A mom and son get even closer one odd winter’s night

“Oh, fucking hell…” she yelled as she tipped over the edge surely, her fingers working a blur in and out of her squelching pussy.

My hand was flying over my cock, surely and quickly, as I climbed rapidly myself. A part of me was in amazement at the pure oddness of this set of circumstances, like a distant man somewhere in the annals of my brain yelling, albeit so faintly I could barely hear him. The rest of me was laser-focused on cumming, to the point where a news crew bursting in the door would probably not have stopped me.


As I watched mom climax, her toes curling, and a stream of liquid flow out of her oozing cunt, I lost it. My hand was flying, and it was only a matter of seconds until I shot, my cum jettisoning out powerfully from days upon days of buildup, splashing in thick streams and pooling on my chest.

For a brief second, I was a tick horrified. What had we just done?! But then, mom laughed a low, rising chuckle. “I’m sorry…” she began, glancing at my face, then looking down, trying to repress it but obviously failing. “The look on your face is priceless. It’s okay honey, it’s not a big deal. You’re not going to burst into flames or anything like that.” She flopped on her stomach beside me, throwing that smooth, muscular calf over my shin, looking right at me. “It’s just play,” she added, putting her hand on my chest, then blowing her hair out of her face.

“But, that was…” I trailed off, nervous.

“Wrong? Please, it was just play. We’re not having a kid together or running off into the sunset to get married somewhere people don’t know us. Shit, it’s not like we’re church people or believe in hell. I’m sure as shit not going to tell anybody about this. Plus, you had fun, right? We’re adults, we’ve always been close. This is just one more thing. It’s not that huge, ultimately. Just relax and lay here with me.”

So I did. I laid there, with my mother, my cum still covering my abdomen and chest, still able to smell her divine feminine musk, tinged with sweat and her now faint perfume. And despite having just blown my load, I was still buzzing and craving more. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.

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So the backstory to this bizarre, borderline improbable situation began with my mother, who got pregnant with me at 21. Mom has always been a tough woman possessed of incredible inner strength. Youngest of 3, orphaned at 16 when her parents got in a fatal pileup, she finished high school between the foster system and her older brother’s couch, applied herself, and was in college when she hooked up with my dad, who promptly knocked her up. She wasn’t about to let this derail her though, and when she decided to keep me, she forced dear old Chet (I can never quite think of him as dad) to man up and watch me at nights while she finished nursing school and did her first rotations. When I was 3, he took off—he’s always battled alcohol and drugs, usually losing. I grew up without him, although every few years he made a stab at sobriety and came around for a short while, eventually tapering off and then disappearing for several years. By the time I was 20 he’d done three prison stints for petty financial crimes and more spots in jail than I could count. Mom had finally told him on this last one that unless he could show her an honest one year chip from a 12-step program, to not bother coming around. I hadn’t seen him since I was 13, a fact I didn’t regret. Last I heard he was awaiting another trial on credit card fraud.

When I was 8 she had bought our little house up on the Oregon coast after taking a job in a small hospital. It wasn’t anything amazing to look at, a little 2 bedroom cottage that had clearly been added on to over time, but the land was why she had pulled the trigger. A full acre, including a giant patch of dirt perfect for a garden, and fruit growing galore, including two apple trees, currant and loganberry vines, and blackberry vines always encroaching on our back fence. The place was odd and a bit ramshackle, but mom loved to turn the earth, growing volumes of veggies, tending to the vines and trees, and even erecting a greenhouse for tomatoes and peppers.

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Growing up with just the two of us, we were obviously close. Mom being a nurse, she tended to be more…aggressive and frank, I guess, when it came to sex talk. Whereas some of my friends’ parents were ridiculous in their avoidance, mine was blunt and straightforward. When I was 13, she found porn I’d left open on my computer. I was expecting to get a talking to, but she instead gave me a very sweet lecture about how it was totally normal, along with a discussion about my porn choices and what to expect from the real thing. In addition to the safety lectures on condoms and birth control you’d expect when your mom’s a nurse, she was extremely sex positive, and she bought me books on how to have good sex and how to please a woman, including a rather thick treatise on oral that included pictures and diagrams. When I finally lost my virginity, I told her about it, and we discussed the entire experience in detail—she wanted to know if I had made sure my girlfriend had enjoyed it as much as I did. This talk continued with every girl I was with, and she also told me a fair bit about her boyfriends with a bit of graphic detail, so I knew, for example, that she had dumped Richard mainly because he was a quick draw, but had kept up with Joe for a while because he was both a great guy and totally enjoyed giving oral, even though he had a somewhat small dick that didn’t do much for her.

I suppose what I’m getting at is that my perception of my mom, growing up, included obvious realization that she had and enjoyed sex a lot, and didn’t consider it a shameful or terribly serious act. We tended to discuss our sex lives as openly and frankly as any other topic. Mom—Brenda—stood about 5’4″, with a body she kept sculpted with constant running of long distances and lifting weights, and she seemed carved out of stone, even at 42, though just below the line of overly muscular. She had long, thick, wavy, ashy blonde hair, a heart shaped face with gigantic green eyes, high cheekbones, and due to a combo of great self care and awesome genes, looked about 28-30 on even her worst days. About 10 years ago she had decided to give herself a birthday gift and got a fantastic set of D-cup breasts, which filled out the tank tops and sundresses she favored nicely. On top of that, she was a woman that positively radiated sex appeal. From her walk, which incorporated a great swing of the hips, to her deep, breathy voice, her naturally charming and flirtatious manner of locking her eyes on you and peppering light touches, I had seen countless men and boys alike key in on her, obviously infatuated within minutes. But to her, it was just her manner, part of who she was. With me, she would routinely cuddle on the couch, kiss me on the mouth, hug me tight, and I never thought much of it, because that’s just who she was. It was never intended to be sexual and I never took it as such.

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I had stayed at home for the first two years of college to save money and attend my local JC—I was looking forward to my independence eventually, but in no hurry to run off yet. Ironically, it was a screwed up twist of fate that set the events of that fateful night in motion. My mom has two brothers. Clinton is normal(ish) and has a family up in Washington, but Dugan has always been the black sheep, and by the time I was 20 had not spoken to anyone in the family in over 15 years over some imagined slight to his new wife from Japan. He called one day out of the blue begging for help, homeless and destitute, and mom took pity, offering him a place to stay. He arrived two days later, with an SUV full of his entire life, along with seven (!!) cats.

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