Underneath the mistletoe specimen

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-23

This story begins precisely in 1987, when I was 37 and Paul was 13. I knew he had a problem even before Paul. One morning, I came downstairs to make breakfast for Paul, wearing only my bathrobe. Busy running between the refrigerator and cupboards, moving between the pantry and the sink, chatting aimlessly, I realized Paul's eyes were following me from head to toe.
As I bent over, the front of my bathrobe opened loosely, revealing my drooping breasts at just the right angle, and I could feel his eagerness to see my bare breasts. It shocked me, to say the least. Like any mother would, I straightened up and quickly covered myself, blushing as I did so. That was the last time I left myself in front of Paul in just my bathrobe.
Two years passed. Paul's focus on me seemed to increase. He was popular at school, a bit like a jockey; girls who loved him changed one after another. Every two or three weeks, a month, maybe two months, and during that time I sensed his curiosity about me, just like with the other suitors.
It confused me, and sometimes frightened me. Because, no matter what, I convinced myself it was just teenage infatuation—in other words, puppy love—that is, a deeper part of my soul insisted I was ignoring, or even creating, a dangerous situation. I knew I would be punished for Paul's dangerous sense of things.
"Soccer Mom!" He would greet me at the front door a few nights before his 18th birthday. Actually, it was his favorite way to greet me. I usually drove his teammates to and from soccer or basketball games, or soccer and baseball games, or seasonal tennis games.
"Mom's Taxi" Our SUV that ran between town and the countryside.
I usually hated my big, ugly SUV. Big, but a dinosaur that could carry more than half a dozen energetic 18-year-olds. They certainly weren't suited to ride in Melvin's Buick Lesabre, much less Paul's often-crazy old Chevrolet van.
As a soccer mom, did you have nearly half a dozen testosterone-fueled 18-year-olds staring at you in the car, fantasizing about having sex with you? It was a bittersweet experience.
As I got home, Paul tossed his backpack and his hooded jacket onto his father's chair, then kissed me on the forehead as he passed me.
"Going to the game Friday night?" he asked.
"Are you playing Friday night too?" I asked, wanting confirmation.
He grinned at me, and as I looked back at him above my magnifying glass, his grin narrowed.
"I'm playing too," he said, smiling. "Going?"
"Of course, I'll go." I sighed and shook my head.
He sat down in the recliner next to me.
"What are you reading, boring?"
I showed him the words on the cover, waiting for his sarcasm to subside.
"The Deep Sea, by Jacques Lyn Mitchard." He snorted disapprovingly. "Shit," he added.
"Don't curse people," I gently reprimanded him.
"Anyway. You're going to drive us that day," he asked.
"Wasn't I the one driving us?" I replied.
"The course is at Walter Johnson," he said, looking at my chest.
That day I was wearing a brown Angolan goat wool sweater, over which I wore a white turtleneck and black leggings. The crotch of the leggings outlined my genitals, thankfully covered by the white turtleneck. Looking down, I noticed my breasts were completely etched into the sweater, revealing my nipples. Paul stared at my chest, and I shifted uncomfortably to let the coat cover them. He looked away.
"Mom! What's for dinner?" he asked.
"Pork chops. Green beans, mashed potatoes, and cereal."
His stomach rumbled loudly. "Sounds good. When are you going to make dinner?"
"Your sister is making it right now," I said, closing my teeth again.
Immediately, he expressed his displeasure. He looked toward the kitchen, where Joan was diligently preparing dinner, muttering soft curses.
"Don't make fun of your sister's cooking," I warned him.
“But, Mom—”
“She’s only 16 and needs a lot of experience.” Joan, who had just returned home from boarding school for spring break, was already willing to offer to cook dinner. Although my anxiety differed from her brother’s, I was happy to accept.
“She’ll be done soon,” I assured him.
Meanwhile, Joan’s loud banging and angry shouts from the kitchen expressed her displeasure.
“Maybe I should help her,” I said, immediately standing up.
He stood up too. “Have you picked out all my gifts?” he asked.
I was relieved he wasn’t staring at the outline of my large breasts and nipples anymore when his eyes shifted to my lower body. As he stood up, my sweater rolled up, and I think he saw my vulva. My face flushed, I deliberately smoothed out the sweater above my stomach.
“They’re all picked out and wrapped,” I told him.
Hearing his sister throwing lids, he looked towards the kitchen.
“Is my friends’ list okay?” he asked again.
I let him know. “I’m sure we can make room in the laundry room.” Among friends and family, it looked like a record-breaking 18th birthday party.
He winked at me and went upstairs while I prepared dinner, watching the impending disaster unfold in the kitchen.
Three days later, we threw a birthday party that looked like it came from hell.
Not only did the entire group of invited friends swell up disproportionately, taking up every square foot of our space, but there was also alcohol and a very invigorating smell of wild tobacco on the way to the basement. I don’t know how many times I reminded Paul to turn the music down, or how many times I separated couples rubbing their genitals together in inappropriate lewdness. Although I didn’t catch them in the act, I was told that two young girls were having sex with boys in the downstairs bathroom. Finally, as I saw off the throng of friends and family at the front door after midnight, I completely broke down.
“You’re never having a birthday party again,” I yelled at Paul.
He locked the front door and looked at me with surprise. “I thought it was perfect,” he argued.
I was really angry. “That’s the Romans’ idea that it’s justifiable to feed Christians to lions,” I said angrily.
“Mom!” he protested shamelessly.
“Oh, go to bed,” I said irritably. “We’ll clean this place thoroughly tomorrow morning.”
We didn’t clean it after getting up early in the morning, but spent an hour and a half cleaning separately around noon. We spoke very little, and as time passed, my mood improved. Finally, we turned off the downstairs light, and he put his arm around my waist as we went upstairs.
“Mom, thank you,” he whispered as he entered his bedroom.
I didn’t want to wake my husband Melvin and daughter Joan, so I quietly went into his bedroom and gently closed the door behind me. I whispered to my son, “Paul, I’m sorry I yelled at you last night.”
“You didn’t yell at me,” he said dismissively. “And, I admit things did get a little out of control.”
He rolled his eyes and chuckled softly, telling me about how he lost control in the downstairs bathroom last night and ended up slapping his girlfriend.
“Oh,” I said, slapping my forehead. "You're kidding me, aren't you?"
"I'm not kidding you," he chuckled softly.
“This isn’t funny, Paul. What if that girl gets pregnant?”
“Girls always get pregnant,” he reminded me.
“It can’t be in my downstairs bathroom,” I grumbled. I sighed, expressing my despair about the situation.
“Do you like my gift?”
He immediately perked up. “Yes! I like it, it’s the best.”
Carefully, he pulled a Sony Walkman from his back pocket and sat down at his desk. He’d been showing it off all evening, as if it were a gold nugget. Then he jumped off his desk, rushed to my side, grabbed me, and gave me a passionate hug, planting a kiss on my right cheek.
“You’re my favorite too, the best,” he said.
I had already been sexually harassed by Paul, who was exploiting our mother-son relationship, holding me tightly around the waist and planting countless shameless kisses on my cheek. This time, it should have been the same as before, but he pressed his chest against my breasts until they ached, and I smelled the strong scent of his face lotion, sweat, and testosterone. My breath caught in my throat, and suddenly my blood pressure shot into my pleura. The embarrassment of being a mother was unimaginable. I stared numbly at the Walkman in his hand, playing a song I would probably forget immediately.
After a moment of awkward silence. Silence. Then Paul said in a strange, trembling voice, "Mom! Can I kiss you?"
I blinked at him. "Didn't you already kiss me?" I said stupidly.
"No," he said, leaning forward. "Like this."
Just as I was about to stop him, his lips suddenly pressed against mine, and instinctively, I pressed mine back in response.
"Paul," I took a few steps back. I raised my hand, touching my lips with my trembling fingertips.
"We can't do this."
"Why?" he said, seemingly innocently.
“You know it!” I said anxiously. Actually, I was burning up from my son’s kiss. The touch of his lips sent a rush of heat to my cheeks and every inch of my skin. A tickling sensation through my forearms and the inside of my right arm sent an unpleasant stinging pain between my legs. I wanted to scream out of the room; terror gripped my entire body.
“Paul,” I said, pushing him away. “You can’t kiss your mother like that.”
“I won’t kiss other women like that,” he retorted.
I shook my head, annoyed. “You have so many girlfriends you can French kiss.”
“The only girlfriend I want,” he said, taking a half-step closer, “is you.”
I took a half-step back. “That’s unhealthy thinking, Paul. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
I didn’t bring up his desire to be friends with me again. I turned and left his room.
For the past two years, this had kept our relationship ambiguous. Paul had designs on me; he was a long-suffering, hopeless pursuer. I was certain he couldn't get close enough to offset another crucial chain reaction. But no matter how close you look at the kettle, it will boil over when it reaches a certain temperature, and eventually boil over on us too.
It was Christmas Eve, 1992. My husband flew from Columbus Harbor to Chicago's O'Hare Airport. I was extremely uneasy and undeniably dissatisfied on Christmas Eve.
"I can't believe they sent you to Chicago on Christmas Eve," I said angrily. We both believed it would snow in Chicago, and I would be away from my husband Melvin for another three days.
"Relax, honey," he said reassuringly.
I didn't want to be reassured.
According to family tradition, the three of us had spent two days decorating the house (Joan had flown to Cincinnati the day before to spend Christmas with her boyfriend's parents), and Paul had hung a real mistletoe in the fireplace in the living room. Ostensibly for his dad and me, I, as his mother, suspected he was using the mistletoe to avoid his date.
Melvin hugged me tightly and gently rocked me back and forth in the living room, making me dance. He was 6'1", 220 pounds, 48 years old, and still fortunate enough to have an impressive athletic physique. Though he had slowly developed a middle-aged obesity, what did it matter at 48? Despite his not-too-serious baldness, Melvin was still the sexiest man I knew. A real man's man, like Robert Mitchum.
"Kiss my nose," he said. "We've maintained a 22-year uninterrupted record. That's a record that's impressive, my love."
"It's 23," I corrected rudely.
He kissed my nose again. Then I walked him to the front door, where he picked up his airline travel bag and his two pieces of luggage.
"Wish me a toast with a glass of denier tonight," he said.
I nodded, but in my mind, the desire I'd been waiting to release for almost a week was going to be wasted tonight.
"Are you alright?"
"I think I'll be fine," I clutched my bra-clad breasts. I had a very bad feeling—a sixth sense—that tonight, my husband and I wouldn't be able to make love, that the desire burning beneath my stomach would be unleashed. It would just be me and my son at home, and I would lose control because of his verbal harassment. I really didn't want my husband to leave.
But he did leave, as if it were fate. After watching him drive away around the corner, something was bound to happen with my son tonight. To prevent Melvin from coming back for something, I slowly closed and locked the front door. Even without a crystal ball to predict the future, Paul had always wanted to thwart my ambitions, and tonight I would lose control. And of course, it happened as I predicted.
It was 11 p.m. that night. My husband, the last obstacle preventing us from making love, was gone. Paul and I quietly cleaned the dishes in the kitchen. He leaned close behind me and said, "I think it's just you and me now, my love."
I forced a smile and replied in a cheerful tone, "I think we've done our best. Haven't we?"
"I opened the chimney cap," he joked. "Santa Claus should be able to slide down properly. Whoosh!" He made a shoveling motion with his hand.
Just as I was about to say it was all wishful thinking, he took a step ahead and wrapped his arms around my waist, holding me tightly. I froze.
"Paul—"
"What?" he said, releasing his arms from my waist and stepping back. "Can't a son hug his mother?"
I changed the subject, choosing not to answer his question.
"You'll like the Christmas present I gave you."
"You'll also like the mystery present I gave you," he grinned—blushing.
"What present?" I asked suspiciously.
"Oh, you'll find out when you open it."
I wasn't stupid enough not to know anything; I didn't need to guess to know that Paul had definitely bought me pajamas or sexy lingerie.
"Paul. We need to calm down and talk."
"About what?" His attitude and actions were perfectly clear.
"You know in your heart," I said.
"I don't know what you mean," he countered.
"Well, we can start with my underwear," I said meaningfully.
His face turned as red as an apple.
It was only now that I realized that for years, Paul had been using my underwear to fantasize about intimate contact with me. I had found my panties or bras under his mattress or in his drawers several times. More than once, my panties had his dried semen on them. As long as he didn't hide them from me, I didn't mind how he handled my underwear, but the problem was that he always took my favorite lace panties.
"You won't wear my panties, will you?" I teased with a laugh.
His face turned even redder. "Of course not. I only use
them to—" "To masturbate?" I asked.
His face turned even redder. "Please, can we talk about something else?"
"Oh, what?" I replied, "The weather?"
I felt a little bad for mocking him so much, so to break the ice, I opened the refrigerator and took two cans of ice-cold beer from the shelf.
“Here,” I said with a smile, “open one for me.”
He unscrewed the tabs of two cans, handed me a bottle, and took a swig. I was feeling a little guilty about how I had embarrassed him by teasing him with my underwear. His fantasies about my body surprised me; I wondered why he hadn’t moved my closet into his own bedroom.
“You haven’t told your classmates or anyone about this, have you?” I asked, taking a sip of the drink from the can. “I’m too old for you to mess with me,”
he scoffed dismissively. “You’re not old. Dad’s old,” he said, and I giggled like a girl.
Immediately serious, I said, “Your dad isn’t old,” emphasizing something like, “Paul. He’d be really annoyed if he knew you were talking about him like that.” Paul picked on my mispronunciation and joked, “Are you really annoyed?”
“Seriously!” I nudged his shoulder. “Don’t harass your mother with sexual innuendo.”
“Harass my mother?”
“Seriously!” I repeated.
He laughed, kicked off his shoes, and sat down next to me, his ankles close to mine on the pillow. Sitting next to him, inhaling the scent of a young man, I felt pleasant.
I said, "Do you know how old your mother is?"
"I know your bra size," he replied unexpectedly. "Does that count?"
I blushed, intending to answer casually, but he beat me to it.
"42," he said smugly. "That's your age, not your bra size. Your breasts are a 36C."
He stared intently at my chest. I was wearing a light blue Angolan goat wool sweater that clung to my breasts, and black tight-fitting wool pants. Sensing the mother and son flirting with my sensitive areas, my heart raced, my capillaries throbbed, and my genitals swelled, felt hot, and itchy.
"It's embarrassing to flirt with your mother on Christmas Eve," I scolded him, taking a sip of my drink and feigning embarrassment. "You should be ashamed of flirting with your own mother,"
he chuckled softly, taking another sip of his drink. “If you’re not embarrassed, then there’s no romance,” he said. “But strictly speaking, Mom, you’re not old.”
“I’m not a young chick either.” I took another sip of my drink.
“My friends and I all say you’re a mature woman.” He retorted, which made me wonder who was behind this strange conversation about his mother.
“If it’s negative, I don’t want to hear it,” I warned him.
“It is a little negative.” He replied with a slightly strange tone.
“Anything you boys say is pornographic or something for your own amusement,” I said.
He laughed, and I laughed with him.
“Mom, have you heard of the abbreviation, ‘milf’?” he asked.
My face darkened with displeasure. I knew what ‘milf’ meant, and I didn’t feel like I was being flattered.
“You better not let me hear anyone call me that,” I threatened, “or they’ll have my fingernails stuck in their throats.” He gave me a wry smile.
“And you’re absolutely forbidden from calling me that,” I warned him further, but I had already steered the conversation toward the flirtatious tone he wanted.
“But, if it’s true,” he asked softly.
“I might feel insulted,” I said slowly. “Paul! Listen carefully, a son shouldn’t want to sleep with his mother.”
“On Christmas Eve, can I give my son a kiss?”
The ambiguity that followed wasn’t entirely clear to me. I know we kissed, innocently; lips parted and touched. Then we looked at each other silently for two seconds, then kissed deeply again, his hand gripping my left shoulder, my head tilted back, I had to stand on tiptoe to accommodate him. Then I opened my mouth and touched his tongue. Suddenly his arms tightened around me, my breasts were squeezed painfully. Paul kissed wildly… his lips slurping saliva as he kissed wildly—
“Paul!” I staggered backward, panting. “What are you doing?” My chest pounded, blood rushing to my ears, making them red and hot. Good heavens! Was I French kissing my own son?
“Are you angry with me?” he asked. His expression was ashamed and timid. I didn’t answer; I hadn’t refused myself, I couldn’t answer, and I took another big gulp of wine.
I felt I was gradually fulfilling his long-held fantasy of seducing his mother. That was my feeling in that instant.
"Why me?" I asked.
"Say it again," he said.
"I'm your mother, Paul," I cried in a fit of rage. "Why did you kiss me like that?" I almost said I wanted to fuck him. He looked at me with his unfathomable eyes. Then, he shrugged and said, "Because you're the most perfect mature woman in my eyes."
I scoffed, "I'm not perfect."
"You are to me," he retorted.
I crossed my arms, beer bottle in my right hand, my feet shaking on the floor, and said, "You're crazy."
My son sighed, looking at my shaking feet on the floor.
For twenty seconds, neither of us moved or spoke. I kept slapping the floor with my bare feet, and he kept watching my shaking toes. Finally, do you want to know what I'll say?
I told him, "Paul! This kind of intimate thing, whether it's happening now or about to happen, must not be known to anyone. Absolutely a secret."
He looked up at me hopefully.
"If your dad knew you'd stolen his beloved, he'd be heartbroken. Paul, your dad must be heartbroken."
"I understand," my son said.
"I've never been unfaithful to your father since I married him, not even once. Absolutely faithful." I looked at him, thinking, am I now preparing to be unfaithful to him with his son?
Paul came over and put his arms around my waist.
"Wait!" I gasped, almost breathless with nervousness. I managed to put the bottle at the end of the table and let Paul hug me.
Our mouths locked again, our tongues dancing a waltz inside each other. I was on top of him on the floor, the position awkward and unsightly, but I had no time for ladylike behavior. I kissed him with all my heart and fervor, a passion I hadn't felt in 25 years.
I slightly opened my mouth to let his tongue in, and I put my own tongue into his mouth. Our tongues intertwined, and we hugged each other tighter. Our hands kept stroking each other's backs. Then he slipped his hand into my tight pants, reaching in from the edge of my underwear to stroke my buttocks. Stimulated, my lower body involuntarily pressed closer to him, and I kissed him frantically. He took the opportunity to slip his hands into my waistband and stroke my buttocks, trying to touch my private parts from behind. Stimulated by this, I couldn't help but moan softly and squeeze my legs together. He stopped and put his hands back on my buttocks. He leaned close to my ear and said, "Mom, can I touch you?"
I dared not open my eyes, and said in a trembling voice, "Sure!"
He then hugged me even tighter, his fingers exploring my labia, and he inserted his index finger into my vagina. I couldn't take it anymore; I could feel that I was already soaking wet. I clung to him tightly, twisting my hips from time to time, moaning continuously. I sucked on his tongue with all my might, saliva wetting our cheeks. After a while, he patted my buttocks and told me to lie on my back on the floor. He lay down and stroked my thighs and calves with his hands, stroking them inch by inch from top to bottom and then from bottom to top, praising my legs as not only long and slender but also snow-white and delicate, a pair of alluring beautiful legs. Then he brought his whole face close and touched my genitals with his nose. My body seemed to stiffen. I knew he was feeling my genitals through my tight pants, and I felt both shy and excited. His hands then moved down to stroke my knees and calves. He knelt down, pressing his head against my genitals. I couldn't resist grabbing his head and pressing it against my crotch, feeling the wet, hot sensation. My tight pants were soaked with his saliva. I had lost all restraint.
I blurted out, "No one can know what Mom did with you!" I stopped kissing, panting. "I want you to swear, Paul. You absolutely can't tell any of your friends." I thought of the so-called secret, but how it spreads faster than light among friends when it's about bragging.
Would Paul boast that he slept with his own mother and that his whole school knew?
“Someday, Mom,” he looked up at me with honest eyes, “I’m going to tell everyone online that I’ve met a woman in her late twenties, that I’m going to write down our story in detail, and that I’m going to surprise you with our sweetness on your 48th Christmas. Until then, I won’t say a word to anyone.”
What could I say?
I kissed him again slowly and tentatively, his hands sliding over the outside of my sweater, caressing my breasts. As he teased my nipples, a tingling sensation shot through my body, and I moaned. His fingertips traced the outline of my bra below. I was secretly pleased that I was wearing a blue lingerie set with lace trim that matched the underwear he had once stolen from me.
He interrupted our passionate kiss. “I can’t believe I’ve actually done this,” he whispered in my ear. “I’ve thought about it for so many years, and now I’m really doing it with my own mother,” he repeated.
I was nervous and excited, breathless, about to fall asleep with my own son.
“We still need to be careful, Paul. I haven’t taken birth control pills, and I don’t want to get pregnant.”
Saying this released a burning emotional struggle within me. No matter how intense the physical battle that was about to unfold, I had ample reason to worry. My period was at least a week and a half over, making pregnancy easy for a woman.
“You’re the first woman I’ve ever touched a breast,” he said.
“Oh, Paul,” I groaned, my eyes closed. A warm current flowed through my body like delicious hot cocoa powder.
“When I saw it,” he said, lifting his head to kiss me again, “it was also the first time I’d ever seen your mature breasts.”
Every nerve in my body tingled. I needed more. More. I grabbed my glass and downed it in one gulp, then swallowed another, pouring it into my son’s mouth. He stood up to accept it.
“There’s half a dozen in the fridge,” he reminded me.
“Thanks, okay!” I gulped down the rest of my glass, making him finish it too. Alcohol could make us achieve our desires without shame, crucial to my risky endeavors amidst my shaky mental constraints.
His hand slid down my back, easily finding the hooks of my bra and unhooking it.
"Hey! Hey!" I exclaimed, amazed by his skill. "You didn't learn that from your sister, did you?"
He smiled contentedly, enjoying my absurd and ridiculous imagination. He slipped his other hand under my sweater, touching my breast, now unbraced, and cupped it as if weighing it. Sitting on his lap, I took off my sweater and sat there, clutching it in my hands. I watched him stare wide-eyed at my other breast, now covered by the bra. Finally, he swallowed hard, pulled down my bra, revealing my two sagging breasts.
I couldn't help but giggle and arch my back, bending my shoulders. He grinned, embarrassed by the vulgarity of my 42-year-old, sagging breasts, and looked at his pleasure—a pleasure he hadn't shown in years.
He lightly touched my nipple with his lips.
"Stop teasing me!" I cried out in a short, trembling scream.
"So beautiful," he said, gazing at my breasts. I think he's finally finding that suckling satisfaction again after 18 years of absence. Goosebumps rose on my upper body, my nipples hardened and a little sore.
"That's great," he said breathlessly, and I chuckled again.
As I sipped my wine, Paul put his glass on the floor and then, unexpectedly, reached out and pulled down the belt of my tight pants. He slowly pulled them down to my hips and thighs. My heart pounded like thunder, feeling like it was going to jump out of my chest.
My nipples hardened, and my nipples ached. I felt my face flush, and goosebumps suddenly rose on my upper body again. I was about to pull down his pants, but I didn't, and he was doing it right then and there—my son pulling down my pants. I trembled involuntarily, and he stopped at my calves.
"Mom, are you alright?" he asked worriedly.
"I'm fine," I lay down, trembling again with another small orgasm.
"Are you cold?" he asked.
“No, Paul, I’m not cold.”
“Oh,” he asked shyly, immediately realizing my possible climax. “Do you want me to put my pants back on?”
This was a question I didn’t want to answer, and I didn’t. Instead, I looked down at his erect penis, slowly sipping my drink to calm my heartbeat. He continued pulling my tight pants down to my ankles, and I kicked them off rather ungracefully with both feet. It must have been embarrassing to be naked in front of my son.
“Take them off,” he said unnecessarily, trying to start a conversation.
“Yeah! Take them off,” I repeated.
He looked up at my almost naked body, his eyes scanning from the outline of my chest to my ankles. I felt he was trying to memorize every part of my body. I wondered what I would feel when he took off my underwear and I was completely naked. It felt like being on display.
Crouching down beside him, I placed my glass on the floor and took his hand to help him to his feet. With trembling fingers, I unbuttoned the front of his shirt, parting it to caress his young muscles. He trembled, and I leaned in to kiss him. His hand touched my right breast, his other stroked my back. My hands lingered inside his shirt.
I pulled the shirt out from under his belt along his back. As I searched for his belt buckle, he unzipped his pants and helped me undo it. We struggled to take off each other's pants, unbuttoning while he busied himself with pulling down my underwear. I won in removing his shorts. Without my consent, it's easy to imagine he wouldn't have been able to get my underwear off. We stood naked, our lower bodies pressed together, kissing.
“Your kiss is just like your dad’s,” I told him, taking a deep breath.
After a pause, my son asked, “Was it good?”
As I gasped for breath again, I said, “Of course, sir,” and then my tongue slipped back into his throat.
For a long time, we did nothing but kiss. His kiss amazed me; I could have held him and kissed him all night. But French kissing takes a lot of effort, and I was constantly wet down there. I knew it was uncomfortable for him to rub his erect penis against my lower abdomen, and eventually my tongue went numb. Paul didn’t want to stop.
“Wait a minute!” I gasped. “I need a break.”
Paul didn’t want to leave my lips and extended his tongue into my mouth, arousing my desire. We kissed for almost two more minutes.
“Let your mom catch her breath!” I said breathlessly. “If you don’t stop, I won’t be able to talk to you tomorrow.”
He laughed, temporarily halting his infatuation with my body.
As I struggled to breathe while kissing, he pointed to the top of my head with his fingertip, reminding me that we were standing under a specimen of mistletoe.
"You paid for that," I said hoarsely, "you've touched my whole body, you've gotten your money's worth now, it was worth it."
Although he made me feel no longer sexually harassed or bothered, his hands had touched almost every inch of my body. Again, I felt my desire rekindled.
"You know what," I said in surprise, "with your father not around, you've made me even more aroused than when I was a teenager?"
From his toothy grin, he seemed to enjoy hearing me say that.
"I'm not kidding," I said, blushing and quickly averting my gaze. "Your flirting with me…doing that…" I groped for the words to express myself.
"Passion a 42-year-old woman shouldn't experience," he said for me.
"Anyway, doing that…doing things her son shouldn't…do." I emphasized deliberately.
I was preoccupied with his erection—which I had deliberately ignored until now—pressed against my abdomen. I wanted to see it, to see what my son's drooping glans was going to do inside me. I pushed him away and looked down; he looked up at me and I realized he was a perfect copy of his father's erect penis. Same length, same girth, same color. I realized it wasn't exactly the same, but a reflection in a mirror. His father was slightly bent to the left; Paul was bent to the right.
Like father, like son, I thought coldly.
Paul sat on the edge of the sofa and pulled me closer to him. Facing me, he held my buttocks with both hands, looking down at my pubic area with great interest, parting the curly hair clinging to my labia. I was immediately terrified, trembling and spasming. I should have shaved off the unruly pubic hair beforehand, but what to do now? Paul seemed stunned by the abundant, growing thicket. He tried to part the curly hair with his fingertips to peek into my opening, his face showing excitement and pleasure, which reassured me.
"Are you disappointed?" I asked.
He looked up at me, his attention almost diverted from my crotch. "Why would I be disappointed?"
"Girls your age shave this clean themselves." Many mothers my age, including my own, shave, I thought, but didn't say it aloud.
"I love your pubic hair." He continued to play with my pubic hair with his fingertips. His words and the touch of his fingers on my labia made me tremble.
"It's so natural, soft, and curly." He smiled at me. "Mom! I even prefer it turning gray."
Oh, God, I groaned. He noticed my pubic hair.
I reminded myself to be sober, sobering up too quickly. I squatted down, picked up my glass from the floor, handed him his glass, and gestured for a toast. After clinking our glasses, we tilted our heads back and gulped down our drinks. Then we took another unopened bottle from the table, unscrewed the cap, and had Paul refill our glasses. I drank the cold wine, savoring its sweetness. Paul, however, returned his attention to examining my vulva, stroking my pubic hair.
"I'm so proud and happy that your beautiful cunt hasn't been with any other man besides your father," he said.
"I'm very proud that I haven't been with any other man besides your father." He added, "Of course, maybe you too."
"If you let me do it, do you think your father really minds?" His palm was already facing upwards, gently touching my labia with two fingers. I was wet inside and out. I trembled again.
"We don't need to ask him," I said seriously.
He nodded in agreement, his eyes seeming to hold a look of longing contemplation. I wanted to say that he was the second man to touch and probe my genitals with his fingertips (besides my doctor, of course), but it would sound stupid to say that to him. Anyway, I said it, and he grinned, showing his teeth. Suddenly, he lowered his head and kissed my clitoris, gently biting the head of it with his teeth.
"Paul!" I screamed, my lower body convulsing, my buttocks involuntarily rising.
"Is this the second man to kiss you?" he asked with a grin.
"The second," I answered confidently, standing up and taking a large gulp of wine from the wine cabinet.
My God! I thought to myself. My own son had just kissed my most intimate vulva! The
stark reality of the act astonished me; the horrible words that came to mind didn't feel evil at all, but rather natural, as if they were perfectly normal. I loathe the word "vulva," and I can't tolerate anyone calling my genitals a "vagina."
I stood there, legs spread wide, sipping my wine, while Paul knelt before me, digging his fingers into my wet, sticky vagina. I looked down at his curiosity and fascination with my vulva, and whenever he looked up at my reaction, I averted my gaze to his hands digging into my vulva. I was clearly aroused, enjoying his probing of my genitals, and it was obvious he was fascinated by it too. I thought I should thank God for that drink.
"May I put it inside you?" he asked, looking up and extending his middle finger.
I wanted to laugh, to tell him we'd gone this far and he no longer needed permission. His enthusiasm melted my heart, and I reached out and ruffled his hair in tacit agreement. I took a breath, picked up the glass, and quickly gulped down a mouthful of wine, while my son's right middle finger easily slid into my vagina.
"Oh my God!" I whispered, trembling from head to toe.
"Do you like it like this?" he asked, grinning at me.
I took another sip of wine, without answering him. I wasn't sure I could answer. What I could barely recall was how I almost had a heart attack when his finger, mixed with my fluids, was pulled from my vagina and put into his mouth to suck.
"Paul!" I cried out, startled that he had done something so astonishing.
"What?" he replied, looking at me and laughing.
I felt my face burning hot enough to rival the fire in the fireplace.
I took his hand and stood up, pulling his feet closer, wrapping my arms around his neck, and slipped my tongue into his mouth. I was sucking his saliva, tasting my own juices in it, but that meant nothing to me. I tried to remain calm, avoiding splashing the wine in my hand onto my son's bare back—but it was very difficult. Especially when his middle finger was about to dig effortlessly inside my vagina again.
I lifted my right foot, placing it on the edge of the sofa to make it easier for his hand to dig.
"Isn't this easier?" I asked, as a second finger slid inside my vagina, and then a third, his thumb searching among the pubic hair, finding my clitoris.
"Where did you learn that?" I asked, close to his ear.
He just smiled and leaned in to kiss my neck and left shoulder. I have to admit I was too excited; those three fingers and a thumb, and that damn French kiss, were driving me to the brink of madness, a constant rush of pleasure, trembling, legs weak, moaning. I held him tightly, and he tried to push me away.
"I want you to make me feel good too," he said, his head still buried in my neck and shoulder.
"What?" I gasped. He made me feel like a leaf swaying in a storm.
"You'll give me a handjob, okay?"
The request was unbelievable; I had never considered doing that. Immediately, I turned the glass to my left hand, reached for his huge, hard penis, and began to stroke and caress it.
I took the opportunity to squat down, bringing my mouth close to his and sucking his penis inch by inch. He supported the back of my head with his hand and pushed me forward, burying my face in his genitals. His entire penis was squeezed into my mouth, his pubic hair almost obscuring my breathing. I could only inhale deeply, the masculine scent making me completely lose myself, unable to help but moan as I sucked. I slowly savored licking from his glans to his scrotum, then back to the glans, before taking it all into my mouth again. Then I licked from his navel up to his chest, his nipples. His penis was so hard and powerful, like a club. He groaned at my touch, but my groans were even louder. Now that I had gone this far, I was going to suck that beautiful thing in my mouth to lubricate it, and then insert it into my vagina. I wanted him to fuck me until I lost consciousness. I thought if he tried to find a condom before penetrating me, I would tear it. Overwhelmed by lust, I wanted a real, flesh-to-flesh struggle with him, forgetting about contraception; I knew I didn't want to wear a condom.
From that moment on, my hormones surged rapidly. My vagina was warm and wet, my labia swollen; lust, when it strikes, makes you lose your mind, lust is uncontrollable, and my knees buckled.
"Oh my God, Paul!" I groaned, weeping. "Hurry up and fuck me!"
He hesitated, wanting to protect my dignity as a mother, but what I, as a mother, needed was the release of my pent-up desire; I had lost all reason. I will never forget that wonderful moment. I lay on my back, my legs locked around his waist. When I felt his glans touch my wet opening, his eyes were fixed on me. His penis easily followed the glans into my warm vagina. I only remember his testicles touching my anus, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
We stared into each other's eyes in silence. I think he, like me, couldn't believe that the most private places between us, mother and son, were actually connected. Deep inside my womb, flesh against flesh, I will never forget it. His muscles tightened around my buttocks, my vagina gripped his penis tightly, the glans that had longed to enter me for years finally fulfilling its desire. A look of surprise crossed his face.
I was surprised too; our genitals were actually touching, how could he insert it all the way in? He began to press down on me, rhythmically and slowly thrusting inside me. I was completely intoxicated by the contact and friction between our private parts! Just like a married couple doing this every day. My arms wrapped around his neck, his lips pressed tightly against the muscles of my right shoulder. I closed my eyes, silently praying he wouldn't leave a kiss mark, that his father wouldn't find out. I searched for his lips, wanting to leave my shoulder untouched.
We kissed passionately above and thrust below, but the intense movements left me breathless. In less than 30 seconds, Paul's body hardened, and he pressed down on me, motionless. I knew he was about to ejaculate; as the first drop of semen shot from his glans into my cervix, I also climaxed.
"Oh, God!" I almost screamed. As the scalding liquid gushed into my uterus like a bursting faucet, I said nothing. I arched my back, feeling the muscles in every part of my body scream. I didn't care anymore; I squeezed my legs tighter around his waist, pressing my heels against his buttocks, drawing them close to my stomach, letting his trembling glans penetrate my cervix. He ejaculated again, this time truly inside my uterus. Then, a second time, I felt my uterus push his glans out of the cervix. The ejaculations gradually weakened. As he ejaculated, as usual, once lust was ignited, my whole body trembled with repeated orgasms. My eyes rolled back. I thought I might faint on the bed. Fortunately, my senses slowly returned, the dizziness subsided, and I saw light through the darkness. My uterus ached inside my vagina. I was weak and powerless, naked, my slightly trembling thighs clamped together, looking at Paul.
Would I recover quickly? The first time I was intoxicated by sex with my son, it left me weak, powerless, and trembling all over, as if my entire skeleton had been broken.
"Are you okay?" he asked anxiously.
"You've been inside Mom's womb, I'm almost dizzy."
His penis slowly softened inside me. I was panting, struggling to breathe. He brushed my sweat-dampened hair from my dazed eyes, looking into them with concern. "Take a deep breath, Mom," he said.
"I'm trying..." I gasped. My chest felt tight. I think my face must be pink.
He lifted his hips to pull out of our joined bodies, but I cried out, "Just stay in!" and grabbed his buttocks.
"I'm fine," I insisted. "I just need a rest."
He watched me pant and rest, but his genitals were still inside me, connected. He pressed down on me, supporting himself with his elbows on either side of my shoulders, semen flowing into my anus. I had no choice but to keep my legs straight and uncrossed, using the pillow as a base. It didn't work; it overflowed. I could feel the semen leaking from my buttocks onto the pillow. Thinking about all the mother-son issues that would need to be addressed afterward,
I asked again, "Are you sure you're okay?"
I nodded. My breathing gradually returned to normal. The panting on my chest had stopped. I stroked my soaked hair, pulling the hair at the back of my head into a woman's ponytail.
My son looked at me and said, "Nothing is more beautiful than having sex with your mother and bringing her to multiple orgasms."
"Thank you for giving me orgasms on Christmas! Merry Christmas." Then I kissed my son's cheek and said, "This is what your dad should be doing," I whispered to my son.
"Let's be happy together," my pleasure made him laugh, and I laughed with him for a very long time.
Twenty minutes later, we sat in the corner of the sofa, comforting each other with a tight embrace. I curled up comfortably beside him, his left arm around my shoulder. I curled my legs up. The only visible parts were my left heel and my left arm, as I picked up my newly filled wine glass. We clinked glasses and sipped our drinks together.
"I didn't wear a condom, are you okay?" he asked.
"I'll handle it myself," I replied with a shrug.
He looked at the churning red and yellow flames in the fireplace and sipped his drink again.
"I'll go find one and bring it back," he said. "It might take a minute or two."
"That's alright," I asked, puzzled. "What are you looking for that will take a minute or two?"
"What if you get pregnant?" he emphasized his concern.
I looked up at him. "What if you really get Mom pregnant?" I asked.
Thankfully, my question ended any further discussion about the possibility of pregnancy.
"I still have your bra and panties," he said after a moment.
"I kind of hoped you kept them," I replied.
"I never intended to give them back to you." He grinned at me, wanting confirmation.
"I also hoped you kept them," I agreed.
We remained silent for a while, enjoying the quiet. Finally, he said, "Mom, are you interested in oral sex?"
"Please say it again," I almost choked on the wine in my mouth.
He pulled back the sheet covering him, revealing his very beautiful, fully erect penis.
"Paul!" I choked, almost suffocating. "Take that thing away."
He laughed, shaking his erect member. I stared at the throbbing member above his thigh. I took another anxious sip of wine; I wanted it, the last thing I wanted from him.
The most intimate act a mother can perform with her own son is to make love. We did, and I should be satisfied. But I couldn't simply discard a gift he'd already given me; I admit my weakness.
Without considering my maternal dignity, I pulled back the sheets, exposing his member to the firelight. Then, carefully avoiding spilling the wine, I took a large sip, bent down, and dipped his penis into my mouth.
"Oh, my God," he groaned in disbelief.
"Oh, my God," I couldn't believe I'd done it either.
I'd given him a pleasure even his father (my husband) had never experienced at his age. Even with a wine glass unceremoniously resting on him in my hand—two sagging breasts jiggling before his eyes, a hairy vulva exposed by my upturned buttocks—
I said to his erect penis, "Accept my baptism of wine—"
I was sure he knew I was making love to him with my mouth, not just sucking his pre-ejaculate. There was a difference, and he understood it, just like his father. More than once, he
wanted to guide my mouth into his own ecstatic position to satisfy his pleasurable penis. He often touched my head, caressed my hair, or pushed back to see my best face. Actually, I wanted him to see what I was doing too. I enjoyed the expression on his face as his eyes watched my lips slide back and forth on his penis, sucking the glans, kissing his testicles. More than once, I touched his testicles with my own touch. He certainly loved it when I held wine in my mouth, dipping his glans in it, a brief alternation of hot and cold.
I wanted to ask him if he wanted me to lie back down on the floor so I could straddle him for a second round of intercourse, or if he wanted me to lie on the sofa and have intercourse with him, but he seemed to enjoy the touch of his sensitive glans so much that I continued to give him oral sex… gently biting his glans until his powerful semen gushed into my mouth. I remained tightly wrapped around him, letting his semen gush out, and then, willingly, I stuck out my tongue to show him the white semen on it, swallowing it down my stomach. When I finally stood up and tidied the hair that had fallen across my face, he looked at me with a proud and incredulous, lecherous expression.
“I didn’t expect you to swallow it!” he said in a deep, husky voice.
I smiled at him, finished the last sip of my drink to dilute the fishy smell of the semen, and poured half of his into my glass.
“Aren’t you satisfied?” I asked.
“Damn! So good!” he shouted excitedly, kissing my lips, and we both suddenly burst into laughter. This time, I didn't scold him for being dirty. For a few minutes, we did nothing but chat about our feelings before sex, about being sexually harassed by our sons, or about harassing our mothers. We watched the slowly dying fire and sipped our drinks. Paul went to the kitchen to get two bottles of wine during our chat, and we went to the bathroom together. I peed like a racehorse, and Paul emptied his bladder in the sink next to me. The room was filled with the sound of urination, and we laughed like 13-year-olds.
"This is really disgusting," I told him.
"I want to pee between your legs," he demanded.
"No, thank you," I refused.
In the laugh-filled commotion, he wiped my pubic hair-soaked urethra with toilet paper and washed his penis. I realized we were being erotic. I pulled his penis in front of me and made love to him again with my mouth. I sat by the wardrobe with my legs spread apart so I could touch my clitoris. This time, the masturbation was a bonus to myself after having sex with my son. I masturbated to orgasm with my hand and then used my mouth to bring him pleasure. This time, before swallowing, I opened my mouth again to let him see the semen he had stored inside.
"Mom! You've swallowed our offspring." I couldn't help but laugh, almost vomiting, with semen dripping from the corners of my mouth, but I swallowed most of it.
Back in the living room, he said to me, "You know, it's my turn to repay you."
"Really?" I asked, looking at him through the edge of the glass. I didn't want him to know how I was captivated by his tongue between my legs.
Then he described how he dominated his mother as he writhed. I kissed his lips again, and he extended his tongue to kiss me back, making my blood boil. I straddled his lap, but not sitting on top of him, rubbing my inner thighs against his pubic hair, driving me wild. I gripped the wine glass tightly in my right hand, and we kissed and swirled together. Paul used his fingers to manipulate my breasts and nipples, his mouth attacking my neck and shoulders, even inserting his fingers into my anus. Those most embarrassing moans were so awkward.
Then I was laid flat on the pillow again, and Paul knelt between my thighs, sucking and enjoying my juices. I want you to know that I had never enjoyed oral sex with such vigor, not even Paul himself. He was describing it to me in such vivid detail, almost going crazy. Passion made my vagina engorged, and as soon as his hot glans entered, I reached orgasm. Moments later, he couldn't withstand the contractions inside my vagina and ejaculated after less than half a minute of thrusting. He continued to ejaculate, spraying hot semen onto my cervix, and I had a second orgasm. He finally collapsed onto my stomach, looking like a building whose foundation had collapsed. We were both panting, utterly exhausted.
"That's it," he gasped. "Go to sleep."
Sleep was just right for me. I lay flat on the floor, too weak to even lift my arms. I could only lie naked, half-pressed down by him, letting his semen leak from my vagina onto the pillow. He poured so much semen into me, but I didn't want to waste a single drop. If I had the energy, I might have licked it dry. Before I passed out and went into the darkness, all I remembered was Paul's taste of his mother's vaginal fluids and his own thoughts about his semen. The next morning he told me that I had passed out smiling.
I never imagined I would actually be fucked unconscious by my son.
If I had ever expected the cold light of dawn to have any effect on me, it didn't. Paul woke me up to realize that I had become a mature woman in my later years, and that this time it was an amazingly long period of intercourse. He remained inside me for an hour and twenty minutes without softening, immersed in my mother's lust, keeping him erect. I parted my wrinkled, snail-like labia, letting him see every place he wanted to see, dig, and touch. I was happy, and he held back from ejaculating in my favorite position, expending twice the effort to bring me to orgasm before finally releasing. Again, we lay on our sides, our lower bodies pressed together, and fell asleep again. This time, we slept until 9 a.m. when his father called.
"Give me my underwear," I said hastily as he pulled it out from behind, crawling out from under the sheets on the bedspread. He shook his head, grinning mischievously.
"It's all for your own good," I told him. "I want you inside me, not flowing down my legs."
He became alert, grabbing the underwear from the floor and helping me put it on. I dropped the pillow and went across the living room to find the phone, which was in front of the bay window. I grabbed the receiver before the tenth ring.
"Hello," I said breathlessly.
"Nikki, you sound breathless."
"I just ran upstairs to answer the phone," I gasped. I turned to Paul and put my index finger to my lips to quiet him.
"Of course you weren't flirting with Joe in the bedroom," he joked. (Joe is our neighbor).
I almost choked, thinking he knew, but managed to answer in a calm voice. "I'll keep it until you get home, sweetheart."
"Then you'll have to wait for me to come back. I want you," he said, a sigh in his voice. "Okay, well, Merry Christmas."
"What do you mean?" I asked, but the truth was already questionable.
"We're completely covered in snow," my husband sighed.
"How bad?" I asked, looking at Paul.
"It's like hell, forgive my exaggeration. Almost three feet."
"Three feet!" I yelled, watching Paul's response to the news. A toothy grin, his face like the Grand Canyon. Just as I shook my head at him not to laugh too loudly, I grinned back, my mouth agape. Disgust, confusion, relief—I started to chuckle softly. Paul lay naked on the pillows on the floor, his penis beginning to rise, smiling at me—how erotic.
"I wish I could be with you right now, to celebrate this wonderful Christmas Eve with you!" Paul's father said.
I understood. Every Christmas Eve, a nice dinner, some wine or drinks, then back to the room for lovemaking.
"On this romantic Christmas Eve, I really want to be with you."
"I'm so bored by myself right now, I just want you," my husband said. "I want to hold you tight, I want to knead your nipples."
"Me too." As I said this, Paul had already walked up to me, his mouth biting my nipple, distracting me from my conversation with his father.
"Okay, go ahead and hug me," I agreed to my husband's hug on the phone.
Every time my husband is away on a business trip, he always asks me to lie in bed and make love to him over the phone when he has needs. This has been our habit for many years. Now I'm doing what my son wants to do too. My son and my husband both want it at the same time, can I refuse?
Paul is doing the same thing his father wants to do to me on the phone. How can I be so calm and composed, talking to my husband about love? My son has made me lose my way, condemning my marriage of over twenty years of chastity.
"I want you right here in this bed, imagining you beside me, naked. I want you, just like two weeks ago when I was away on a business trip," he pleaded with me.
What a depraved and evil thought... How could he ask me to have sex with him on the phone while I'm with his son…?
But I had no reason to refuse!
"Okay! I'm taking off my clothes, I'll pretend you're right next to me." This was how we dealt with our sexual needs when we were apart, for years, but never as difficult as this!
The thrill of flirting with Paul, and the excitement of having sex with both father and son—Paul wouldn't be jealous of me being with another man at the same time; I thought I could handle it. I could have sex with my son and have sex with his dad on the phone at the same time!
I love my husband, and I love my son!
"I want you to lie naked on the bed, just like I'm naked now," my husband commanded.
The phone was far enough from my ear that Paul could hear his dad's voice.
I had to comply; I couldn't refuse my husband's advances. Otherwise, he would become suspicious—I didn't want him to know.
"Honey, I'm taking off my underwear on the bed," I whispered into the phone.
My son looked at me understandingly, and quite naturally, pulled down my underwear from behind, his hand sliding down my cleft.
"Good, I was thinking about your baby," my husband said. "I'm not here with you, there's nothing to make you feel good, do you feel good touching yourself?"
"Yes, yes, I feel great touching my clitoris," I wanted him to believe me. "Honey, I'm waiting for you to put it in, let's do it together."
I half-reclined on the backrest, Paul straddled my abdomen, raised himself up a little, his face higher than my head, his erect glans pressed against my cleft, my legs slightly parted.
"I'm about to come," he mumbled. "I think you should find a vibrator or an electric dildo to stimulate yourself?"
I hesitated, thinking, and met Paul's eyes... he heard me too.
"Oh! Don't try to trick me. I wouldn't buy that fake penis behind your back. That's for unmarried women. Honey, maybe I can find something else to use..."
Would I dare use it?
Of course I would!
"Oh! The lubricant tube on the bedside table, the cap is still round. Like a soft, fleshy thing, filled with lubricant, about the same size as yours," I whispered on the phone, while reaching between my thighs and grabbing Paul's penis, which was pressing against my cleft. The plastic tube my husband thought it was the perfect size. Paul's, not a model, my son's glans was raised, and I knew what it wanted to do.
"Are you sure it's still lubricant?" my husband wanted to know.
"Yes, honey, the lubricant even smells a bit like human skin on the stick."
"Okay, then put some inside you, all wet, and insert the plastic tube inside you!"
"Insert it inside me? You really want me to do that? Okay, I'm going to use it, I'll insert it now," I think my husband thought I was teasing him, but Paul, Paul didn't think so, he knew my hint...
"Honey, I'm holding it, you want me to put it there..."
I guided Paul's penis to my vulva, moving it up and down between the folds of flesh until the glans parted the folds, and then pressed down, pushing it inside me.
"I'm inserting it into my labia, darling, I'm so excited, you can imagine how...desperate..."
"You've made me hard again." My husband misunderstood the sex toy I was using.
"It's hard to insert, this thing is a bit thick. I have to use some force to push it in."
"Put on more lubricant, then push it in harder," my husband urged, thinking he was urging me, but actually it was my son Paul's penis pushing into my hole. Paul heard his dad telling me to push harder.
"I'm trying... a little difficult..." I said to my husband on the phone, then glared at Paul and groaned, "Oh!!"
I hoped my husband didn't hear the slapping sound of our lower bodies as we thrust in and out.
"That's good!" came his approving voice from the phone, which was actually my panting moans.
"Oh, oh, oh," my husband was used to my moans during sex, but this moan was the result of my son's continued thrusting.
"I'm thrusting into you hard," my husband said excitedly.
We both remained silent, just breathing heavily, my husband using his hand, and me using my son's penis.
"Honey... I'm making love to you as you ask," I told him.
"Faster, let it all out," I heard the rapid slapping sounds of his masturbation over the phone.
Then:
"Honey, I'm coming." Paul kept thrusting, penetrating deep into my vagina, touching my cervix, and I was really about to cum.
"I'm going to cum too," my husband panted on the other end of the phone.
Paul looked at me and murmured, "I'm about to cum too."
Pleasure washed over my whole body, reaching the peak of orgasm, and so did my son. He was fully inside me, my labia completely enveloping his penis.
"Oh! Honey, I'm coming, I'm here!"
My son was still pressing tightly against my lower body, relentlessly penetrating.
My husband said, "I messed up the hotel bed."
"Our bed is all wet too,"
my husband said, "Honey, go wash the sheets, tidy up the bed, and we'll celebrate properly when I get back in a few days, okay?"
"Okay, honey, I'll go wash up after I rest a bit. I'll wait for you to come back."
"Bye. I love you." My husband hung up.
I tossed the phone aside on the pillow, awaiting my son's lips, waiting for my kiss.
These three days while my husband was away on business were the best, most wonderful days. Three days of delightful, sensual life with my son.
At night, six inches of snow covered the nearby roads, and through the bay window, I saw my neighbor, Joe, across the street, starting to shovel snow from his driveway.
Closing Remarks:
Paul is now 34, married, and has his own children. His wife, a colleague at work, whom he had begged to marry, is indeed a wonderful girl, even after 13 years of marriage. I think she loves Paul almost as much as I do.
Our Christmas gift in 1992 was a wonderful family reunion. Certainly, it can't match our first time, in terms of intensity, sweetness, or spontaneity. Nor should it. Our Christmas in 1992 was the most special gift a mother and son could share; gifts are always cherished. If I could stop him from kissing me every time we're alone, his French kisses drive me crazy.
The End.

URL 1:https://www.sex3p.com/htmlBlog/175496.html

URL 2:/Blog.aspx?id=175496&aspx=1

Last access time:

Previous Page : My wife Wanyi's Little Cinema

Next Page : Other people's mothers

增加

comment Open a new window to view comments

Contact Information

Underneath the mistletoe specimen

comment Open a new window to view comments