I can’t say he’s a bad father and I can’t agree that he’s a good dad. I think children of soldiers can all relate to this feeling. When their father, who is always away, comes home, what they have when they meet is not the touching feeling of being reunited after a long period of time, but rather an inexplicable and tremendous alienation. In his world, there is only black and white and unquestionable right and wrong, and for him, there is only appropriate and inappropriate behavior. For his elders, my father was always respectful; for women, he didn’t think it was necessary to show much respect; and when it came to children, including me, there was no need to show courtesy at all.
Although I didn’t deliberately think about my father when I was growing up, I knew deep down that I hated him. I was a good kid, I behaved in a polite manner, I always got high grades on tests, I never turned in my homework late, my room was always clean, and I never got into trouble. However, the more I practiced my father’s remorse, the more I hated him. His military status, his sharp personality, his love of flaunting his crepe-less uniform and even his stupid sailor’s scarf all made me sick to my stomach. He was not a good father to me, and he was never a good husband to my mother.
Mom is five years younger than Dad, and when comparing their physiques, she looks too thin and weak, standing about 150 centimeters tall. Her hair is reddish brown and shoulder-length, her pupils are deep black, her nose is straight, her cheekbones are high and her lips are thin. Ever since I can remember, my mother has been the embodiment of beauty. According to my side understanding, my father’s friends in the military who have seen my mother, each of them also marveled at my mother’s beauty.
She treated me with tenderness and love, had a close relationship with me, always gave me hugs and kisses at the right time, and would do everything she could to fulfill my needs. There is no doubt that I loved her dearly, and I couldn’t understand why Dad wouldn’t take pity on her. He didn’t treat Mom badly, but he gave her so little in return for the way she behaved. His attitude of indifference toward Mom is what I hate most about him.
Dad’s time at home was really very little, with too much daily business to accomplish, too many drills to attend, and even classified short missions to perform. As a result, it was always just Mom and I at home relying on each other, a situation that was right up my alley. I always prayed in my heart that there would be a war in some country that would make it necessary for my father to be away for many years instead of just a few months.
Little did I know that my wish would come true!
Nineteen ninety, summer. I was twelve years old and living in a two-story house in Washington. At the time, Madman Hassan attacked Kuwait. Dad’s unit was instantly put on red alert, and a month later, the troops were thrown into the war. The answer to when they would return is unknown.
At first, like other military families, my mother was worried about my father. Therefore, she began to attend family gatherings and occasionally invited them to her home for dinner. However, after a few months, her level of worry declined over time. She began to reduce her volunteer hours, stopped attending meetings, and slowly stopped contacting the family members. It seemed that she had put her father’s involvement in the war behind her.
By September, she had decided to let go of these associations with these dependents altogether and was not going out except to shop for her daily necessities. When she was at home, she always dressed simply, either in pajamas or a wide T-shirt. And her day’s activities became simple, either watching TV or sitting in the living room, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, fidgeting or thinking about certain things.
I became her best assistant. Whenever I came home from school, I would finish my homework and then see if she needed any help. On weekends, I would follow her on shopping trips and be a happy drudge. At night, I would sit with her on the couch and watch rented movies. And I was her faithful listener, always there for whatever she wanted to talk about, even if it was thoughts of her father she was talking about.
Sometimes she would cry, especially when she read news reports about the war. At such times, I would hug her gently, stroke her hair and give her words of comfort. To cheer her up, I always kept emphasizing my love for her, praising her beauty, or sharing some school gossip. These topics obviously worked, and my gentleness and caring made her so grateful that even later, my words became the driving force in her life.
However, in other ways, she also began to become dependent on me. Our outings were as simple as going to the drive-thru for burgers or other restaurants for fast food. The longest we stayed out was one day in December, when we went to pick up Christmas presents together. However, it was easier to go out than to come in, and every time I had to step in the door or enter a room, my mother would always ask me to turn on the light first or she would rather stand in the dark. She complained day after day about her fear of the dark, of strange noises, in which case it was as if I were the adult and she the child.
In January, my mother’s inexplicable phobia worsened as the war officially began. She was so worried about her father’s safety that she watched the news on TV whenever she could. She always asked me to check the mailbox, several times a day, expecting to receive a message from my father, but also fearing that she would receive unfortunate news from the government.
In February, when the ground war was in full swing, she became tense and clamored that she could not sleep. As a result, she asked me to share his bed and not to leave her alone in her room, and caring for my mother, I, of course, would not refuse this request. I thought it would only take a few nights for my mother’s condition to improve, but the security I gave her was so great that sleeping with her became a habit, and without her having to ask for it, I became her nightly guardian.
Of course, I know that many children my age resist sleeping with their mothers, however, for me, it was a lot of fun. I loved having her lying next to me before I fell asleep, and I loved waking up in the middle of the night or early in the morning to see her face right away. Her body was warm and soft, and her smell was always fragrant.
In the first two weeks of March, when the war was officially declared over (we still hadn’t heard from my father), my nightmares began, and I lay next to my mother with a nightly erection that I couldn’t suppress. Naturally, as an adolescent, I learned to masturbate at this time, and I always used to sneak up in the middle of the night, sneak into the bathroom and take a few shots before going quietly to bed. I also began to have sexual fantasies, usually about Miranda, a cute brunette girl I went to school with. She had a sweet smile and a developing body. I imagined kissing her passionately and moving my hands on her breasts. I’d heard that some of my classmates had already begun to eat the forbidden fruit, but I hadn’t fantasized about it.
I rarely felt guilty about masturbating, but only a little shy, and worried that my mother would find out and be disappointed in me. My greatest fear was that she would not only catch me jerking off, but even reveal the fantasies in my head. For, in the world of fantasy, she was beginning to become an unavoidable object.
Don’t say I’m a pervert! After all, she’s a beautiful woman, the most important woman in my life, the one who gives me care, encouragement, hugs and kisses. And she’s with me almost all day long, whether it’s in the comfort and safety of my home, or even in the same bed. Moreover, she was always dressed in cool clothes at home, and the only thing that changed about her was the style of her pajamas, which emphasized her figure, and even worse, she sometimes even wore sheer tulle pajamas that she wore back and forth in the house. I couldn’t ignore her beautiful breasts that held the dress up high, and even more so, I couldn’t ignore the excitement in her chest.
I have yet to see her naked (I did when I was very young, but I don’t remember the images), yet every time I think about it, the desire to see her intensifies. Fantasizing about her was, basically, just as boring as imagining Miranda – kissing and fondling her breasts. The only difference was that I didn’t dare to go any further with my mom. However, as March came to an end, something happened that changed everything.
The other day, coming home from school, as soon as I opened the door, I heard the music of a saxophone wafting through the house. Familiar with my mother’s habits, I easily guessed that the music now indicated my mother’s need for a companion.
I went back to my room and put my book bag down, then went downstairs, looking for signs of my mother. Soon I found her in the kitchen with a cup of coffee on the table, a still burning cigarette on the ashtray and an open magazine in front of her. She was wearing hot pants and a long-sleeved, loose-fitting T-shirt in bright red, and I also noticed that her hair was straightened and she had light makeup on her face, signals that she was in a good mood.
I stopped in the hallway and gave her a salute, admiring her attractive appearance. Although the desire to admire her naked body was always a disturbing thought, I was very fortunate to have such a beautiful, slim and moderately proportioned mother. Some of my classmates also marveled at my mother’s beauty. Tommy, for example, said to me a week ago, “Your mother is too beautiful. The correct sentence is, “Your mom is over the top beautiful too, you lucky little son of a bitch.” At the time, I wanted him to shut up, and even made a show of doing it, but in my heart I really agreed with him.
Luckily, Mom didn’t notice that I was gawking at her and didn’t even feel my presence behind her. Finally, I stopped being silent and opened my mouth to greet her as I walked towards the refrigerator. My mother answered me casually without looking up. Her eyes were still fixed on the magazine, but when she raised her hand to shake mine, her fingertips inadvertently ran underneath my legs. I felt a surge of electricity run through my body and the surprise made me feel different. Realizing that she had accidentally touched my lower body, my mother hastily adjusted the angle of her hand and gently held my palm. I squeezed her hand slightly tighter and asked her what kind of book she was reading.
“Celebrity magazines.” She said.
She let go and her hands came to rest on my waist, her head still not lifting, just pulling me toward her. I wrapped my arm around her neck and rested my palm on her shoulder, then looked down at the article she was reading. The article was about an actress who had starred in a movie called “Married to a Child”, and there was a picture of her on the top of the article.
I tried to read the contents, but the font was too small and the distance too great, so I had to stop. At the same time, however, I realized that I could see through the neckline of my mother’s blouse at this angle. If my mother had been properly dressed, I would not have been able to see through it. Fortunately, she was not in the habit of buttoning her blouse all the way up, so I was able to take advantage of it. As usual, she wasn’t wearing a bra, and I could see her breasts in all their splendor.
These are not large breasts, but they are not small either. They were medium sized, about as big as my hand could grasp. They were round and firm, the color of snow, and the tiny nipples were a light pink. Perhaps because it was the first time I had actually seen nipples (the first boobs I had ever seen were in a Playboy magazine borrowed from a classmate), and because the nightgown no longer constituted a barrier to viewing, I had an intuition that my mother’s nipples were the most fascinating pair in the world. I wanted to reach through my mother’s neckline and feel what it was like to touch and rub her breasts. As I thought about it, my cock reacted immediately and instantly became hard as a rock.
The sudden physical reaction startled me and I immediately took a step backward. Luckily, my mother didn’t notice my embarrassment. To be precise, she didn’t even see me at the moment, as she was absorbed in the contents of the magazine. After a few moments, I regained my courage and stepped back to where I could see my bosoms. I couldn’t stop staring at my mom’s tits, but eventually, as my nerves rose and I was afraid that she would catch me doing something bad, I had to leave this beautiful place.
I indicated to her that I had to go to my room and do my homework, which was the truth.
She replied, “Well, but write fast, ooh.” Her eyes revealed the message that she wanted company.
Promising her, I took three steps back to my room, locking the door behind me in the process, pulled down my pants and started jerking off. The pleasure of that day was very intense, a realm I had not reached before. After finishing, my feet were weak and I had to sit, and when I sat down, I recalled what I had just seen, thought about what I had done, and reflected on my mistake. I warned myself that I must not do it again, that I must stop myself from looking at my mother as a man or a woman again, not now, and never again.
Of course, it can’t be done.
I finished my homework at breakneck speed, and then drew up my legs and raced downstairs, back to her, to see the spring in my clothes again. Unbelievably, even at night, her tits were still on the rise in my head. As I went to bed, my rod started to get restless again, so I had to sneak my hand under the blanket to stop it.
Before, lying next to my mother (sometimes she would ask me to snuggle up), I would always stay up for half an hour or sixty minutes, slipping out of bed and into the bathroom to liberate myself after making sure she was asleep.
Tonight, I had intended to do the same. However, when the room was dark, when the images that were going to be so arousing during the day kept replaying, when I kept fantasizing about the sight of slipping my hands into her clothes and letting them rub her breasts, and couldn’t hold back any longer, instead of getting out of the bed, I slipped my hands directly into the quilt, grabbed the rod, and began to comfort it.
A minute later, a flash of insight. How about a salty hand while she’s asleep?
I stopped moving and turned my head to look at my mom. Her face was not visible, only her back, and the quilt was flush with her neck. Animalism always strikes before reason, and I allowed myself to turn and look at the back of her head, slowly pulling the quilt down to her waist and then carefully searching for the place where the two peaks fall. Tonight she was wearing a muslin nightgown, and although the light in the room was very faint, I could barely make out the position of her breasts.
Careful and cautious, for the primacy of stealing. My hand moved very slowly and finally I touched her, letting my palm rest on her left breast. The fullness in my hand was surprising, and the softness was equal to what I had imagined. I wanted to grab it so hard but I was afraid of waking her up. Luckily, I was smart enough to come up with an alternative. I moved my hand back and forth, letting my palm press lightly on the breast, and after a few minutes, switched sides. In this way, I was playing with my mom’s tits with one hand and my rod with the other.
I don’t know where my courage came from, but I slipped my hand under her nightgown and touched her right breast directly. The skin under the cold nightgown was very warm, and my fingers unconsciously teased that lovely nipple. After a minute of this, I let my hand on the breast rest while my hand on my cock moved quickly. In less than sixty seconds, the feeling of an orgasm was approaching.
Seize the last moment, sprint. The semen explodes in a flash. Knowing that stupidity always comes after a good time. My dick is facing my mother, and the distance between us is measured in centimeters. The distance was too close, the shot was too fast, and the semen landed on mom. The amount that had just come was unprecedented, and every drop fell on my mother’s buttocks like a meandering river, the semen flowing onto the sheets. What’s even more embarrassing is that when I just ejaculated, I couldn’t help but call out to my mom because it was so good.
When the orgasm stopped, I immediately looked up at my mom’s face to see if her eyes were open or closed. I didn’t think she was awake. However, I was probably just fooling myself. Quietly getting out of bed, I tiptoed into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and worked my way through the stains on my pants. When I was done, I slipped back into my bedroom and hid the towel at the bottom of the pile of dirty clothes.
Returning to my mother’s room, I returned to my bed with 007’s hands. Closing my eyes, I slowly fall asleep in the throes of nervousness and anxiety.
The day after the night attack on my mother, the fear, as it were, followed me. I was even prepared to wait for my mother to accuse me of being wrong about last night. I felt that even if I didn’t wake her up, however, she would have noticed the stains I left on my shirt. However, after observing for a long time, I got a definite answer. It seems that I’m the one who’s worried about the sky. She didn’t say anything, and her demeanor didn’t look out of the ordinary. Thus, I was finally, from the nightmare of worrying, relieved.
On the way to school, I made a secret decision to never let last night happen again.
As a result, by the end of the night, I quickly backtracked.
Lying beside my mother, I was completely powerless to resist the temptation of her flesh. Once again, I pulled her nightgown up, her breasts were no longer hidden, and now I could touch her breasts while watching the two globes of flesh change. However, this time I learned my lesson, and when I felt that I was close to ejaculating, I rolled over and lay flat, my eyes gazing at her, my hands jerking off, and finally, I let my semen fall on my abdomen. Also, to avoid the nuisance of getting in and out of bed and possibly waking her up, I took out my pre-prepared wet wipes and made good on the bed directly.
The next few weeks saw a repeat of the above almost every night. As time flowed, my boldness increased night after night, dramatically lengthening the time I spent touching my breasts, or teasing my nipples (to the point of hardening them for my sleeping mother), and I even slipped my hands up her inner thighs, letting my hands go into her pajama bottoms and through her panties before caressing the honey pot.
I was becoming more and more obsessed with my mom, and the nightly clandestine activities were gradually ceasing to satisfy me. During the day, my mind was filled with images of her. At the end of the school day, if my mother wasn’t with me, I’d go straight to my room, lock the door, and masturbate to my fantasies of her. Now that Marlene had passed, my fantasy world was filled with nothing but my mother’s presence. The monotony of my fantasies had evolved, and the places I explored on her body at night became new areas of the fantasy world. Beyond kissing and fondling her breasts, I began to imagine making love to her. Thrusting my cock into her pussy and nailing her; shoving my rod into her mouth and having her suck my dick.
As the weeks and weeks passed, the fantasies made the guilt grow heavier and heavier. Yet, at the same time, I forced myself not to blame the nightly misdeeds.
I tried hard to control the situation, to let my conscience override my desires, and to avoid a firefight. However, on April 15, my mother’s thirty-fifth birthday, things changed dramatically.
She was in an excellent mood that morning, even humming as she made breakfast. And when I handed her the gift I had prepared, the smile on her face grew even wider. The gift from the department store was nothing special, just a pair of cheap jade heart charms, however, judging from the expression on her face, it was obvious that she loved the gift. She put it on immediately (I helped her put it on, so it was a bonus), and the heart-shaped part fell right in the center of her bosom. Then, as a token of appreciation, she gave me a hug and a kiss.
It was Saturday, and at noon we decided to go out for lunch. We chose a famous fast-food restaurant to eat at, and afterward, we strolled down the street, browsing the store windows and enjoying the time. She laughed and danced as if she was back in her teenage years.
However, when we got home, we immediately realized that there was mail in the mailbox. Before my mom opened it and read it, I felt a sudden pang in my chest. As expected, the letter came from my father. Mom sat down on the couch and read it carefully. Her expression changed dramatically. At first, she frowned in confusion, then her whole face was filled with sadness, and her body began to tremble. She covered her mouth, her eyes glistening with tears, and it was obvious that she was trying to suppress her desire to cry.
“What was written?” I asked, though I had a rough guess in my mind.
“Your father’s not coming back.” She said, her voice trembling. “At least not anytime soon.”
Taking the letter in her hand, I began to read it. It contained only a few words but was very uncaring. He stated that he had been given a new assignment that required him to attend a military school in Georgia, and that he would not be returning to Washington. There was no mention of his desire for us to move in with him or when he would be able to leave his post. Letting go, the letter fell to the ground and I looked at my mother’s shocked face.
“Mom, it’s okay.” I said. “We don’t need him.”
Mom didn’t answer, got up, and walked slowly up the stairs, going back to her room, which seemed to be difficult for her. I followed her, keeping a careful eye on her. However, when she reached the bedroom, she closed the door behind her, leaving me outside.
The time I spent alone, my hatred for my dad grew infinitely, and I wished that the accident had happened to make him die. How I wished he had died in the middle of the war, not coming home and not sending letters and not breaking my mother’s heart. This incident also illustrates a fact: fathers don’t love their mothers, and who in this world, who really cares for them, but me?
Except for the shower, Mom doesn’t leave the room. She didn’t eat, didn’t drink, and ignored my calls from outside the door. Finally, at about eleven o’clock, I put on my pajamas and walked to her room, knocking gently on the door before raising my step and stepping in, asking, “Mom? Do you need me to sleep with you tonight?”
“To! Honey.” Mom’s faint voice came from the darkness.
I moved my feet, got into bed, and lay down beside her. Mom then turned around, embraced me in her arms, held me close, leaned on my shoulder, and let out a sob. The crying finally stopped and she let go, and after a long, mournful sigh, she said, “Good night, baby.”
“Good night, Mom.”
It was still a very bad thing to do to a grieving mother, even if the sleeping one wouldn’t know it. So I closed my eyes and hoped that I would fall asleep quickly.
As a result, insomnia. In the darkness I lay in great agony. How torturous it was to have my mother’s slender curves and high breasts, close at hand, while I did not move. I was caught in a heavenly situation, fighting the beast for over an hour, and in the end, reason lost, and I tried to convince myself that taking a shot at my old mom wasn’t too bad.
Turning around, pulling up her nightgown, I desecrated her breasts. Boldly, I even probed and kissed the tits a couple times. And as I removed her pajama pants, my chest made contact with the tips of her breasts, and after a moment, my hands slipped inside her panties, either tweaking her pubic hair or caressing her honey pots.
Pleasure gradually on the body, the pistol does not fight can not, turn over to lie flat, I pulled out the cock, began to set. At this point, unbelievably, the old mom to my people posted over. I was stunned, praying that she is just a sleeper switching sleeping positions. Wake up, if she found her blouse was pulled open, two tits exposed, can not crazy only strange.
After a few short seconds of sitting on pins and needles, I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when I saw my mom finally stop moving. Unfortunately, the relief came too soon. Just a moment after the tension receded a little, I felt my mother place her hands on my body. Her hand first held still, then slowly advanced to my rod. Her fingers circled the root of the flesh like a clasp, and in the darkness, she whispered in my ear, “Let me help you, darling.”
The shock was too much for me to speak. The only thing I could do was to let my hand retreat and leave the job of comforting my cock to my mother. She approached the rod of flesh in a decidedly different way than I did. I was used to almost roughly stroking my cock, and a quick ejaculation was my goal. Instead, Mom gently stroked it, her hand like a feather, sweeping back and forth across my rod, and there was no place where my dick could escape her attentions. My arousal was as high as it had ever been, at least, at the time. Normally, it takes me about five minutes or so of masturbation before I can launch, but my mother’s skillful hands drastically shortened the time it took for my orgasm to come. In less than sixty seconds, hot semen spilled over my chest and stomach.
Seeing my orgasm recede, Mom spoke, “Like this?”
“Uh-huh!” I felt just about out of breath when I answered.
I could feel her smile in the darkness.
“I’m glad to hear you say that. I hope you feel comfortable because you are a good boy and my dearest son.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Now, let me wipe you clean.”
She sat up straight, turned the bedside nightlight on, drew a couple of wet paper towels and began to wipe me down. As I watched all her movements, I noticed that her tits were still lit up in mid-air. And as Mom purged me, her tits jiggled slightly along with them, and her nipples, erect. Without thinking, reaching out, I teased the nipple on her right breast.
“I should have told you.” Mom said. “The last couple nights, I was awake while you were sneaking up on me.”
“Seriously?” My tone rose in surprise and my tone was full of apologies. Then, I pulled my hand back in a hurry.
“Don’t worry about it, honey. I’m not angry. Honestly, I like it when you touch me, it feels great. You don’t have to stop.”
“Wow.” It was the only word I could spit out.
After wiping my body, my mom casually threw the wet paper towels into the trash can next to the bed. Then, as if nothing had happened, she straightened her blouse, turned off the light, and finally, lay down. She asked me for a hug, and I immediately brought my body close to hers, letting my arms wrap around her waist and burying my face in her breasts. The rod against her lower abdomen was once again angry, only, I had fallen asleep.
The next day, I had the feeling of being stuck in a five-pronged fog. I was nervous and anxious. What happened last night, I still can not accept, I hope everything is a dream, because if the deed is revealed, God knows what I will face the blame. My mother, on the other hand, was not in any way different, and was as languid as ever. She acted as if nothing had happened last night, let alone that she would be upset by it.
Beginning to suspect that everything last night, after all, is their own imagination. However, in the evening, ready to go to bed on the eve of the mom suddenly asked me if I would mind sleeping naked. I said no, with a look of anticipation and shyness on my face.
I quickly removed my pajama pants and then admired my mother’s de-fuzzed appearance as I watched the naked woman get into bed and snuggle up next to me. She hadn’t turned off the light and the quilt was almost falling to the floor. She laughed and said, “You can touch it if you want.”
Caressing her for about ten minutes, letting my hands move over her breasts, stomach and private parts in that order. Mom asked me to suck on her nipples, which of course I did. While I was making love to her tits, Mom took my hand and moved it down to her pussy, instructing me on how to touch a woman’s cunt to make her feel good. After five minutes of actual practice, my fingers quickly felt her pussy getting hotter and wetter, and when her body began to twist and tremble, I knew she had reached her climax.
After returning from heaven, Mom told me to lie back and then began to repeat last night’s technique. This time, however, she leaned over, kissed my face, and cupped her tits in her hands, making it easy for me to touch and suck them, and with her thoughtful service, I quickly ejaculated. Mom didn’t stop there, she let me get hard again and again, and this second time was far more pleasurable.
Feeling weary, I drifted off to sleep. And that night, all my doubts were cleared away.
This way of being together lasted for almost half a month. Sleeping naked every night, kissing or caressing, doing safe sexual activities with our hands. However, at every moment of daylight, we reverted to our normal mother-son relationship, pretending that everything was calm as a wave.
One night, after the customary mutual pleasure, we began our second session of intimacy. I kissed her breasts and finger-fucked her pussy, while she serviced my cock with her hand. Suddenly, she stopped moving, and after about ten seconds, she lowered her head and opened her mouth to take my cock in a single motion, and her head began to move up and down, letting my rod move in and out of her mouth.
I made an inexplicable guttural sound, a sound that was a mixture of surprise, amazement and pleasure. While I was surrounded by a bunch of emotions, her wet, warm mouth kept a rhythm of continuous sucking on my cock. At the same time, I felt her tickling my scrotum or lightly scratching my balls with her hand, and in less than a moment, I surrendered, surrendered. My rod throbbed violently, and I moaned in ecstasy as a drop of cum entered my mom’s mouth.
When I came back to my senses, I was dumbfounded to think that this divine comment had come from my mother. I lay still and watched my mother’s reaction. She was holding my cock tightly, her eyes were closed and she made a swallowing motion. The look on her face at that moment was absolutely beautiful, beautiful in a way that was unrivaled in the world. She was the best mom in the world!
Then she removed her mouth from the rod, licked her lips and coughed dryly. She smiled at me, a smile that was shallow but I could still feel it. “No need for wet wipes this time. Do you like it when I do that, darling?”
“Super love!” The answer was always accompanied by a feeling that something was wrong.
“I like it too.” Mom lay across me, wrapping her arms around my chest and kissing the side of my face. “It’s been a long time since I’ve helped a man with something like this.”
I immediately thought of my father and wondered if he was the man my mother was talking about. Upon further reflection, I then realized that I was the one who never thought that my mother had ever had sex with another man. But was this really the case? I was confused and even a little angry at the thought. With the excuse that I was tired, I fell asleep. My mother didn’t say much, just hugged me, kissed me and said good night.
Another week had passed and the time had come to the middle of May, 1991. It had been a long time since I had last heard from Dad. Mom seemed to have forgotten about it, or at least, she didn’t seem as disoriented as she had been at the beginning. I’m sure, however, that in the back of her mind she was still worried about Dad and was waiting for a message from him. Mom may have tried to call Dad, or she may have tried to get word from the military, but I never questioned her. I chose to take her word for it. “We just have to wait.”
By Friday afternoon, the letter, at last, arrived. After school, I found the letter in the mailbox and immediately took it to my mother, who was sitting in the kitchen. After opening the letter and reading it, her expression did not change at all, and after reading it, she handed it to me. It was another very short letter, about half a sheet of paper, and as I read it, my thoughts were complicated by the words, and I was overwhelmed with anger but open to the facts described in the letter.
Dad won’t be coming back or writing home again. He stated that he had met and then fallen in love with a woman and that he hoped to be able to divorce his mother. I handed the letter back to my mother, repeating under my breath what I had said before, that we didn’t need him. My mother forced a smile, a broken smile, as she folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
I thought things were going to get worse, that Mom might have a complete breakdown or fall into a spiral of sadness from which no one would ever be able to save her. I feared that she might even do something to herself. Although she acted as if nothing had happened, I watched her every move all day long.
That night, at bedtime, thinking that my mother might be depressed, I hesitated to engage in the act of comforting each other. I had been watching her all day, and I could see nothing strange at all. In fact, she even expressed a desire for something different tonight.
“I’ll go first.” She said. Laying me back, she took hold of my rod. “I’ll help you first, then you help me, is that okay?”
Is it possible to say no? Yay for a beautiful woman wanting to suck twelve year old me. I agreed and then my mother made her move, she moved her body down and opened her mouth to take in the cock. She kissed the glans and licked the shaft, her hand tickled my ballsack, and the look on her face as she savored it seemed very arousing, and I came very quickly.
Mom lay down, meaning it was time to change hands. Like a happy public servant, I wrapped my arms around her, kissing and rubbing her breasts. Mom began to moan, ruffling my hair with one hand and leading my fingers towards her pussy. I skillfully stroked her bottom, passing through the forest of pubic hair, lightly touching the labia majora and minora, and finally applying pressure to the buds. I even inserted my finger into the head of the honey pot, which delighted her. Finally, she tasted pleasure, warm lusty water staining my fingers, and she took me into her arms, rewarding me with several kisses in quick succession, constantly praising me for being a wonderful boy.
The two of us were facing each other, wrapped in each other’s arms, breasts pressed against chests, legs entwined with each other like old trees, while the rod was pressed against her lower body. My cock, like a tireless warrior, soon stood up and roared again, and Mom noticed.
“Wow! Look at that.” She said as she let her fingertips swipe back and forth over my shaft. As she began to sheathe her cock, she added, “My big boy, has a big cock yeah.”
Because of her humanity, Mom’s obscene words made me even harder. Her soft and sensual tone was the main reason for making me hard to no end. I left her embrace and lay down next to her, wrapping one arm around her waist and guiding her hand in an up and down motion, trying to get her to masturbate me. Mom obeyed for a moment, then stopped and spoke, “Get on top of me, honey.”
Good words don’t come twice! I immediately rolled over on my mom, and she spread her thighs at the same time. The head of my glans was pointing at the jade gate, and my cock was rubbing against her pussy. I was going to have an orgasm. Mom, however, had a better idea. She adjusted her position, grabbed my cock, and guided it towards her honey pot.
The instinctive response came at that moment. Hips forward, the cock did not enter her. Touched beyond words, like there were a thousand words in her heart but she couldn’t express them. On the emotional side, the pain was nothing to speak of. However, the rational side is equally excited, this moment is not a dream, I finally said goodbye to virginity. And the object is not someone else, it is the mother who makes me mesmerized.
Mom wrapped her arms around my back and hugged me tightly, letting those full breasts stick to my chest. I rested my face against her neck as my cock began to thrust. At first, I moved quickly, like an out-of-control robot, frantically letting my dick go in and out. However, as I grew familiar with my movements, I quickly learned to read my mother’s silent signals. I slowed the pace down so as not to surrender prematurely. Mom’s body danced with me, not forgetting to control the contractions of her vaginal walls as she rocked her hips in response to my onslaught. She was moaning and lusting in my ear. For example, “Oh, yes, that’s it!” Or, “Oh, honey, you’re making mom so good!” .
Kissing me at the same time, she kept crying out her love for me. Her emotive voice reached my ears and I answered with more passion. As the climax approached and my mother realized it, she began to roar with abandon, “Great…ooooohhhh…fuck me…harder! Ooooohhhh! Honey, cum in it!”
That’s exactly what I wanted to do. Climbing to the top of the mountain, an unprecedented feeling of pleasure washed over me, and a tidal wave of semen shot through my mother’s body. Mom must have gotten off on it, too, because she too embraced me tightly at that moment, her fingertips seeping deep into my back, her moans echoing through the room as her body shuddered.
Everything stopped. Afterward, we just lay there, holding each other and adjusting our breathing. My cock was still inside my mother, and I couldn’t pull away. Mom whispered soft whispers in my ear and stroked my back until I fell asleep.
After this night, we had sex almost nightly. I felt incredible, a sense of having been given a new lease on life.
Many things, of course, remain the same. I still had to go to school, still watched the same soap operas, still made contact with very few friends. My father was still all but unheard of, and he never reappeared. However, my relationship with my mother changed forever, and there was no turning back. During the day she gave me more care, more motherly love and more appreciation, and the number of kisses and hugs increased dramatically. She was as happy as I was, and gradually stopped closing herself off, and now we always dine out two or three nights a week.
I like to go out with her, young and beautiful, she can always easily capture the admiration of men’s eyes, and with her, I also have a feeling of really growing up. While children of my age still hid under my father’s wings, I had my own wings, and as the head of the family, I could fly at will. I took his place, and I gave my mother a love that he could never match.
Six months later, my mother received a final letter from my father. She traveled to the courthouse and then signed the divorce papers. In a way, it was a sad page in her life. For me, however, it was just the beginning of a better future. Not only did I no longer have to put up with all the stupidity about my father, but more importantly, I had my mother, regardless of body or mind.
During my adolescence, sleeping with my mother became a routine, and even when I went to college, the habit remained unchanged. Now, I am twenty-seven years old, have a wife and son, they both occupy most of my time. And my mom has remarried, to a good man her age. At forty-nine, she has a lot of style. And every Sunday, I would always take her out to dinner, just the two of us, no interruptions. After dinner, we would go to a hotel outside of town, get a room, and relive the amazing and wonderful times of the past.
Even now, my mother was always the best in the world!