THERE!! I said it. Are you happy?!"
I ran my hand down her belly and covered hers where she held that big, oh-so-real-looking dildo inside.
"Take what you need, Mom," I said, "It's okay. I understand."
"Son?!" she asked.
My hand was back to her breast, rolling both of her nipples now, and my lips were brushing her ear. I traced the shell of her ear before I went on.
"It's okay," I breathed into her ear.
"Oh, God," she moaned, but her hand started moving and her eyes went back to the television where some Chris Hemsworth wannabe was running a gaggle of 40-something women through their exercise routine.
"That's right, Baby," she said, not to me but to the Mighty Thor on the television, "just like that."
Her hands were moving now, her right pumping that dildo in and out in slow strokes while her left held the little buzzing silver egg against herself.
"That's right, Mom," I said, "Enjoy your body."
She was talking almost constantly now. Well, maybe it would be more accurate to say she was babbling almost constantly now. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. Her hips were rocking. And her womanscent was strong in the air.
I was hard when I brushed the big wingback chair as I leaned forward to play with her big tits.
"Yeah, baby," she whispered and her rhythm changed. Rather than rocking now, her hips were starting to buck, thrusting against the dildo so its rubber scrotum hit her ass with an audible slapping sound.
"Easy now," I said softly into her ear making her jump a little. I think she had forgotten I was there.
She froze.
"No, Mom," I said, "don't stop."
She started working the dildo again.
"But don't you dare cum until I tell you to," I said, tugging her nipples like I was milking her.
"Faster now," I said, "but watch your control."
"Son," she said, her voice a soft breathy sound.
"Easy," I said, "we're going to take you several levels past where you've ever been."
"Son," she said again in that almost inaudible voice.
"Shhhhhhhh," I said, my voice as low as hers, "Keep filling your pussy like you need to."
"Please," she whimpered, her hips bucking hard enough to make the chair bounce a little.
"Not yet," I said, pulling harder on her nipples, "Control, Mom, control."
"Oh God," she moaned.
Thor was done tormenting his matrons and some well-preserved grandmother was going through yoga routines on the television. She was busty, her nipples showing as hard points on the leotard she wore, and she was moving from impossible pose to impossible pose in a slow, smooth series. This was clearly very advanced yoga.
Mom grunted and I pinched her nipple hard enough to draw a yell and to break the orgasm that had almost been completed.
"CONTROL," I said.
She moaned.
"Don't stop," I said and her hand got busy again.
"Faster," I said.
Her entire body was bucking now, each thrust of the dildo making her cry out.
"WAIT!" I said.
"SON!" she cried.
I felt her body pass the point of no return.
"GO!" I yelled.
She screamed, well, she tried to scream. All that came out was an almost soundless gasp.
When my hands clamped on her tits, deliberately hurting her, crushing them, she tried to get away but I had the leverage.
Her legs were kicking and I could hear her release spattering on the floor almost sounding like she had lost bladder control.
"AGAIN!" I yelled.
She grunted and yelled and threw back her head, trying to twist away from what I was doing to her tits but she didn't stop working that dildo.
"Again," I said.
But she couldn't. She collapsed.
She was completely limp, like a sleeping cat. But rather than purring, she was moaning softly.
"Good girl," I said, releasing her breasts.
She let out a long, satisfied sigh.
"Oh, God," she breathed and started to pull the dildo out.
"No," I said, covering her hand with mine, "Leave it in."
"Gonna stretch mommy out?" she asked with a little giggle.
I chuckled and said, "You're plenty stretched, Sharon, but I want you to be happy." I leaned over, gave her an upside-down kiss, and said, "And you seem happy right now."
"Not just because I have this big cock in me," she said, pulling me down for another upside-down kiss, "Mostly because I have you in my life."
"You do know just the right things to say," I said, chuckling.
I stayed like that, lightly playing with her tits while covering her face with soft upside-down kisses.
"Okay," I said, straightening and moving around to offer my hand, "panties up. We're going to get something to eat."
Her eyes got big and then she smiled.
"You want me to leave it in, don't you, pervert," she said.
"Yep," I said, "I wouldn't want you to suffer a hollow feeling."
She laughed, that soft throaty laugh of hers, and said, "No, wouldn't want that."
I watched as she pulled her panties up, the full granny panties she preferred ("I spent most of my life trying to keep my panties out of the crack of my ass," she told me once, "why would I wear a thong?") and then reached down, adjusting the dildo before giving a final tug to the waistband, holding everything together.
"Bra?" she asked.
"You're kidding, right," I said as I started buttoning the shiny green blouse.
"Pervert," she said again.
"Slut," I replied, "And please, at least run a brush through your hair."
She giggled at that, kissed me quickly, and headed for the other room.
She was walking a little funny.
I liked it.
We ate at the local Denny's, just a mile or so from the house in one of those shopping centers. I think we both enjoyed casual conversation over our breakfasts (served 24 hours a day the menu promised) knowing what was inside her.
Our conversation was an odd mixture, as it always was. It was part boyfriend/girlfriend, or maybe even husband/wife. Boyfriend and girlfriend talked of the Elvis impersonator that would be at Ron's Place, a local Club. Husband and wife talked about that dripping faucet that I just HAD to get to with me promising, solemnly, to take care of it. Mother and son involved her telling me I needed a haircut and then licking her finger, reaching across the table, and smoothing an eyebrow.
We laughed a lot in that easy way of a couple comfortable with each other.
Before the food came she excused herself and went to the bathroom. As I started on my Breakfast Bowl I realized why.
I heard a little buzzing sound and realized her little Silver Bullet was busy again. I wondered where it was. I figured it would be fun to find out later.
She was grinning as she forked hashbrowns into her mouth.
We were past the point of hurrying. We finished our breakfast, taking our time. We talked and no, I won't bore you with that dialogue. If you've ever had a casual meal at a chain restaurant with someone you know well, you've had that conversation. It was about nothing but about everything as well. But you don't care what I think about Ukraine or how her Bunko game went and the dirty little secret she learned about one of the Bunko girls.
Well, maybe you do about that last.
She swallowed and took a drink of coffee, looked around dramatically, the look of a spy in an old B movie checking for watchers, and leaned across the table.
"Do you know Cheryl Atkins?" she asked, giggling a little.
I had to think. I had met most of the group she played Bunko with every Wednesday, but only casually.
"Hmmmm," I said, "Light brown hair, not bad looking," I held my hand out, "yay high," and I held my hands with arms outstretched, "hips about yay wide?"
She giggled.
"That's her," she said.
"Wellllllllllllllll," she said and did that dramatic look-around-the-room thing again, "she's PREGNANT!"
I had to think about that.
"A bit long in the tooth for that, isn't she?" I said.
She giggled and said, "She's MY age, youngster."
"So, a bit long in the tooth, isn't she?" I repeated and she slapped my arm.
"That's not the good part," she said in a stage whisper.
"Oh?" I said, curious now.
"She thinks it might be a Black baby," she said, all wide eyes and whispering.
"Oh," I said again.
"Marge is going to take her to have the baby's genetics tested next Monday," she went on, obviously loving sharing this bit of gossip.
"And?" I asked.
"She doesn't know what she'll do if it is," she said. "She's strongly anti-abortion but she's afraid Jim will kick her out when if he sees a Black baby in the delivery room."
She got the giggles then.
"That's not something you can hide," she managed before she broke down in gales of laughter, loud enough that other patrons looked.
I held up my hand and said, loud enough for those other customers to hear, "It wasn't THAT funny, Honey."
Her laughter turned into a gasp as the little silver bullet did its job and she caught her breath sharply.
I didn't hurry. Just finished my breakfast, grinning at her.
She caught her breath and took a bite.
"God, I love you," she said, a little breathlessly.
"And I love you, Sluterella," I said and she laughed out some eggs she had been chewing.
"Although you are a bit of a slob sometimes," I added, carefully brushing the egg detritus off of my shirt.
We finished then in companionable silence, comfortable enough with each other that we didn't need to fill dead air with meaningless talk.
Her womanscent filled the air, and I was surprised that it didn't draw any looks or comments.
At the cashier's stand, as I paid and told the hostess that breakfast has been "delicious," I heard a sharp intake of breath and saw that she was cumming again.
"If you don't fuck me soon," she said, all Sharon now, I wondered if there was any of Mom left, "I'm going to start selling my ass."
She had both hands on my arm in that way women do to claim their man as she spoke.
"Wellllllllll," I said, smiling and opening the car door for her, "we could do both. Would you like to be a whore?"
She was giggling as I walked around and got under the steering wheel.
"Damn," I said as I got in the car.
"What?" she asked.
I laughed and said, "It smells like you're in heat."
She laughed and said, "Well then, it smells right."
"Oh, my sweet, sweet Sharon," I said.
She laughed softly, settled back, and closed her eyes.
And I watched, from the corner of my eye, as her hand slipped down and she started playing with the little silver bullet again. It buzzed pleasantly all the way home.
"Come on, Son," she said, her breathing a little rapid in her excitement as she took me by the hand and led me into the bedroom.
"Please," she said as she unbuttoned her blouse. Well, as she tried to unbutton her blouse. Her fingers were trembling and the buttons were giving her trouble so I stepped forward and did it for her.
When I had it unbuttoned I did not undo the sleeves. Instead, I pulled it down across her back, pinning her arms, and leaving those big beautiful tits out. So I played with them, lifting and sucking and kissing while she squirmed and made those soft little mewing sounds I enjoyed.
I unbuttoned the sleeves, let the blouse drop, unbuttoned and unzipped the skirt, and let it join the blouse, and then just looked. She was in her heels and panties, the bulge of the dildo showing clearly.
"Christ, you are SO sexy," I said.
She giggled, did that thing only a woman can pull off, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of the panties and then wiggling like Betty Boop as she slowly pushed them down.
When she reached for the dildo I held up my forefinger waving it back and forth, the universal symbol for "nuh-uh."
She giggled and stood straight and proud, her legs slightly parted, the dildo looking real as it hung just a little.
"Up on the bed, Sharon," I said, "on all fours. Your favorite position."
She did as I told her and I just stopped, captivated. Christ, with that big ass up like that and the dildo showing, the rubber balls nestled against her labia she looked like some crazy woman.
I liked it.
Her natural lubricant was running, explaining the strong womanscent in the air. It was thick and white and I had a thought.
"I don't think we need any K-Y Jelly tonight," I said, as I unbuttoned my shirt, tossed it aside, kicked off my loafers, unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, pushed them down along with my shots, and crawled up on the bed behind her, not even bothering to take my socks off.
"I like it, but it hurts if I'm dry," she said, looking over her shoulder at me.
"Who said anything about 'dry?'" I asked reaching up and slowly pulling the dildo free. I drug it through the thick white natural lubricant that was flowing from her and then touched the little balloon knot of her anus with it.
"Oh," she said with a sharp intake of breath before she laid her face on the pillow and reached back to spread her cheeks.
There was resistance as I started applying pressure, it was a big dildo. Not huge, but, well, say my cock at about 150 percent scale.
"Relax," I said.
She giggled and said, "I am."
I pushed harder and the glans finally penetrated.
I pulled it out, dragged it through where she was flowing so freely, and put it in, deeper this time.
I repeated that a half dozen times until she could accept the full length of the dildo easily and then slipped the dildo back into her pussy as I moved to mount her and take her anally.
If I knew anything about Sharon from the videos I had watched, I knew she enjoyed a good double penetration.
And she did this time in real life.
As I entered anally, watching, fascinated as I always did, as my cock slowly disappeared into her, she sighed a soft, satisfied sound.
"That's right, Son," she said very softly, "you know what Mom needs."
I took it slow, pulling out very slowly, and easing in very slowly. After about the third stroke my cock was streaked brown.
Neither of us minded.
She came almost instantly and I pressed against her, keeping those hard vaginal contractions from pushing the dildo out.