It’s always been just Mom and me. I was born when she was barely out of high school herself. Dad died when I was fourteen, a sudden heart attack. After that, we clung to each other, two halves of a broken whole trying to make ourselves complete again. Being an only child, and with the loss of my father, Mom and I developed a bond that went beyond the typical mother-son relationship. We were confidantes, each other’s rocks. We talked about everything, shared comfortable silences, and weren’t afraid to show affection with hugs and cuddles. It wasn’t incestuous, not in the slightest. It was just a deep, intimate connection born out of shared grief and a mutual need for support.
By the time I turned nineteen, I was muddling through college, trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. Girls started to enter the picture, fleeting interests that sometimes led to dates, and occasionally, I’d bring them home to meet Mom. She was a beautiful woman, my mom. Fair-haired, with a figure that filled out in all the right places, and a warm, welcoming smile. She was always gracious and made my dates feel comfortable, even if, later, over dinner just the two of us, she’d offer her subtle, insightful opinions about whether she thought the girl was a good match for me. She was usually right.
Then there was Lisa.
Lisa was stunning. She knew it, and she flaunted it. Every outfit was carefully curated to maximize its impact: short skirts that showed off her long legs, tight tops that emphasized her curves, stockings and suspenders that hinted at something more. She had that magnetic quality that drew men in, and she reveled in the power she held over them. I don’t know what she saw in me, some shy, awkward college kid, but she pursued me relentlessly, and I fell hard.
It was my first real taste of passion. Our relationship was intense, fiery, and purely physical. Sex became a regular part of my life, something I’d only dreamed about before. Lisa wasn’t shy. Our lovemaking was loud, uninhibited, filled with moans and cries that probably echoed through the entire house. I often wondered what Mom thought, lying in her room downstairs, listening to our nightly performances. She never said a word, though. Never judged. She respected my choices, even if, deep down, she must have known it wouldn’t last.
And it didn’t.
Lisa was incapable of being faithful. She was always looking for the next best thing, the next rung on the social ladder. When one of our tutors, a man old enough to be her father, started showing her attention, she saw an opportunity. She dumped me without a second thought, as easily as discarding a used tissue.
I was devastated. “Gutted” doesn’t even begin to describe it. I had been completely infatuated with her, obsessed even. Without her, my life felt empty and meaningless. I couldn’t concentrate on my studies, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. I wandered around like a zombie, numb to everything. My friends tried to cheer me up, and Mom tried to comfort me, but nothing worked.
The thought of finding someone else was repulsive. And after experiencing such intense sexual pleasure with Lisa, the idea of going back to masturbation felt pathetic and unsatisfying. Sometimes, I’d try, half-heartedly, but even when I managed to reach a climax, it left me feeling more alone and frustrated than ever.
Then, one evening, I made the mistake of going to a party. And there she was, Lisa, radiating confidence and sex appeal, draped all over her tutor, looking like she hadn’t a care in the world. Humiliated and heartbroken, I went home early, crawled into bed, and cried.
I must have been sobbing for a good fifteen minutes when the door creaked open. Mom stood there, silhouetted in the hallway light, wearing her dressing gown.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” she said softly, “but I couldn’t bear to hear you suffering like that. Is everything alright?”
I choked out the story about the party, about seeing Lisa with her new boyfriend. She sat down on the edge of the bed, her presence a comforting weight in the darkness.
“Shall we have a cuddle?” she asked.
We’d often cuddled on the sofa, especially after Dad died. It was a simple act of comfort, a way of showing we were there for each other. So, I shifted to the edge of the bed and slid in beside me.
“Come here,” she said, opening her arms. I turned to her, and we hugged. It was a familiar embrace, warm and reassuring. We’d never been particularly prudish about our bodies around each other. We were comfortable walking around the house in our underwear, so the fact that I was naked under the covers and she was only wearing a thin nightdress didn’t feel awkward. I started to cry again, burying my face in her chest, her soft breasts a familiar comfort. She stroked my hair, her touch soothing and maternal. The warmth of her body began to calm me, easing the ache in my heart.
“Are you feeling better now?” she asked, her voice gentle.
“Yes,” I mumbled. “Thank you.”
I was feeling more at peace emotionally, but at the same time, something else was happening. I became aware of a stirring in my groin, a familiar warmth spreading through my body. I was getting an erection. Mortified, I pulled away from her abruptly.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, her brow furrowed with concern.
“Nothing,” I said, trying to sound casual, my face burning.
“Come here, then,” she said, her voice softening, reaching for me again. She nestled close, wrapping her arms around me, and my erection pressed against the soft warmth of her stomach. I could feel the heat radiating from her even through the thin material of her nightdress, and it only served to intensify the throbbing in my groin.
“Sorry, Mom,” I stammered, desperate to move away, but my single bed was small, and I was already backed up against the wall. Escape was impossible.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “There’s no need to apologize.” She shifted slightly, adjusting her position so that my erection was nestled more comfortably against her lower abdomen. A strange thrill shot through me at the deliberate movement.
We lay there for a moment, still and quiet. I tried to will my body to calm down, to ignore the insistent pressure building within me, but it was no use. The combination of her closeness, her warmth, and the weeks of pent-up sexual frustration were too much to resist. The gentle rhythm of her breathing against my chest, the scent of her familiar perfume, it was all conspiring to push me further into arousal.
“Oh God,” I whispered, feeling my erection harden even further, pressing firmly against her. Each pulse of blood through my veins seemed to amplify the pressure, the insistent throb of my cock demanding release.
“How long has it been since you had any relief?” she asked, her voice surprisingly calm, yet with a hint of something else, something I couldn’t quite place.
“I don’t know,” I said, embarrassed. “A long time. I just don’t have the heart anymore.” The weight of my loneliness, my despair, felt heavier than ever, intertwined with this insistent physical need.
“No wonder you’re in such a state,” she said. “You won’t start to feel better while you’re all frustrated.” Her fingers traced patterns on my back, light and soothing, yet sending shivers down my spine.
“I know,” I said. “But it’s not the same – you know – doing it yourself.” The words felt weak, inadequate, but they were all I could manage.
She fell silent for a moment. In the dim light filtering in from the hallway, I could just make out her face. She was biting her lip, lost in thought. Finally, she took a deep breath, and I felt her hand reach down under the bedclothes.
She took hold of me.
“Mom!” I exclaimed, my voice a strangled whisper, a mix of shock and burgeoning excitement bubbling up inside me.
“Shhh,” she said, her voice firm but gentle, a command laced with a strange tenderness. “Just lie still and don’t say anything.” Her fingers tightened around my shaft, firm and sure, a surprising strength in her touch.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, paralyzed with shock and disbelief. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t let my mother do this. But my body had other ideas. My erection was so strong, so insistent, that despite my mental protests, I couldn’t pull away. A tremor ran through me, not of fear, but of something akin to anticipation.
Slowly, tentatively, she began to move her hand up and down my shaft. The sensation was electric, unfamiliar and yet deeply, instinctively right. My breath hitched in my throat.
“Oh, no, no, no,” I murmured, my voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and trepidation, but the words were weak, almost pleading. But with each firm stroke of her skilled hand, I grew harder, and more sensitive, my body betraying my attempts at restraint. I found myself succumbing to the exquisite sensations, giving in to the rising tide of pleasure that threatened to sweep me away. A low moan escaped my lips, involuntary and raw.
She continued to stroke me, her hand sure and steady, building the pressure with each pass. Then, with a slight shift, she leaned closer, her warm breath ghosting across my ear. “Let me take care of you,” she whispered, her voice husky, sending shivers of pure sensation down my spine.
Before I could fully process her words, her mouth was on me. The shock of her lips, warm and soft, enveloping the head of my cock sent a jolt through my entire body. I gasped, arching upwards involuntarily. She took me deeper into her mouth, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis.
Her lips tightened around me, and she began to move her head, slowly at first, then with increasing rhythm and pressure. The sensations were overwhelming, unlike anything I had ever experienced. Her tongue flicked and danced, tracing the sensitive underside of my shaft, sending waves of pleasure crashing through me.
Then, she shifted again, her mouth moving lower, and I felt her lips close around my balls. A strangled gasp escaped my lips as she gently sucked on them, the pressure both exquisite and intensely stimulating. I had never imagined this, never dared to dream of such intimacy, such forbidden pleasure. The warmth of her mouth, the gentle tugging, it was driving me wild.
Moving back up, she took me deep into her mouth again, her throat flexing as she took me further down. The pressure built and built, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure radiating outwards, igniting every nerve ending in my body. I gripped the sheets beneath me, my knuckles white, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
She varied her rhythm, sometimes slow and deep, dragging her lips slowly up and down my length, sometimes faster, more urgent, her teeth gently scraping against me, sending shivers of pure sensation through me. The sounds of her mouth on me filled the small room – soft sucking, wet smacking, broken gasps escaping her lips.
My head swam, my vision blurring at the edges. The pleasure was becoming almost unbearable, a relentless tidal wave threatening to consume me entirely. I groaned, long and deep, my body arching up towards her face, desperate for more, for release.
With a final surge, a guttural cry ripped from my throat as my body convulsed. The pent-up frustration of weeks, and months, erupted in a torrent of pure, molten pleasure. I felt myself pulsing, throbbing, releasing everything into her mouth. She swallowed it all, her movements slowing as my spasms subsided, her lips still firmly around me until the last drop was spent.
Finally, she pulled away, her lips wet and glistening, her eyes dark and luminous in the dim light. I lay there panting, my heart hammering against my ribs, the aftershocks of the most intense orgasm of my life still rippling through me. She reached up and gently wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a small, almost shy smile playing on her lips.
“I think somebody needed that,” she murmured softly into my ear, her warm breath tickling my skin. I could only manage a groan in response, my mind still reeling from the intense orgasm that had rocked through me just moments before.
“Sorry, sorry Mom,” I panted, struggling to catch my breath. “I… I can normally last longer than that. I don’t know what came over me, I’m so embarrassed.” The shame mixed with a lingering sense of awe at what had just transpired.
She simply chuckled a low, throaty sound that sent another unexpected shiver down my spine and pressed a tender kiss to my cheek.
“You’ll sleep better now, you don’t have to say sorry,” she reassured me. With that, she carefully extricated herself from the bed, pulling the covers back up over my naked body. She gave me one last knowing smile, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes, before slipping out of my room, and closing the door softly behind her. I let out a long sigh, staring up at the ceiling. What had I just done? And more importantly, how was I going to face my mom in the morning after what we had shared tonight? But beneath the confusion and the apprehension, a strange sense of peace settled over me, a quiet satisfaction that was undeniable.