Mom sees me climax and so begins a bedroom journey

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I think back to that moment as my first sexual experience. The first time I had come deep inside of a woman, that I had cum all over her face. That I had stuck my cock in her ass. She looked with shock, but also had the look of amazement, or what I took as the amazement that I fantasized a woman would have in seeing me complete the act. She let out a gasp, a “whoa”, looked up to my face and at the cum that had dripped to the floor. She then turned and walked out, quietly closing the door as if she was afraid to wake me. I was guilty at what I had done, ashamed, but as the last of the semen oozed out and onto the floor, I also felt that I was watching the cum drip off of her, off of her face, being spit out of her mouth, oozing out of her cunt.

I stayed in the room for a bit, but realized I would inevitably be confronted by her on this, and felt it was better sooner than later. As soon as she heard the door open, she came up to me. “I know you do that. Every boy does. But I shouldn’t be seeing you. I respect your privacy, I knock before I come into your room. But you also need to be more thoughtful. It’s really not right.”

I replied in a way that recounted the image of that moment, that still dominated what might have been a natural embarrassment, “I’m sorry you saw that, but I really couldn’t stop. It was already shooting out.”

Then as now, my masturbatory fantasy moved toward reliving that moment. My mother replaced Caroline Parker as the object of my sexual display. My mother was watching in amazement and approval, in shock and awe at the cum spurting from me. The difference between Caroline and my mother was that my mother was in the house with me. She was accessible, and she already had seen it for real. It was not a fantasy.

And, it could happen again.

Having now felt of my mother in that sexual moment as simply a woman, and again and again masturbating with this recollection as my fantasy, I had pushed beyond the mother-son barrier. I could look at my mother and know that in the current moment of us having dinner or of me watching her clean the house she was my mother, but that in another moment of me closing my door, taking the vaseline and working my cock into its climatic spasms, she was the sexual receptacle for my passion of that moment.

And what kept this fantasy from a further reality? Nothing more than my door! It was as if the door was the thin fabric covering her, separating me from entering her, from her seeing me in my sexual moment and me seeing her in her response.

So I pulled away the door just as surely as I might pull up her nightgown. This I first did as I was blinded by the excitement of masturbating. In that moment I would go over with one hand still rubbing my cock and pull the door ajar. I would then turn to the side, so that I could not see if she was coming by, and so she would realize I could not see her. I would pretend she was watching. But maybe it was not just my imagination, maybe she really was. It was exciting, and my sessions reached a new level, and my schedule for this activity changed – I masturbated only during the day, and only when she was at home.

And then came the time that I knew she was watching, because I could hear her. The sound of her footsteps coming toward the front door and then stopping. There would only be one reason she would stop there. I worked by cock harder, wanting to finish before she might turn away. And I did. Because it was only after I was finished that I heard the footsteps continue.

The corner had been turned. I had started to see her and fantasize about her as a woman, and she was now seeing me as a man – or at least as someone with a penis that could perform.

Looking back now, and indeed even as I thought about what was happening then, the progression to her having a fascination of whatever sort with my sexual acts was not totally surprised. A little bit about my mother:

My mother – who has passed away, otherwise I would not do this even anonymously, and who passed away a few years ago, otherwise I could not recount these events – was a very attractive women, petite with bleached blond hair and blue eyes. But even as I write about her, and even as I masturbate to these memories, I don’t really think of her in physical detail. It is an image rather than a photographic reality.

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