How do these things happen? You have to wonder.
Day One: Afternoon, early summer, black thunderclouds looming, rolling in slowly, low overhead from the east out in the Atlantic. Sunlight gone, sparkling turquoise waves turning black. The breeze suddenly a blustery wind, ruffling the canvas of the beach umbrella, spitting sand grains in our faces as she and I huddle in beach chairs. The weather is closing in. We put our books down.
Hundreds up and down the beach have fled already, coolers and umbrellas hefted up to hotels and cottages a few hundred feet back. Our own beach rental cottage is a good 45 minutes away. We had driven down to Avon to catch this better beach.
"Let's get up to the car and head back," I tell her. We've got maybe 20 minutes before it hits. At the car, she decides we should wash off the sand at the outdoor public shower just off the parking lot. We've got time, she says. It's a single, closet-sized stall with wooden planks for walls. There is but one shower and a young couple are already waiting their turn. We push our luck and join them.
They go in right before us, taking their clothes and bars of soap. Talk about prepared. Within minutes the line behind us grows, with maybe a half dozen people now waiting. The couple come out.Now it's our turn. "Go ahead," I say to her. She goes in. About to close the door.
"Can't you and your boyfriend shower together?" someone behind us in line says to her in a loud voice. "It would help out." We all look back at the black clouds.
Still standing in the door, she looks at me. I look at her. "Well, come on boyfriend," she says. "We'd better hurry." She takes my hand, pulls me in and latches the door. I realize there is no roof. The shower is open above.
"You okay with this?" she asks.
"Am I okay? Really?," I say with quiet sarcasm. "I guess I am. Aside from the fact that I somehow can't remember the last time I took a shower with my mother."
Our voices are low. Even in here, the line of people outside is no more than 10 feet away. She turns on the shower. "It will expedite matters, Michael. Everyone's in a hurry. It just makes sense."
Before I can collect any thoughts, she turns her back to me, steps under the shower head, lets the cool water spray over her. Some of it hits me. The coolness of it feels remarkably good. It has been hot on the beach all day. She shakes her hair, looks up, lets her face get the full force of the water, and slowly, deliberately slips one strap of the black one-piece off her shoulder, then the next strap, letting the suit fall to her waist.
I am two feet behind her, standing still, unable to move. Shower mist wetting my face and eyes. It's a nervous moment. Jitteriness overtaking my stomach, anxiety creeping in. I don't know how I feel about this.
Now she's sliding her fingers underneath the edge of the spandex at her waist. She pushes her swimsuit down. From behind, I see the beginnings of the dark cleft between her buttocks. She slips the suit farther, over her hips, slowly past her thighs, bends down to push it past her knees until her swimsuit falls freely to the floor.
With her back still to me, she glances over her shoulder. "Are you going to take a shower, Michael? Or are you just going to ogle me?" she says. "I'm 52. It should come as no surprise that I have wrinkles and age spots - if that's what you're thinking." She may be a little annoyed at my inaction. But I know she has no embarrassment. She is never embarrassed.
At this point, I have no choice, I suppose. I have to man up. So I strip off my swim shorts. Let them drop to the floor too.
A wrinkle or two, here and there, just slight ones, but her body otherwise is toned, healthy. And then there is the long slenderness of her. The long neck. Long slim fingers. Smooth shoulders. Unblemished back. A distinctive curve to her buttocks. Not a young girl's, but a woman's tail, longish and curving. And the recess between, which alone is bewitching. Things gone unnoticed by me until now. Of course, I've also never before seen her without any clothes on. Never wanted to, as best I can remember.
This woman, my mother, who I profess to know so well, has in an instant become a mystery to me. This can't be the same mother who helped with my science projects, who chauffeured me and my date to the movies before I learned to drive. The one whose dark and disappointing eyes saw the "C" on my report card for physics. That look alone prompted a course correction for me. My grades got better. Rapidly. No, I'm not looking at that woman. Someone else is standing exquisitely naked, her back to me, in this outdoor shower.
She turns, faces me. She's almost as tall as I am. Her narrow face. Narrow nose. Large tawny wide-set eyes, but calm, almost sleepy in their gaze. Skin virginally white. Her fingers splayed gently across and around her breasts, slowly brushing away the sand and water. Her breasts are not large, but neither is she. They are heavier than I would have thought. Sagging a little from their weight. For an instant, I think I see her massage each large brown nipple with her thumbs. Maybe not. A shadow is at the base of her abdomen. Pubic hair, vaguely visible in the mist. She is watching me watch her, so I can't stare down at it.
Whether it is the single thought of being naked with my mother, or just being naked with another person in a public shower - with people all around us - I do not know. Nonetheless, my penis starts growing, enlarging. I feel the blood rushing in as never before. Unwanted but uncontrollable. Engorging. Getting harder. Harder by the second. I pretend not to notice. Of all times, why does this have to happen to me now?
As she rinses more sand from her thick, chocolaty hair, her eyes lower, fastening on it. My hard penis. She makes no pretense. She is watching it as she washes her arms. Her eyes moving slowly on it, studying its length, its girth, skin texture. Watching it bob up and down in the shower spray. She says nothing. Yet I know she is measuring me with her eyes. An uneasy silence settles in, only the chatter of people outside and the sound of the shower spray raining down, bouncing off our bodies, plopping on the floor into puddles. She pulls me closer to her to let me wash myself under the showerhead. She backs up to give me room.
Leaning in toward me a little, she dips her head under the falling water as I brush off my chest and stomach. It does not escape my attention that, with her now close enough that we are almost touching, once again she is taking note of my erection. Her eyes lowered, looking toward the concrete floor, to see better. And watching me stroke myself once, twice to get sand off. Watching me massage the sand out of my balls.I squeeze my insides, trying to keep from ejaculating in front of her. I'm 25. I should be able to do this. And luck is with me this time.
We rinse our suits off quickly, get the sand out of the crotches, put them on awkwardly in front of each other. One by one, she lifts her legs to step into the swimsuit. My first real look at her pubic hair. Brown, not much of it. Sleek and tidy. She is aware that I am looking. We are dressed and she starts to open the door. Then stops. Looks me in the eyes straight on.
"I won't tell if you won't tell," she says. She unlocks the door.
* * *
You can ascertain much about my mother, just from having watched her on the beach this day, before the storm made its presence. A certain poise, even when she was sitting, reading in the beach chair. More apparent as she walked, one slow deliberate step at a time, down the beach looking for sea shells to pass the time. She carries herself well, tall and willowy. She makes a good impression.
To some, she must seem of an indeterminate age, certainly to those coaxing us to shower together, thinking we're a couple. Self-assured and sociable enough to rise through the ranks in her corporate job, though it is said by some that she brings an arrogance to the table. One can forgive her for that, a trait born of self-confidence. She's smart and knows it, offers no apology. That's her work. At home, more quiet, introspective, a private person. But no less demanding. I had to get good grades. Had to work during summers. Had to be presentable at all times. Show good manners.
There are plenty of acquaintances and colleagues. A long list of contacts in her cell phone. With most of them, she leaves no sense of who she really is. Few are close to her - other than me and my father. And I'm not totally sure about him.
Since I was perhaps 14 or so, she has considered me her best friend. As teenagers, other boys shunned their mothers as uncool. Not me. I liked being seen with her. She cuts an imposing figure, not beautiful but certainly striking, eye-catching. Who doesn't like to be with those kind of people? We shared secrets, racked up adventures large and small, and I listened as she shared her wisdom. I grew to love being in the company of a woman like that. She treated me as an equal.
* * *
"Well, that was a first for me," she says as we drive back in pelting rain toward our rental house upbeach.
"I guess," I say. "I mean how many mothers and grown sons can say they've taken a shower together."
"I wasn't talking about that. No one's ever mistaken me for a young guy's girlfriend before. Now that was a first."
"I can tell you're flattered."
She looks at me, smiles. "Think of this as just another one of our many adventures together. We'll remember it always."
"That's my fear," I tell her.
From there we lapse into trading jokes about it. Then the inevitable silence that comes with long drives. I'm behind the wheel. She is lost in thought. Often, I have found myself trying to figure out what she's thinking. As for me, I know I can never erase this day. I can't help but wonder if, in those five minutes, all has changed for us - because of this one simple act of getting together and washing the sand off. Standing next to each other naked. I feel guilty that I enjoyed watching her nude. I shouldn't have allowed myself to get an erection right under her eyes. Uncertainty surrounds me. I feel unmoored. A sense that nothing will ever be quite the same.
* * *
This rustic, sea green clapboard cottage. Up on piles twelve feet high to catch the enduring, gentle sea breeze. Heavy closeable shutters constantly rattling on their hinges. Built in the early 1950s. Ceiling fans, an oceany decor of assorted lamps, chairs and a sofa, weatherworn and in a slapdash arrangement. Modest. Economical. Our home away from home each summer for a week. For as far back as I can remember. It bears a likeness to the hundreds of other homes lining this beach, each a few feet from the other.
In those early years we could afford no luxury. Which is why our family rented this same cottage. Living room, one bedroom and kitchen, all dark polished wood paneling on the inside, even the ceilings, giving the interior a distinctive feel of being perpetually in the shadows. My parents slept in the tiny bedroom on what was just barely a double bed. I claimed the living room sofa, or sometimes slept on the covered, screened-in front deck looking out over the night beach, better to hear the waves.
It was all absolutely close-quartered. Before bed we would migrate to the front deck to sit in wooden Adirondack chairs in the dark, feeling the salty breeze against our skin, following the far-off lights of ships at sea.
With time, their mutual incomes increased and we could afford better. Much better. But its very homeliness infatuated my mother. She adored the memories we'd already built here. Thus, each summer we have returned. My dad couldn't make the trip this summer. Just my mother and I for an abbreviated stay. That also meant we would sleep together on the double bed. Which was not an oddity. Over the years, we have slept side by side on occasion, at family gatherings and such.
On this first night back, I bring glasses of chardonnay, our wine of choice, out to the deck. For me this means khaki shorts and a bare chest since I'm feeling the twinges of a light sunburn. My mother comes out in panties and a short-waisted tee shirt. This, a woman always covered up. Always. Ever stylish, she is not one to need provocative dress. Yet, here she is in her panties.
"I'm assuming you don't mind, since we've already crossed that bridge," she says as she sits down.
What can I tell her? I don't know how I feel about this.
"If you want me to put more on, I will," she says. I shake my head no.
We sit in silence a few minutes. A discomfort between us. An uneasiness.
"It's bothering you, isn't it."
"No. It's just different. Just different. That's all."
"You know, Michael. Now that you're no longer at home, some days I have off, I'll spend the whole day at home like this. You want in on another secret? Sometimes I even spend the day naked."
"My mother - the nudist."
"Not hardly. I have no desire for people to watch me. And I have no inclination to play volleyball naked. This is for me. I relish the sense of being in my own skin. I feel more in touch with myself. There's a certain intimacy about it," she says.
"By the way, that's something I'd like to keep between you and me."
"Does Dad do it too?"
"Don't be silly. He would think it ridiculous. I don't do it when he's around. No. I'm by myself. Usually I sit naked and write poetry. Sometimes for hours."
She sips wine, leans her head onto the back of the chair, resting, staring out at the dark waves breaking loudly across the shore.
"So I just thought, after this afternoon, you wouldn't mind. You've seen it all anyway."
"But you said it's something you do just by yourself?"
"It is private. Very private. And you're the only person in the world I would let into that part of my life," she tells me. "We're on the same page, you and I. I think I know that better than you do."
Sleep. We need it. The sun exhausts one's bones, dries out the skin, dehydrates. Did I mention there is but one bedroom? The breeze, though steady, still leaves the room warm. We push down the top sheet. She still in panties and tee shirt, me in boxers. Only a foot apart, yet there is no cuddling, no spooning, no touching. Just sleep.
Day Two: Dawn. My favorite time, if I can make myself rise early enough. We used to walk the beach before first light, a time when all is still silvery gray. Then the gulls glide about overhead as the sun peeks over the ocean out on the horizon. "Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted," As Oscar Wilde wrote, "and by degrees the forms and colors of things are restored to them." My mother would read those lines to me on cold winter evenings, nights we spent planning our next beach trip for the summer ahead.
On this morning, I open my eyes to see my still-sleeping mother, lying on her side, her back to me. Beyond her by just a few feet, the bedroom window and the ocean, little by little coming out of that darkness.
Nora. I'm lying here thinking a lot about Nora. That's her name. My mother's name, should you be interested. Such an enigma to me, all of the sudden. Walking around in panties. Telling me she likes to be nude. I thought I knew her. Maybe I don't. Maybe she's unknowable. I wonder what she was like at my age. During conversation, she reveals little of her own early years, preferring more challenging topics. "What are you passionate about, Michael?" she will ask. "What book are you reading now, Michael? Tell me about it." More than a few lunches have been spent discussing Austrian painter Gustav Klimt. She's endlessly fascinated by his technique and magnificent use of the color gold.
As I'm thinking this, an epiphany moment for me. Many of his paintings, those most known to us, are of beautiful turn-of-the-century women, titillating and suggestive portrayals. Many are nude. Some are women nude together. My mother, the lesbian? Or maybe bisexual? These are all new thoughts for me.
I look over at her. It takes a moment to register that her back is bare. Sometime in the night she had taken off that tee shirt. I can't blame her. It was a sweaty evening. My attention turns from the early sunlight to the smoothness, the creaminess of her back. Her shoulders toned, her waist still narrow after all these years. I study the curve of her hip as it flares out. Can see again the crease in her panties that separates her hips. And the faint scent of her skin fills my nostrils, a mixture of sea salt, coconut tanning lotion and perspiration. Her hair tousled from sleep, speckled with coming grayness, yet still lustrous. No longer young, she nonetheless exudes an eroticism I have never before imagined in her. In the space of one day, she has to my mind evolved from a mother to a flawless woman. It stirs me to arousal. She should have been on one of Klimt's canvases. I have never before sensed any of this.
These thoughts have little time to linger. She turns onto her back, eyes now open, meeting mine as I face her, now lying on my side. Her breasts, so perfect for her thin body, have flattened out. The nipples a dark brown, much larger than I would have imagined, knobby and hard, protruding from fairly wide areola. She catches my male gaze.
"Too much?" she asks as she covers each breast with the palms of her hands. "I guess I'm giving you a real show. Sorry."
I wish I had a witty rejoinder. It's just that I don't know how to answer some of these questions from her. She's quicker than me.
"You're staring at them," she says.
What can one expect when your mother is topless and lying one foot from you. And so I say what any guy my age would be thinking.
"Your nipples are so thick."
She looks down at them pensively.
"Is that it? So I give you a private, free show and this is the best I'm going to get from you - my nipples are thick?" She laughs a little, probably at the situation. Mostly at the bumbling mouth of her socially inept son.
"Oh, they get bigger than this," she says, turning half-serious. She presses down on the areola of one breast with her index and middle finger. Holds it down and with the other hand uses her thumb and index finger to pull the nipple out. Then does it again with the other nipple. And I am close enough to make out the few bumps and cracks on her nipples.
"See," she says. "I've always thought they were too big."
I summon some courage.
"They're not. Sit up for a moment. Will you?"
I'm surprised that she acquiesces. She sits cross-legged, facing me. Her breasts fill out, sagging slightly from their weight. Her nipples even more pronounced. I can hardly see her face through her hair, tendrils everywhere falling in her eyes. She cups each breast with her hands. Leans down toward me just slightly. Holds them out to me for a better look.
"Is this what you wanted to see?" she asks, looking down at them again, caressing the underside of her breasts.
"That's all there is." she says, moving her hands to brush her hair back behind her ears. "Not a whole lot there."
Yet I know from the way she is fondling her breasts that she likes them.
I just look.
"What are you thinking?" she asks.
"About how lucky Dad is to be with you. I never knew."
She lies down on her back, head on her pillow, folds her arms behind her head. Her breasts flattening out once again. This time she makes no move to cover them up. She's inviting me to look. Her nipples still rigid and tight. "Your father doesn't pay much attention any more. And I'm probably half as interested in him as he is with me."
It's best for me to remain silent on this, I hear myself thinking.
"Oh, he's a good guy, a really good guy and I like him a Hell of a lot," she says. "But, you know, some marriages eventually run their course. Over the years they become more of a partnership. It just happens."Is she unhappy?
"No. He's a good companion, and I have my work and a nice home. And I have you, even if you are all grown up. Maybe I feel even closer to you now that you've become a man."
She smoothes her stomach with her hands as she talks to me, alternately rubbing, then lightly caressing, right around her navel. Then lower. All of this done inattentively. Her fingers trailing down to the top of her white panties, lazily letting two fingers slip just under the waistband. She presses her skin down a little, rubbing lightly, stroking herself a little, all the while she is talking. Suddenly, she realizes what she is doing. She stops. Pulls her fingers back out. We both are aware what she was about to do. I picture her doing this absent-mindedly on mornings alone in her bed at home. I'm curious. Does she masturbate as much as I do? She must.
And then she startles me.
"You're hard, Michael. Correct me if I'm wrong, but is that your basic morning wood?"
My erection is running down my left leg, pushing the cotton material outward, trying to get free. And a wet spot on my boxers where I have been leaking. An erection to end all erections, and she has been watching it getting harder by degrees the entire time.
"I'm not sure whether it's morning wood, or just looking at you."
"You're being sarcastic. I can tell," she says.
"No. I'm not."
"My breasts are starting to sag, my hair's going gray, my skin losing that glow one has when they're young. I'm not bad for 52. But I can't compare to those girls you bring home."
"You're just in denial," I tell her. "You know you've still got it. Look what you've done to me?"
She swings her feet to the floor and heads to the shower, pretending not to have heard what I just said.
* * *
I'm in the kitchen when she comes out of the shower. She stops in the doorway. Still in panties and has a fresh tee shirt that she has slipped on her arms. Before she begins lowering it down over her head, she hesitates.
"On or off? What do you think, Michael?"
"Off. Definitely off," I tell her. With absolutely no emotion, she tosses the tee shirt onto the bed behind her.
I fry sausage and eggs for breakfast, then we sit across from each other at the ridiculously small kitchen table. Her naked breasts tip and sway a little as she butters some toast. Though she is fair skinned, her breasts are even whiter, almost alabaster. Nipples still hard, pointed and staring at me. I can't keep my eyes off them. Can't help but think they are calling out to me. But that's just the teenager still lurking somewhere in me. Under the table I have a hardon in my shorts that thankfully is out of site.
She sees me staring. Seems not to mind. Looks down at herself. "They're stiff again, I see. What can I say? I'm not great, but I like my body."
She has a jar of chocolaty hazelnut cream on the table, a passion of hers. Instead of using a knife to spread some on her toast, she dips a finger into the jar, pulls out a dab of chocolate. She holds her finger up for me to see. Then spreads it around her nipples, ever so slowly, knowing that I'm frozen in amazement. Brown chocolate covering up her brown nipples and areola. First the left breast. Then another dab for the right. She arches her back to me, holds out each breast with her hands. Strikes a sultry runway model's look of boredom.
"You think Bon Appetit magazine would want me on its cover?"
That's the kind of humor I've grown up with. Her pose is also poking fun at me for my stash of girlie magazines she found years ago when I still lived at home.
With her long, slender index finger, she gathers chocolate from her nipple, holds it up to her mouth, sucks it slowly off her finger. While I watch.
She does the same with her other breast, but holds her chocolate-covered finger out to me, right in front of my mouth.
"Try some. You might like it." Her smile is slight, but noticeable. She is teasing me. Daring me.
I lick it off, then suck her finger until all is gone. This is my mother doing this. My own mother. What am I supposed to read into this?
* * *
We stay at our own beach this morning, lounging in the sun, riding waves on inflatable rafts, reading trashy novels, taking a long walk along the shoreline to a fishing pier where we buy lunch. Sitting inside in low lights, windows open, a nice breeze coming in. Cold beer in our hands.
What fun this is, she says.
"You probably don't know, Michael, but this trip for me is mostly just to remain connected to you. I know the day is coming when you're going to marry one of those girlfriends you bring home. I feel so close now, especially on this trip. I don't want that to end. And I know it may have to."
How could it possibly end, I tell her. "Don't you remember our pact?" I hold up my closed fist, extend my little finger out, and she breaks into a smile. She does the same, and we lock fingers. "Let's say it together," she tells me.
Let's swear
each with our pinky
We'll be the best of friends
Until we are old and wrinkly!
"That seems so long ago," she says. "I just loved those times." A momentary seriousness in her eyes, now a little watery. For the first time I can remember, she seems a little rattled.
For the long trek back, she cheers up, laughing, clasping my hand and holding it, both of us weaving in and out among families, children and lovers running back and forth on the dark wet sand at the edge of the surf. Warm water washes over our toes as we go. Sandpipers cross our paths, back and forth, making tiny footprints in the sand.
Finally back at our umbrella and beach chairs, my mother leans in and kisses me briefly on the lips. She grows solemn. Her eyes watery once again."No matter what happens," she says, "You will always be my true love. My one true love." She bends over to lay a beach towel atop the back of her chair. As she raises up, I come up behind. Reach my arm around her waist and hold her to me for a second, her back against my stomach and chest. Then kiss the side of her neck.
"What did I do to deserve this?" she asks, looking a little surprised at my sudden display of affection.
"It's just that I like being with you," I tell her. "And I especially like it when you tell me things about yourself that I didn't know."
And it's true. Though I'm afraid of where we might be headed, I long to peel back the layers and learn more of my mother's inner life.
I scoot my chair closer to hers so the arm rests are touching. We go back to reading our books. She looks up to give me a contented smile.
"You've always known more about me than anyone else does," she says.
* * *
Just in from the beach. Late afternoon. Sand in our swimsuits and hair, skin baked and reddish. Both of us done in by the sun. Walking into the bedroom, I see my mother has already stripped her suit down to her waist. And there, once again, are those breasts. I will never get used to seeing them. She rubs them, massages her nipples, flicks them with her thumbs after freeing them from the constraints of her swimsuit. They must itch. I love watching her touch herself. And she's allowing me to look. But I make an observation: as toned and fit as she is, her breasts look tender, delicate, vulnerable. I find myself wanting to protect her and her sexuality from the rest of the world. A part of me wants her for myself. And part of me is sickened at these thoughts of mine.
"I'm sorry I've been so emotional on you this afternoon, Michael," she says, taking a step toward me. "I'm not usually this way. It's just that I like being close to you. I can fake being comfortable with anyone. I'm good at that. I have to be at work and at the country club. But with you I really am contented. At rest with myself. When we're together, I have this sense of being restored. I feel some kind of cathartic energy."
She steps close now and puts her arms loosely around my neck, gives me a quick peck on the lips. For the first time, I feel those soft breasts and stiff nipples brushing lightly against me, her nipples teasing the hair on my chest. Before I can reach my arms around her, she backs away.
"But I don't want to get pathetically sentimental about this," she says."We're here to have fun."
Her gaze drops from me down to her breasts.
"So what do you think, Michael? Is it time to just go starkers?"
"You mean everything? stark naked?"
"Is that too much for you?"
She heads for the shower. I walk around the house, not sure what to do.
So, I'm thinking to myself, did we agree to this? We're going to be naked. But when is this supposed to start? We didn't set a time. Is it tonight, maybe at 6 pm? Or maybe tomorrow morning? I think back to this image of her smallish, naked breasts swinging back and forth as she stepped in to kiss me. I know that's another moment to be with me from now on.
Those thoughts end as she comes out. It is to start now. She is naked. I can't stop staring. She stands looking at me, or maybe just letting me look at her. And for the first time, I take advantage of it. Her stomach nearly flat, mostly from healthy eating. And the hair between her legs, chocolate brown like that on her head. Not much of it, very short, soft little curls, but close cropped, as if it had been trimmed. But I know better. At least I think I do. I'm not sure of anything about her now. But that pubic hair is so natural looking, it can't have been trimmed. And it hides nothing. The narrow slit, the opening to her vagina, is clearly visible. The outer lips soft and slightly puffy. All of it a quiet, dignified beauty.
I catch her look, eyebrows raised.
"Your turn Michael. Put your suit in the sink with mine. We can wash the sand out later."
And so, with a flushed face and obvious embarrassment, I pull mine down and toss it next to hers.
She stands - each of us in front of the other - observing me, staring openly. I see her eyes move down my chest to my abs. Then lower. She is looking at the precise moment that I feel blood beginning to rush into my penis. My dick begins getting hard. She watches it swell in thickness, begin rising, grow longer, start bouncing up and down.
After regarding me for a moment, she says, "You have no shortage of erections, do you?"
"I can't will it to go away," I say, trying to lighten the mood.
She laughs. "It looks good that way." She begins straightening up the place. I take my cue and proceed to clean the kitchen from the breakfast dishes. As if we do this all the time.
I must admit, after a short while I find I like being naked with my mother. Walking around the house, parading for each other, stealing secret glances. That's what we are doing. My erection goes down. She looks at it some more. Moments later, she bends over to pick up something off the floor in the kitchen. So nimble that she can bend over with her knees still locked, her legs straight. I am in the living room, looking at her from behind. At the top of her legs, I see her beautiful ass cheeks that jiggle a little as she walks. And before me is her dark little asshole. And those soft little labia, just barely protruding from below. She waits a few seconds before straightening back up. That's on purpose. It has to be. The vision of her begins making me hard again.
We carry on. My erection, weaving all about in the air, thrusting forward, right at her. I like that. My balls swaying slightly. Her watchful eye taking it all in. After all, I'm 25, my body at its peak of physical conditioning. I don't look half bad.
We're flirting with danger, here. And I know now that I might not be able to stop. But I don't want to think about that.
* * *
Evening, another storm. Dark clouds, steady rain. We're out on the deck, both naked still. We don't believe anyone can see us, but we're not sure. My mother drags one of the chairs around so we will be facing each other. We sit, talk, listen to the rain, watch the deserted beach. A kind of peacefulness settling over us.
She watches me. I watch her. Each taking in the other's body. I just can't stop looking. At both her beauty and the full nakedness of her.
"Isn't it odd, Michael, that two people like you and I can be so close, mother and son, best friends, for all these years. Yet until now we've never seen each other naked - at least not since you were a toddler. Isn't it peculiar. It's so nice to have this together, don't you think?"
"Especially when one has a mother like you," I say.
She casually lowers her eyes, back to my growing erection.
"You like sex, don't you, Michael," she says. "I mean all guys like sex. But you have the look of a man who really adores it. All aspects of it."
"You've found me out," I tell her.
"I like sex a lot too," she says. "The addictiveness of it. How it's passive and unhurried sometimes. Fast and feverish at other moments. So beautiful. But also naughty. I love the whole naughtiness about it."
"I take sex seriously," she says. "I think you do too."
"If that's the case," I tell her, "then can I ask you a personal question?"
"I think that's another one of those bridges we've crossed already," she says.
"If you like sex so much, then do you still do it with Dad? What you said earlier makes me think you don't. Or have you turned to other lovers?"
"No, I don't do it with him," she says. "As for other lovers - nope. Haven't tried any."
She sees my puzzled look.
"You want to know what I do? I read racy novels. I daydream. Everyone should daydream. And as for orgasms, no one knows how to give them to me better than I do myself."
"I wouldn't think that would be enough for you," I tell her.
She doesn't answer. Lets the awkwardness of the moment pass. Then surprises me yet again.
My mother raises her right leg to put her foot on the edge of her chair seat, parting her legs, looking down at herself. And affording me the perfect view of the opening to her vagina. I can even see a little pink. She is, once again, inviting me to look.
My desire escalates. If I were to just lightly touch the head of my cock, I think I would explode all over her. I can't calm down.
"Aren't penises and pussies just strange and wonderful," she says in a deep, hushed voice, looking at her own slit, then back at my dick. "So astonishing."
"I'm just astonished to hear you say the word pussy."
She laughs, but not long. I grow harder, and feel like I may lose control.
"Yet we don't like to talk about penises and pussies, do we?" she says. "Not in polite company.We think of it as smutty. Ours is such a curious, hypocritical culture."
"To think that the whole world throughout history has revolved around dicks and pussies," she says. "Without it there would be no civilization. No people. Just a planet overrun by cockroaches. Yet we don't talk about it."
I am so interested in what she is saying that only gradually do I notice what she is actually doing: slowly and gently sifting her fingers through her pubic hair. Then, as she's still talking to me, runs her middle finger around her pussy's opening, caressing her outer lips, pulling them back a little to open herself up. She slides a finger up and down her slit, then repeatedly touching her clit, rubbing her finger back and forth. Feeling herself, really without even thinking about it. Her opening is moist. Her fingers wet and slippery. I realize she not only masturbates, she's an expert.
The air around us is steeped in the smell of rain. And of sex.
In my chair, my cock is leaking like a sieve, waving back and forth, fast and jumpy. I have to as discreetly as possible just hold it with one hand to keep from ejaculating. I'm thinking how erotic and nasty she looks, my mother showing herself to me like this. Those slender legs open wide for both of us to see. Those puffy lips and all that liquid right at the very opening to her. And how silly I must look holding myself.
To her, I suppose this is a moment of warm intimacy between us. To me, she has become a magnet of raw sexual desire.
With little warning, I sense that deep warm feeling building in my loins, moving fast to my erection. I realize I'm going to come.
"Sorry Mom. I may be on the verge of losing it."
And then the battle is over. Sperm starts shooting out of my cock at rocket speed, hitting her in the stomach and chest. She freezes. I'm convulsing as more spews out, hitting her arm, then her thigh, and the arm of the chair.
"I'm sorry, Mother. I'm so sorry."
With the final drips falling off, she says, "Did I do that to you or have you just needed to do that all along?"
"Do I have to answer?"
"Up to you," she says.
I don't answer.
"You want me to put my clothes back on?" she asks.
"No. Do you want me to put mine on?" I ask.
Though my dick is now limp and moist, her gaze is still fixed on it.
"No," she says.
She walks inside, to the kitchen sink, cleans herself off with a towel.
"I've seen my share of men come before," she says, looking at me as I sit down on the living room sofa, somewhat defeated.
"That amazes me," I tell her. "I never knew."
"And maybe," she says, "that has something to do with why I like being naked. Especially naked with you. We're more honest with our clothes off."
"What do you mean - you've seen your share of men?"
On dates in college, she tells me, she would calm down hyper-sexed guys by giving them handjobs while sitting in cars. "Most of them I didn't want to sleep with, so I jacked them off just to keep them from mauling me all night - and to get rid of them. Back then, a lot of girls gave a lot of boys handjobs. Mostly to keep from getting pregnant."
"It's quite possible," I tell her, "that this may happen to me again in front of you."
She looks out the window ahead of her at the rain and growing darkness. She rinses a glass, puts it in the dish drainer. She doesn't look at me. But says ...
"I wouldn't be opposed to seeing that again."
* * *
Day Three. How to sleep after all that? I will tell you. A tall bottle of chilled champagne. We split it. No sipping. Practically chugging it. In truth, there is little memory of any of it. But it's morning, I wake up, sun shining in my eyes. I missed the dawn.
She remains asleep. I hear her soft, steady breathing. Time to replay the night. Why did that happen? It's one thing to share casual nudity. Others do that. But for my mother to spread her legs and let me see her so intimately. To finger herself in front of me. Was she just opening herself up to me, figuratively, letting me learn more of her true, private self? That part of her life no one else may see? Or was she tempting me? Surely not.
Neither of us has ever had thoughts like that. At least I don't think we have. I don't remember it ever crossing my mind. But I'm not sure of anything any more. Maybe neither of us really knows why last night happened.
I fall back asleep. Then wake again. I see she is awake now, on her side, quietly looking at me. She, wrapped in the top sheet, me still naked. She is looking intently in my eyes. I'm squinting through the sun's rays.
"Was I snoring?" I ask, finishing a yawn.
"No. But you were kind of stroking yourself. You have another erection. And it's quite large."
I look down. Sure enough. "I wasn't really doing that, was I?"
"Yes, and you looked like you were enjoying it too." She laughs a little, her voice deeper, hoarse, breathy from long sleep.
"After last night, I suppose I shouldn't bother with being embarrassed any more," I say.
She smiles. "Good." She moves her face closer to mine. Props her chin on my shoulder. Looks me in the eye.
"You want to know one of my newest secrets?" she asks.
"What?"
"I like watching you get hard."
She kisses my shoulder. Then sticks out her tongue and licks the same spot.
"So tell me, Michael. Do you wake up hard every morning?""Practically. But not all the time."
"So, what about those young women you bring home for me to meet. Don't they take care of these things for you? What about Jess?"
"Jess and I are over," I tell her. "We both knew it wasn't going anywhere. I haven't seen her in a month or so."
"Good. You deserve better than her. Sorry, but that's the way I feel. So, are you boning any other girls these days, or handling your needs yourself?"
My cock is engorged. Twitching and bobbing on my stomach. She's looking at it.
"If you want, I'll leave and let you take care of business."
I stare at her in disbelief. "I'm not 18, Mother. I can live with an erection for awhile."
"Or, you know, Michael, I can make this happen for you," she says. "If you won't tell, I won't tell."
I'm flustered. Can't think of a response.
"Allow me, Michael. I know what I'm doing," she says smiling. "I've had experience."
"So I've heard," I manage to say, mumbling through the words. "And I'm not sure I want to know any more about it."
"You don't have to take care of me," I say. She doesn't listen.
She sits up, cross-legged with her knees resting, one on my thigh, the other against the side of my chest. The sheet has fallen off and her willowy nakedness is on full display. Her breasts drooping a little. Her thighs silky and sleek in the morning light. Her pubic hair close enough to inspect, to see the few little droplets of moisture in it. I can smell her sex.
She doesn't grab me, not at first. She runs her fingernails up and down my cock slowly, softly. Then again. Doing it on one side, then the other. She traces a line up to the head of my penis, which already is dripping, getting me wet.
"Your body is pleasing to the eye, young man."
She examines my dick closely, bending down to look. She touches it.
"And this. This is so hard," she says matter-of-factly.
"What is this? Biology lab?" I ask.
She pays me no mind. Takes it all in for a moment. And now, she squeezes my cock a little, strokes it. Just feeling all around, as if it's the first one she's ever viewed.
"I love the way the skin stretches as your cock grows, the way the head gets bigger and bigger. And there's those first little drops of excitement coming out," she says. "And the way your balls change and tighten up." She cups them with one hand. "Then they loosen again, hanging down and swinging, then tightening up." She uses a finger to move them back and forth, fondling them, just slightly swinging them as if they were bells. All in slow motion. No hurry. A studied look on her face.
She halts. Then she grasps my dick with her whole hand and holds it there, feeling its thickness and hardness. Squeezing it slightly every few seconds. Driving me closer to the edge. But I can tell she's just getting a sense of the physicality of my erection. For me, the feeling is indescribable.
With her thumb and index finger she encircles my dick, grabbing it right below the head, judging its circumference.
"Marvelous. Truly marvelous," she says. "A work of art."
"You're making fun of me."
"No. No," she says, getting serious quickly. "It's so beautiful, with a life all its own. Jerking and swaying. It takes my breath away to watch how fabulous your body is."
Moving her hand off, she touches the tip of my dick with her index finger, feeling more drops seeping out. She rolls her finger in the liquid, begins lightly spreading the wet over the head of my dick. Coating it. She leans over for a closer look. I love watching her small breasts dip down, rise, then dip again with her every move. Then swing and sway, her nipples hard and pointed. They, too, seem to have a life of their own.
Holding my erection straight up, at a ninety-degree angle to my stomach, she wraps her fingers around it, begins stroking, then slowly pumping up and down. I am slippery from my own fluids and am in such a state. She bends over closer, her face hovering above the head of my cock. She spits on it. Then uses her finger to smooth her saliva around the head. Not that I needed extra lubrication. I believe she is just having fun.
She pumps more. Up and down. Up and down. Then with her hand at the bottom of my shaft, she holds it there, with my cock sticking straight up, like some spire. My dick weaves a little and leaks even more, the drops rolling down my shaft. This will not take long. More pumping. My body jerks. I groan. She freezes. Stares at it. I spurt straight up, a good two feet, then a second spurt, even higher, falling down and landing on her knee. One or two more follow, falling back on her hand.
"My God," she says under he breath. "I had forgotten how powerful a young man can be. I haven't seen anything like that in years. Amazing. Simply amazing."
"I'm sorry I came so fast," I tell her.
"I'm not. It's a testament to my skills," she says with a slight laugh.
"And the fact that the hand doing me belongs to my own mother," I tell her. I'm not smiling when I say it.
"Does that bother you?" she asks.
"Yes," I tell her.
"You think this is sick?"
"What do you think?" I ask.
"Some people may think so," she says. "I don't because it's you. And I can't think of anyone else I would even consider doing this with."
She wipes a finger through the sperm on her knee, then spreads it on the head of my penis, all around the head, smoothing it in.
"You didn't answer me," she asks. "Do you think it's sick?"
"Probably," I tell her. "Who wouldn't? But I liked it. I can't tell you how much I liked it."
"Me too," she says. "And no one else needs to know. This is just about us."
Some moments pass. Again she is lightly touching my dick.
"And now it retreats, losing all its power, getting soft and quiet," she says. She traces a line down, around my balls, then takes my soft penis in her hand, as if it is a valuable jewel. She seems to be emotional now. Her eyes water.
"But even now, it's still so beautiful," she says. "Such a marvelous mystery."
* * * .
Sitting on the sofa, late evening now, windows and doors open for the breeze, listening to Nat King Cole in the dark. She plays his velvety voice when she is at her most mellow.
We had been in the surf late morning, shopping for trinkets in the afternoon, crab legs and beer for dinner outdoors at a small seaside cafe. Our conversation inconsequential. A little nervousness and long silences between us, being our last night before heading home - and that she had masturbated her son just this morning. Jacked me off in bed as if we were an old married couple. Once away from the bedroom, we became a little embarrassed. That is still hovering over both of us. But unspoken. We have crossed a line, entering a strange new world.
Back here in the cottage, we sit side by side listening to the music in silence for a long time. The awkwardness between us is tense. Quietly, she draws her legs up, turns sideways on the sofa and stretches them across my lap, puts her head on my shoulder.
"We're going to break all the rules, tonight, aren't we?" she says in a low voice.
"We're going to do this, and it will be just another of our secrets."
I don't answer, but put my hand on her bare legs, push her knee-length sun dress up to mid-thigh and begin caressing the soft skin there. With just the tips of my fingers, I brush ever so slightly down to her knees, then back up her thighs, higher, halting just short of her panties.
"This is dangerous," I tell her as I hold my hand on her thigh. "We could be in so much trouble."
"You think I'm not aware of that?" she says almost under her breath.
Even so, she slowly opens her legs wider on my lap. I stroke her thighs again, wanting this time to feel all the way to the silkiness of her panties. Only I reach and there are no panties. My fingers touching soft hair, softer lips and the liquid opening to her sex. She is wet.
She lies down on the sofa, resting her head on a throw pillow, legs still across my lap. I push the dress up to her waist. She opens her legs even wider. Over the course of the last few days we have been naked together, but tonight, here on the sofa, there is a raw nakedness to her, sending a weak feeling to my very core. Our eyes, adjusted to the night, find each other. Those sleepy, half-closed eyes telling me it's okay.
But it is not okay. We are facing the unthinkable. An unrelenting shaming if we are found out. There might be no redemption. We should stop. But neither of us can. We are hearing the siren call, being drawn toward ruination, our possible undoing. We are drowning in desire, sucked in by an undertow of lust, love and friendship that we can't swim out of.
"Just this once, Michael."
"Just tonight," I say.
"That's all it can be," she says. "Tomorrow we go home and back to following the rules." I nod.
I pause a moment. Then slide a finger inside her, gliding in easily, engulfed in warm liquid. Another finger. Bring my fingers out slowly. With just my fingertips, trace a light path around the edges of her opening. Everywhere I touch is glistening in warm moisture, my fingers gliding all around. I love the slightly sticky wetness of her. Again I dip fingers in her, just as slow. Through the dark and shadows, I see her watching my face. Studying it.
I want to go fast. To climb on her and take her with abandon. Like a teenaged boy having his first time. But I resist. This should last. Go slow. Take our time. The night too precious to waste by hurrying.
Tracing the soft opening and those small nearly hidden lips with my fingers. I quickly grow to love that. And now, smelling her sex as more liquid coats my fingers and dribbles down into the crevice of her buttocks. With my thumb, I find her clitoris, softly play with it, caressing it different ways until I find what brings a reaction. Moving my thumb across her clit, then back down. That works. Brings sighs, causes a shudder. She moves one of her hands down to the slight bulge of her mons and her pubic hair. Begins caressing herself there, just above my thumb. We are in tandem. More heavy breathing. More shudders.
My two fingers are still inside her, moving in and out slowly, and my thumb up and down on her clit. I let my little finger slip down, below to the crevice. Find the opening to her anus. Small, moist, oily. Rub my finger around it. Push on it a little. Her breathing heavier now. My thumb, fingers all moving in steady, slow rhythm, in and out, back and forth, pushing into both her openings. All in one back-and-forth motion. Slow. Over and over again.
And then: a sequence of shudders and low groans. Growing stronger, convulsing, her pelvis undulating. A rollingness in her loins. Pushing her bottom into my leg. I slide my little finger all the way in her ass, slowly, gently. Now she's at the precipice. Then over the top. Her thighs clamp on my arm and hand that is inside her. With strength I didn't know she had. Her whole body, all of her, seems to be sweating, squeezing. The sweet smell of her everywhere, pervasive throughout the room.
Then a calmness. I remain still, quiet. She too. But her eyes always on me. After a few minutes, I lift my fingers to feel her face. Tears in her eyes. Moistness on her cheeks. I ask what is wrong. She catches her breath. And in what is barely above a whisper . . .
"It's just been a long time since I've felt it that strong," she says. "I had forgotten."
* * *
Fetching yet another cold bottle of chardonnay from the fridge, she takes off my clothes. I take off her dress. We sit back on the sofa, still in the dark. More Nat King Cole. She curls up in my lap, her hair ruffled, skin warm, face flush. She grows quiet, especially tender and soft now.
I stray my hands over her, slowly. From her shoulders. Down the back. To her haunches. Toward those dark, secret places of her. They are still warm and wet. With her on my lap, my erection is poking up between her legs. She touches it. Strokes it. Holds my balls, gathers the liquid from the head of my cock with her fingers, brings them to her lips. Then holds my erection in her hand.
"So powerful. So strong," she says. "You could break me, take the very life out of me if you wanted to."
"I would never."
"That is what's so amazing. You could hurt me. Really hurt me. But I know you won't."
She runs her fingers around the head of my cock. Plays with the droplets. I fight for control.
"A little terrifying," she says.
"Actually, I'm just average, nothing to write home about."
"No, no. Don't tease. It's really frightening but beautiful. With you inside of me, I could really lose myself."
She pulls my face to hers. We kiss, her lips tasting a little salty, slightly cinnamony. It's just lips lightly against lips. She sticks her tongue out. Traces it around my lips. Slips it into my mouth. Tongues exploring tongues. A warmth spreading. Somehow it doesn't seem strange. I think of her not as my mother, but as Nora, this lovely, lovely woman I have known all my life. But in an instant I do think of her as my mother. I can't help it. So unreal. Like a dream. So lovely. But wanton. Lewd. Depraved. All of this so perverted.
Let's go to the bedroom, she tells me. I sense where we are headed is straight to Hell.
On our bed. Legs entwine. Lips in motion everywhere, sweat droplets on our face. "Suck my nipples, Michael. Bite them. Make it hurt," she tells me as she lies on her back, arms stretched out beyond her head on the mattress. An act of surrender on her part. Take me, she is saying without need for words. Her nipples are thick once again, and pointing. Her areola soft and puffy. I suck them, bite down, burrow my face into them. I hear a faint gurgling in her throat.
I can wait no longer. I reach down, pull her knees up to her chest and move my face down to her slit, kissing it, licking, smelling it, the smell of her cunt that I know will be with me from this day on. My tongue caressing, darting inside her and back out. Finding her clit again, back and forth over it, this time with the tip of my tongue, as softly as possible. She comes on my face, a little orgasm, but even after, there's liquid pouring out onto my nose and cheeks.
Her passion escalates. My head is clamped between her thighs. She begins squeezing as a second orgasm nears. This one harder, stronger. Can't be stopped. She squeezes my head like I've never been squeezed before. I think she might break my facial bones. Squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. Until finally she groans softly. Relaxes. Wipes the hair out of her eyes.
"Come in me, Michael. Come in me now."
Her pussy open, tender, vulnerable. I put the head of my dick at its entrance. Move in a fraction. Back out. Mostly to lubricate myself. For having had one child, her slit seems small. I start again. Slowly. Slowly. Sliding half way in, then back out. Then a little farther. Now a final push, all the way in. I pull her knees back down around my waist. She wraps her long legs around me.
I begin moving in and out. Kind of at an angle. So our pelvic bones can rub together. A slow rhythm. Taking it slow. The side of my face against the side of hers. Our bodies sweating, hair wet.The smell of our skin all around us.As I move back and forth, she begins whispering in my ear.
"We'll never tell, Michael. Our little secret. Always. We'll keep our secrets," she says, so quietly, as if others might be in the room trying to listen.
Out the open bedroom window there are flashes of light, the sky turning to day for a split second, then dark again. Bright, then dark. Heat lightening. Then the smell of coming rain. It mixes with the smell of our skin in the room.
I keep the rhythm, back and forth inside her. I lift up on my arms for a few seconds. Sweat already dripping down from my chest, dropping onto her breasts, mixing with her own sweat. Her nipples covered in sweat. Our eyes meet in the dark. The look from her is piercing. Vicious. Knowing. As if we've been waiting years for this shameless night.
I fall back down atop her. Still moving in her, back and forth. She talks right into my ear. Louder now, over the rain. Her thoughts, words tumbling out.
"I know you, Michael. You want to do more than fuck me, don't you. You want to lick my ass and put your tongue in it, don't you. I know you. You want me to come on your face. You want me to suck your dick and swallow all of it, don't you, Michael."
Talking louder still in my ear and constantly. Every filthy word I've ever heard. Her wanting every filthy act one can think of. Getting the words out between grunting and groaning as I move back and forth. My mother, this paragon of corporate nicety, a woman of good standing in the community, the very embodiment of grace and culture is channeling some inner slut. But I can not think of that now.
I begin moving faster, picking up my pace. Her breathing tries to keep up. We're getting close. Both of us may be coming off together. Mist from the slightly open window covering us both. But sweat overcoming it, spilling out of every pore.
"You want my soul, don't you, Michael. I know you. You see, we're two of a kind. We know what we want. We can't get this with anyone else. No one else will do."
"It's just us. You're just like me."
Both of us groaning. Her legs still around my waist, squeezing. I feel some muscles deep in her pussy clamping around my dick. Squeezing it. Never felt that before with a woman. But I'm not about to let my dick give in to it. My cock too hard, too strong to surrender. Not just yet. I push. Feel that I have reached the end of her insides. She groans loudly for the first time, in what must be a little pain. Back and fourth, lost in time, just back and fourth, back and fourth. Until she yells my name. We both come. I'm spewing inside of her. She's screaming into the night air. Screams again. Then again.
* * *
Not enough time for sleep. We know that. She is right about me wanting her soul. Or something like that. It's not just a quick fuck I'm after. Desire. An unquenchable desire that drives me. A need to absorb her. To taste her, smell her, watch her, listen to more groans. It's that intimacy I am craving. A naked communion between us. Of knowing this woman more than any other man can. I go after her again, in these wee hours. My erection is back, throbbing, pulsing, ready to erupt. I am consumed by her. Have to have her. She goads me on.
"Let's do it like this," she says, getting up on her knees in the bed, head down, ass high in the air. On display for me. This most private, most personal part of her. Open obscenely. For my viewing. So I can touch her ass, see her better there.
"Do you like me like this? My ass open for you, Michael?" I lick the little hole. She groans, sighs with each lick.
"We're depraved, degenerate. No decency at all," she says from her face buried in the mattress. "But, Oh God, I love it." She gasps for breath.
I push two fingers in her anus. She groans more. At the same time, I reach around and rub her clit. Still on her knees, her body shakes. She starts coming when I wiggle my fingers a little. She comes and comes, loses all control. Pees accidentally, a rapid gush, bursting from her, splashing down on the bedsheets below her. I take her again, plunging my cock into her from behind. Thumbing her asshole with one hand, using the other to pull her to me tightly as I'm ramming her pussy harder and faster. I come.
"I felt it, Michael" she cries out a few seconds later. "I could feel your sperm shooting deep inside me. I felt all of it hitting me, absorbing into me."
She collapses on the bed. I'm lying on top of her, still inside her, not yet losing me erection. At this moment, I feel I'm at the center of the universe, with love and liquid flowing over me. Nothing else matters.
I sense she is crying. I roll off, hold her against me, her legs draped around one of mine. Her pussy, against my leg, is wet and warm. So, too, the soft pubic hair."No other feeling this good," she says as she rests her head on my shoulder, her hair now in my face. Her voice faded and hoarse. "So sublime," she whispers.
Then no sound but the gentle in and out of her breath. I have my arm around her, my hand at the small of her back, caressing it slowly. Right at the little indention that begins the cleft between her hips. I love the feel of this for some reason. We have fought sleep as long as we can. We succumb.
Day Four: Fingers on my face, the tips touching my lips, then feeling the stubble of my morning beard. Fingers lightly touching my eyelids. I open my eyes to find my mother's face so close to mine. Her breath smells of last night's chardonnay. She moves closer, kisses me on the lips. My tongue finds hers. She lays her head beside mine, our eyes just inches apart. The sun has been up several hours. I absolutely love this closeness.
As she talks, her hand is on my flacid penis, just lightly touching it. Her eyes watch her hand.
"Do you have any idea how much I love your dick, Michael?" she says, lifting herself up a little, then scooting her face down my chest, to my stomach. There she continues caressing my penis, with perhaps the lightest touch I've ever felt. She kisses all over. Kisses my balls. Then she takes the head of my penis in her mouth and gently sucks it. It doesn't get any better than this.
"We have to head home," she says, breaking my dreamy moment. I tell her I don't want to leave. She walks naked into the kitchen. I watch the beautiful dark crevice of her ass as her hips move back and forth with her steps. She returns with two slices of leftover cold sausage pizza from earlier in the week.
"Breakfast," she says and sits on the bed, handing one to me. We eat.
"Let's run away," I tell her as we begin packing, both of us still naked. Neither of us wants to put on our clothes.
"Let's drive to Costa Rica and get a place on the beach. Live a simple life," I say.
"Your father would find us," she says as she folds her swimsuit into her suitcase.
"We'll go farther then," I say. "Argentina. I'll become a gaucho."
"You don't even know what a gaucho is," she says laughing quietly.
"I can Google it."
"We have to go home, Michael."
I walk into the bathroom, my foot flipping up the toilet lid, and begin to pee. From the corner of my eye, I can see she has followed me and is standing in the doorway. I am holding my penis in my hand as it grows hard again. I've never understood the physiology of it, but I seem to be one of those guys who can take a leak when I'm semi-hard. We keep talking. Her eyes not on mine, but on my stream arcing into the toilet. I don't know why I did this in front of her. But I mimic her words.
"Is this too much?" I ask. "More than you wanted to see?"
"I'm standing here, aren't I?" she says. "It's fine. Very fine."
"Most of the girls I've been with would have nothing to do with me peeing in front of them," I say. "They think it's disgusting. They didn't want me watching them either."
"Do I need to say it again," my mother comments, still peering at my dick. "You need new girlfriends."
I begin shaking the final drops off and I get completely stiff.
"So you like to watch your women pee?" she asks.
"Then, here. Watch as much as you want."
She steps to the toilet, sits down, spreads her legs wide apart and shoots out a hard, rocket-fast splash onto the porcelain bowl, followed by a seemingly never-ending stream of clear-white water.
At the same time, she enfolds my erection with her left hand and begins stroking gently. Not trying to make me come, just keep me hard.
Maybe it's the combination of seeing my mother peeing - and I admit I find watching a woman pee to be arousing - or maybe it's the stroking she's doing. Or maybe both. I feel a quick rush of electricity through me, my whole body heats up. I can feel me getting ready to come. I'm totally unprepared. This has never happened this fast. Before I can say anything, the first sperm shoots out from my dick, lands in her hair by her ear.
"Oh, my God," she says in surprise. And just as quickly, in one swift motion, she swallows the head of my dick with her mouth as I start shooting more and more, all of it she's swallowing.
Until there is no more. And my knees grow weak. I'm done in. I watch and feel her lick my cock clean. Her tongue slithering all around the skin, spiraling around the head of my dick. It is a heavenly moment.
I'm so sorry, I tell her, embarrassed from such lack of control.
She stands, puts her arms around my neck. Her face close to mine.
"I'll bet there aren't many boys who can say their mother has swallowed all their come."
She kisses me on the cheek and walks away.
"Let's decamp. Get dressed and go home, Michael. We have no choice."