Most of you will think this is a bunch of lies, which is why I’m including and handful of photos. The rest of you will think I was molested and didn’t know it or that I’m a pervert or I don’t know what. But let me just get to the story. I suspect it began in her mind while I was still in her womb but, to my knowledge It began the summer before third grade. As a quick aside, I remember having a dream about this time of life about falling in love. The dream is unimportant, though I believe the girl in it represents my ideal mate. It this summer though, the summer before third grade, during nap-time, that Mommy would come fetch either my brother or I from our bedrooms. I don’t know how many times it happened, I only remember how sweaty her breasts were when they peeled off my back, and how jealous I felt when she chose him. I had trouble making friends after that. I figured out later that I’d lost touch with my ability to process social cues, particularly verbal ones. She cooed to me so much and so long, while her hands did things we’ve all forgotten, that I’d drowned the sound out until I couldn’t hear it anymore and the world was cold and barren without it.
When puberty began, I had a fondness for written pornography. And sticking things in my ass. I was quite preoccupied at 14 what it would be like to be fucked like I was a woman and to experience what a woman would experience, being fucked. I didn’t have anyone to explore it with, not even in my fantasies. I had Mommy’s vibrator, but it was only a vibrator and not a dildo. I didn’t like Mommy much through these years. Sometimes just the sight of her could make me angry, especially when I was happy before I saw her. I didn’t want her to be a part of that happiness. I’m not sure why.
But then there were our “dates.” We went out, just the two of, at least once a week, to movies generally, and shopping, rarely if ever to a restaurant. I remember her running her hand along my arm, rubbing my back at a red light and can imagine myself so relieved to open myself and show her the sorrow I felt. I thought little of it at the time, because it shocked me like a high voltage line when it happened, but it was at one of these movies – The Grifters – about con artists, one of whom has sex with his own mother. We looked at each other askance, and when she blinked, my whole life changed.
There’s something I understand now at 40 that I had never really seen before. One thing is that the thought that I helplessly and hopelessly belong to my mommy seemed for so long like a dark fantasy and fearful preoccupation. Now that I understand the truth to it, that certain thoughts, words, and sensations will pull me back to her beyond anyone’s control. That’s true of every son. I knew as much when I was in my teens and mistakenly convinced that I could fuck as many sluts as I wanted provided I knew my ass belonged to my mommy. But I do belong to Mommy, and I accept my submission to it so readily perhaps in part because submitting to my need for Mommy gave me the steadfastness and courage to submit to Mommy herself. So I understand that I belong to my Mommy. I also understand now that her cunt has pulled me, guided me through life, this way and that, for longer than I can remember. Back to the story.
I went away to college in 1993, the first year the internet was available to the public. I discovered one pornographic story after another. My favorites were the pedophilia stories, then gradually incest until I stumbled upon one with a mother and son scene. A year later, I wasn’t even making a serious effort to have sex but every night I was cumming for my mommy, reading about another mother and son, my blood thundering in my ears, pounding out the word “Mommy” in my veins for long seconds after I came. If you like my stuff, I’m thrilled. I tried my best to capture what sex was like with my mother, and especially the emotional component in “The Perfect Mother.” In retrospect, I made the son too young. There are a few scenes that I really enjoy, but for the most part I don’t exactly love any of it. My tastes run more along the lines of:
Patty didn’t answer. She was too busy looking down, excitedly watching her son’s immense cock-lance boring into her pussy. The stiff prick stretched her pussy lusciously, making the walls clasp and grip exquisitely around the invading thickness of his cock.
For nearly a full day she’d fantasized about this, about again feeling her boy’s prick slamming back into the pussy that had birthed him. Now it was deep inside her again, boring deep inside her cunt. Shamefully the naked mother stared wigging and humping, fucking her horny, itchy pussy onto the satisfying stiffness of Walter’s cock.
“Yes, Walter, it feels so good now,” she panted. “It’s time to fuck Mommy again, honey. Unnggh! Fuck your mother, lover, fuck your mother’s horny cunt!”
She cocked her long legs up higher, draping her ankles over his shoulders, completely opening her gooey pussy hole for the skewering shaft of his cock. Her hung son started fucking. He braced his knees on the bed, looming over his mom, supporting his weight on straight arms. Rhythmically he fucked her tightly grasping pussy, spearing his big cock in and out of her cunt.
“Fuck me, fuck my pussy!” Patty gasped. She humped to meet his strokes, her enormous tits bouncing and shivering, undulating every time her son fucked her deep wit his cock.
“Unnngh! Oh, shit, Walter, you’ve really got a big one! Give Mommy a good fucking now! Harder, honey, harder! Fuck Mommy’s cunt till I can’t even walk!”
I can’t produce that. At the height of things, I had over twenty mother/son stories that I considered good enough to save on my computer. And nothing else. It was so compartmentalized. When I wanted to, I would sit in front of the computer and jerk while reading about “Mommy” and “Baby” having incestuous sex. Then it disappeared the moment I zipped my pants up. Living at home, over the summers, I hated my mommy. She let herself into my room every morning, always popping the lock, and I’d smile up at her as she lay her hand on my leg, eyeing my erection. That would be the highlight of our interaction. I couldn’t even look at her face. I stared at her breasts instead. I think, though I could be wrong, that for a number of years, every word I said to my mother was said to her breasts. At some point she left a copy of D.H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers out on a table downstairs. I was afraid to even look at it. But it was about this time, at 19, that I had my first erotic dream. And it was about my mother. She was wearing a slightly diaphanous white nightgown she’d had when I was younger, and she was astride me in my own four-poster cherry bed, the same bed we would rut in so many times years later. I summoned my courage as best as I could one night when my dad was out of town, got very drunk, and moaned, “Mommy” loudly while jerking off in bed. Nothing came of it.
When I was twenty-six, I moved back home and things began to mount. I would leave my door cracked at night and my computer monitor on. I’d cover my eyes with the pillowcase and masturbate. This was after the divorce. She had a little guest house out back that she turned into an office, two rooms separated by a four or five foot wall and two steps. I wound up sleeping out there as she worked. Someone my inhibitions dropped away just before losing consciousness and I could moan, “Mommy” as I came. There were other instances, but none of them interesting. Her mumbling kiss me as we stood, frustrated to the point of screaming, trying to fix something in her shower. I wrote her a short, erotic email from a Yahoo account that I moved to her Trash folder. She found a boyfriend in another city and retired shortly thereafter. When it didn’t work out, she moved to Tennessee to live with my brother. When I heard they’d fallen out, I drove to see her.
I’d met a woman online who’d gotten me into cross-dressing and I took an outfit with me. She was staying in a one-room efficiency apartment to save money though she had several hundred thousand dollars, alimony, and social security. I ducked into the bathroom as soon as I arrived and changed. I’d come prepared. I had a bottle of dexedrine, a small bag of weed, and a bottle of wine. Her jaw dropped when I stepped out of the bathroom. “That,” she said, “is the real you.”
We opened the wine and sat on the sofa and I fed her a dexedrine. What began with pecks on the cheek that she rebuffed when they grew to more turned to me pulling my dress up and touching myself – – – I’d begun shaving my crotch – – – and begging her to finger my ass. The weed came out at some point and thirteen hours later, during our second dose of dexedrine, I asked, “Why are you being so reluctant?”
“You call this reluctant?” She asked, stood, and stripped off her top.
I embraced her and slid my hand between her thighs as we began to kiss and she came in my arms. Sex was not good. I couldn’t get hard and she ground her pussy against me – – – I’ve never felt such a wet pussy before or since – – – and I presume she came. Looking up at her, bouncing and grinding above me, I remember thinking that she looked like my brother. I felt molested. When I pushed her off me, desperate for gratification though it felt wrong, I asked her to play with my penis. She grasped my foreskin between her fingers and painfully pulled it down the head of of my penis. I pushed her off me, suddenly angry, and returned to the sofa. I thought she was awake in bed, but I found out later she wasn’t. I remember packing my things, sitting back down, shaking my head, and leaving.
I could have sworn she saw me, knew I was leaving, but she swore afterward that I was asleep. At any rate, for reasons I could only articulate years later, I couldn’t resist the compulsion to make the drive again the next weekend. I showed up on no notice and we kissed and she held me in her arms and told me how hurt she had been and of course I apologized and told her I could just drop to my knees and eat her out. And I did. I dropped to my knees on kitchen floor and pulled her pants off. She steadied herself on the kitchen counter and I licked her pussy, whining with excitement until I was sure she came. We moved to the bed and I couldn’t get erect, so I fell to her breasts. “No hands,” she whispered. “Use your mouth. In and out as hard as you can.” It came very naturally. An oblivion of black need enveloped me. Her breast offered me nothing and everything and I couldn’t get enough, couldn’t get the belly full of milk I needed, but a suckled and suckled until she moved me to her other nipple. Finally, I slid down between her legs and fell asleep with my head on the inside of her thigh, adrift in the smell of her pussy. When we woke the next morning, I still couldn’t get an erection. Finally, I was able to penetrate her from behind and fuck my mommy for the first time. Cumming in her was . . . the word “sublime” applies to nothing in this world, absolutely nothing, but cumming in your mommy’s pussy. It’s everything you want, everything you ever did want, everything you ever could want, given to you for a few fleeting seconds. I realized as the years passed that she must have known when she was pregnant with me that she was making me a penis so I could fuck her. Part of the reason I even exist is to fuck my mommy.
Things are hazy for a while after that. I spent one week on, one week off with her. Sex was difficult – – – the sight of her pussy scared the shit out of me. She blew me for the first time in a hotel room. Frustrated at her not allowing me to cum, I grabbed her head and thrust up into her mouth. She deftly gripped my foreskin between her teeth, peeling it back, and I shrieked and came. She also sucked my dick on the way to the adult novelty store to buy a dildo. I had purchased the harness from Amazon without telling her and she was anxious to try it. I had forgotten my license and couldn’t go in but wasn’t upset when she came out with a ten and a half inch monster.
The first time she fucked me took a little coordination. I was dressed up in drag, of course, and she tried mounting me from behind but that was too painful so I insisted that I sit on the sofa and she kneel and push into me. She dragged me onto the carpet with her and I locked my legs behind her neck and pulled her into me while I squealed and whined and screamed for more. After an hour and forty-five minutes, fifteen minutes after I’d stopped begging for it, she pulled out and climbed into bed. I knelt beside her and cupped her hand over my balls. She squeezed while I jerked off on her breasts, then fell to lick it off.
Naturally, after two months, she abandoned her efficiency apartment and returned to live with me. She showered me with clothing, lingerie, makeup, money for my hair, anything and everything. I would stay dressed as her little girl for days on end. Sometimes she called me a slut during sex. I’m still not entirely sure if it wasn’t because, every time she beckoned me upstairs, I gladly followed. Mommy *never* turned me away when I was dressed as her little girl. I would seldom undress. She’d strip off her clothes and lie back in bed, leaving her socks for me to remove, then I’d hike my dress or skirt up and pull my little-girl-clit out of my panties – – – I always wore garters – – – and fumble trying to enter her. Once inside her, I’d grow hard. Sex settled into a wonderful rhythm as time went by. Mommy took the standpoint at first that we had become lovers and I very firmly guided her away from it. We were mother and son, no more. I remember . . . .
I remember cumming in my Mommy’s pussy and pulling back and looking down at it, desperate for more, and diving face first to lick her (my dick’s large enough for this not to be disgusting). I remember feeling her twitch in orgasm around my cock and hearing her murmur, “Next one,” and coming when it happened again and hearing merely, “told you.” She had her own bedroom and seemed very self-conscious about crowding me so we only slept together every other night. Eventually, she bought a condo in the same neighborhood and set up the cherry four-poster bed I’d had as a fifteen-year-old in the spare bedroom. She practically barred me from her bedroom. I would spend days in her condo, done up in makeup and lingerie, posing for her, teasing her, until she followed me upstairs on one of my trips and then we’d rut like animals on my childhood bed. “Don’t go soft,” she said once as she took my penis in her mouth and I understood why her blowjobs had been so unpleasant. By this point, the lightest graze of her teeth could make me go limp.. “Like any good mother would,” she’d say, pulling back, after drinking my cum.
So what does a good son do? Besides loving his mother more than he ever thought was possible? Besides promising her his dick only belongs in her pussy – – – the first two or three times I said that, she didn’t even blink. The fourth, she smiled and nodded. A good son fights through the fear of belonging to his mommy further with his desperation to submit to her pussy and pump his cum into her womb. She came so easily. The touch of my dick at her lips would start her head bucking on the pillow. “Mommy,” I’d tell her. “That’s you little boy’s dick inside her. Look at me Mommy.” I’d hold her head still and pry her eyes wide. “I’m your son and I’m fucking you. Your own son if fucking you, Mommy. Your baby boy’s dick is making you cum.” I felt no please, none. Not during the first half of sex. Then when my excitement began to build, Mommy knew. I knew. I was going to become more hers if I came inside her. Cumming inside her was my reward for fucking her and cumming inside her was pleasureless too. I swear. Just the sense of gobs and gobs of cum pumping through my urethra into Mommy’s pussy. My reward was the bliss that followed. I love that she saw that, that she knew when she saw that, saw the fear and desperation on her son’s face fade to peace and bliss as he came inside her. Then she must have known why I’d needed to fuck her all those years. Then, when the “everything” subsided, the floodgates of need would open. I’d fall to her breast or sometimes hold her in my arms, shaking like a leaf, repeating, “I need you, Mommy. I need you so fucking much,” for five or ten minutes on end. She sat silently and simply let me, just as she spread her arms wide and let me nurse, which bothered me a bit, that she didn’t cradle my head, but then I never fingered her pussy.
Mommy loved my ass. She bought fifteen containers of vasoline and I learned to absolutely love getting fucked. She showed me how much I loved being her slut, not with what she said or did. She just let me find it. If it had been another woman, I would have thought it perversion. But with Mommy, it was simply who I am. I need cock in my ass. It sets me free in a way that simply nothing else can.
But my very favorite memory is of Mommy rolling me off her and going down on my navel. Christ, I screamed. I never had the nerve to ask her to do it again and she never did.
I understand things so much better now, things I couldn’t work out in the midst of it. I knew early on that Mommy was the only woman who would ever be everything to me, unending love that could never fade, from birth till death, simply because she’s my mommy and I’m her baby. There was no romance to it. She even dated for a year of two of our time together without interrupting our relationship and I felt no jealousy, no betrayal. We would show up at her boyfriend’s, stinking of sex, and he would pretend not to notice as I sat across from him in a red lace dress and white fishnet stockings and complimented his spaghetti. I swear, I would have snuck out on my wedding night to be with Mommy so she could be sure she hadn’t lost me. Also because I know she would have enjoyed cleaning my bride’s pussy from my dick before I fucked her.
I understand now that I belong to my mommy. The thought had always entered my mind as a mixture of dark fantasy and fear. Now I see it’s simply so and all I can control is my reaction to it. I see that my dick only belongs in her pussy, that my ass can get around and my clit can get sucked (after a good, long fucking when it’s nice and limp), but my dick only belongs in her pussy. I cum for her pussy every night as a form of worship almost. I know somehow she would rather I cum for her pussy than for her. Her cunt has pulled me through life, this way and that, and it has finally led me here, a slave to my desires, one of which is the desire to remain devoted to her. I resent the years we lost. I don’t understand how she could have deprived me of completing our relationship for so long. I think of the love and life we could have shared and grow angry and sad. I wish I could offer Mommy my ass one last time. Instead, I see the smile on her face the last time she pulled back from my dick, as though drinking my cum had been exactly what she wanted.
My penis was a gift from my mommy. I’ll rub it tonight and, as always, fall adrift in a sea of love for Mommy. It will feel so natural, so right, then so perfect, and when it feels that everything is as it should be, pulling on my cock, promising Mommy eternal devotion, I’ll cum for her pussy. Then I’ll shake my head, a bit embarrassed, and get on with my night. I’m my mommy’s little boy and there are no barriers, just the shameless, unabashed love and need I feel for her that she always wanted to accept and give what she always needed to but could not, what I so desperately wanted in return. Just as I was under the impression many years ago that she needed something so paltry and meaningless reassurance she was loved, she probably thought probably thought that she’d be fulfilling a kink of mine to allow me to fuck her. Ironically, I discovered that I loved nothing more than being turned into who I already was but couldn’t accept. Her? I like to believe she got more out of it than what she claimed was the best sex of her life, but who knows?
I mentioned that I don’t particularly get off on my own stuff. I tracked down a few of the stories I enjoyed cumming to when I was younger if you’d like to look, in alphabetical order not by order of preference.