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 made the ten hour drive again the next week. She told me how hurt she had been, and also told me that she had never had an experience like she did they day after we kind-of fucked. She said that she was buzzing, that she sat on the sofa all day and couldn’t stop masturbating. The second time we had sex, I was sitting on the sofa and she was bouncing atop me, which gave me access to her mouth and breasts. When I grabbed her hips and forced her into grinding her pussy against me, she told me she loved me. A few minutes later, she tried to rise off me but I wouldn’t let her. She gaped and whimpered for a bit but began to enjoy herself again and I remember begging with what felt like the voice of an eight-year-old girl for her to get off me – – – blacking out when you cum is overrated. The first time we had sex, earlier that afternoon, I fell to her breasts afterward. “No hand,” she said. “Use your mouth. Pull it in as hard as you can and push it out again.” Over time, I learned that her milk ducts opened if I ran the tip of my tongue over her nipple as I pushed her breast out of my mouth in my endless nursing.
It’s hard to explain what nursing at Mommy’s tits was like. It was a black oblivion of need. She never cradled my head and I never cared. She occasionally moved me to the other breast when she became too tender. Generally, I became too excited to maintain coordination and my whimpering forced me to stop, but not until after I’d begun humping her leg. She was the worst kisser. She would latch onto my lower lip and suck as hard as she could, which was erotic, but not sensual. You can say so much with a kiss and I tried to show her that. I don’t remember if it was before or after she fucked my ass for the first time that, after sex, she rolled me off her and went down on my belly button. I began to scream immediately and she stopped because of the thin walls.
We went to the adult store to look for lingerie for me and she picked out something that I didn’t like. I’d ordered the harness for a dildo before coming but . . . maybe it was lack of nerve but I remember driving back to the sex shop late that night as she sucked my dick. I’d forgotten my license and the store was closing. I asked for something about seven inches. She came out with something about ten inches.
The next day, she lubed it up with vasonline and I dropped to my knees and forearms on the bed and she got so caught up in having a dick that she fucked everything except my ass. Finally, when she began to push into me (I’d not yet learned how to loosen myself up quickly and well) it was too much for me to take. I got away from her and she begged me to give it another shot. I got on the sofa and lifted my legs. Awkwardly, she entered me. I begged her in pain to stop but she didn’t listen. Once she was inside me, she pulled me onto the floor and I locked my ankles behind her neck and we fucked for a bit after I stopped begging for more, about an hour and forty-five minutes, her hand over my mouth through some of it. We got a hotel room so we could have privacy, but we argued that night. The arguments had been there through my twenties, relationship ending arguments except we were mother and son. They dropped to five minutes of hostility and then disappeared all together.
She bought me so many clothes. And makeup. And lingerie. When she came to live with me, she began paying for my hair which was already long and grew longer over the years. It was bliss. We shared a life that I wish so, so much had extended back for ten years before. Mommy wanted to take the stance that we were mother and son and that we were also lovers, but I guided her towards thinking that we were a mother and son who had incorporated sex into our relationship. Somehow, there was too little space for the two of us. I was working on a software product at home and stopped. She bought a condo in the same neighborhood and moved her furniture into it. One of those pieces of furniture was the cherry four-poster bed that I’d had in my late teens. Fucking in that bed was intensely . . . gratifying. The odd thing is that I stopped enjoying most of my orgasms. The pattern solidified over the years. I would fuck her, peeling her eyes open which shut between orgasms, saying, “I’m your little boy, Mommy. I’m your son. Your baby boy is fucking you.” I’d feel nothing, just the bliss of knowing I was fucking my mother. Then the pleasure. And the fear. I saw it on her face and I knew it was true, that I would become more hers when I came inside her. Sometimes my desperation to cum couldn’t stand up the the fear and I pulled out of her and dropped to her breast until my whimpers kept me from nursing and then I’d wrap her in my left arm and we’d kiss and share affectionate words while I jerked my cock. “I’m going to cum for you. I’m going to cum for my Mommy. Good boys always cum for their mommies.” It always ended with that. When my desperation to cum conquered my fear, I’d only feel the sensation of cum pumping through my urethra and I felt . . . dutiful. Then the bliss and emotional gratification that no orgasm could hold a candle to. For a handful of seconds, everything I wanted, everything I had ever wanted, every thing I could ever want was all given to me. It’s the only thing I’ve ever experienced that I would ascribe the word “sublime” to. Most people don’t know what that word means. Later, I wondered what felt like to her to see the the fear and desperation on her son’s face melt to bliss as she felt him cum inside her.
She never turned me away when I was dressed as a woman, and would often call me upstairs at other times and strip at the foot of the bed, and lie back in it. I’d pull her socks off and rise up between her thighs, lifting her legs over my shoulders, and we’d screw. If I lifted a dress, or pulled off a pair of panties, she’d often comment on what a slut I am.
The first time I told her that my dick only belonged in her pussy, not one muscle on her face twitched. It wasn’t until the third time that she smiled and nodded. If Mommy hadn’t fucked my ass, I’d probably have hang-ups about it. If it happened with another woman, I’d ascribe it to her perversion and the bad memories of a failed relationship but because it was Mommy showing me how much I love cock in my ass, I was and remain completely at home with it.
One thing I discover that I have a talent for is lounging around in lingerie. I’d tease Mommy endlessly, “absentmindedly” sticking poses, rubbing my penis as I stood at the kitchen counter, swaying my ass, bending over, for hours while she read the same page of the paper. Then I’d walk up to her and pull out my penis and press it to her lips. She only let me fuck her face once. The rest of the time – – – the sofa had a plate glass mirror above it and that wall grew hand-prints quickly. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, that compares to watching your face, all done up, framed by long blond hair, contort as you whine, your mommy sucking your dick. Her blowjobs were . . . it developed. They were painful at first, unpleasant, and the first time I actually came was when I grabbed her head and bucked up into her mouth, just once. Whether it was intentional or not, she peeled my foreskin back with her teeth and I screamed and she pulled back, sucking and gasping for air. Over time – – – and she always swallowed – – – she conditioned me to go soft with the slightest graze of her teeth. I didn’t realize it was intention until she said, “Don’t go soft” before taking me into her mouth. By then, I had asked her to always be gentle. Her loving, gentle blowjobs were torture. She preferred that I lie entirely still and not make a sound. She rolled my limp penis around in her mouth and sucked at it until she drank my cum as through through a straw. I suspected she usually came because she so often fell asleep afterwards. And because once, when I asked her to suck my dick, she responded with a startled, “You want me to?”
Sex with Mommy was sating myself on her. Rather than slowing down, she became increasingly turned on by me until she would cum at the touch of my dick at the mouth of her pussy, her head thrashing up and down off the pillow, the tendons in her neck bulging out, and her eyes as wide as saucers. She would climax – – – I just don’t know – – – but at least eight and perhaps as many as twenty times before my own excitement caused me to no longer notice, and indeed I suspect that the sight of my excitement might have halted her orgasms, though I don’t know. She told me I’m the best fuck she ever had, and at another time that I’m the hottest piece of ass in the state, but she’s my mommy so I don’t know that counts for much. Oh, if the orgasm count is difficult to believe, sex would typically last between twenty and forty-five minutes. I have a video of us fucking for an hour and fifteen. Once, though, I came on the second stroke in her pussy, immediately mounted her breasts and came on the first stroke in her mouth. That was the one time she would let me fuck her face, immediately after sex – – – but only if I were in drag and had only lifted my penis, not my balls, out of my panties. I’d prop pillows behind her head and mount her breasts and say, “Tell me how your cunt tastes on my dick.” She’d grip with her lips and let me screw her mouth till I came down her throat. Then she’d fall asleep.
I’m not sure how much more there is to write other than that simultaneous orgasm is achievable. I remember feeling her cum around my dick and her saying, “Next one,” and cumming when I felt her pussy contracted again. “I told you,” she said.
I still have the clothes, I’ve bought more even. I’ve even learned how to do makeup. I can’t pay for my hair as much as I’d like. I hate shaving – – – I want a woman who’ll go halfsies on a waxing. I’ve learned how to be a good girl, then a tease, then a slut. I still remember the last time she slid her lips off my dick. She was smiling at the corners of her mouth, so happy to suck my dick, as she said, “Like any good mother would.”
I’ve made self-discoveries since then. I realize that, when she was pregnant, she must have felt that she was making me a penis so I could fuck her. That explains why I felt dutiful as I came inside her, because it’s part of the reason I exist. I used to feel that cumming in Mommy was my reward for fucking her, and that she loved me more for it, which allowed us to feed on each other endlessly. But I can see now that Mommy was rewarding me with the opportunity to be a good son. As I told her so often, she’s everything to me, that she’s the only woman who ever could be everything to me. She loved me before I was born because I was hers and she knew I would always love her. And I am hers. I always was, I think, even before I spit my soul into her womb. Regardless, I have no control over it. All I can hope to have influence over is how I feel about belonging to Mommy. When Mommy pounded my ass with her ten and a half inch cock . . . perhaps I had control over telling her how I loved her dick and begging for more, but I had no control over loving it, and was too paralyzed by submission and pleasure to get away. It was in those moments that, more than any other time, I truly understood what it’s like to belong to my mommy.
One final note. There was zero romantic love between us. We enjoyed a heightened sense of love, but with our inability to feel insecure, there was merely a buzz. We were mother and son, nothing more. But because of how close we were, by incorporating sex and, later, unbridled intimacy, into our relationship, we blew down the doors and let the love flow shamelessly between us. You simply would not believe how much I love my mommy, again, not as a lover, a girlfriend, a wife, but as a mother. I understand now that I need her, that I always need her, something that I simply never could have been okay with if it weren’t for the fucking and moments following. What does it feel like to sit nude in bed, your son clutching you, shaking like a leaf, repeating again and again, “I need you. I need you, Mommy.” I curse my cowardice and the time we could have had. And I’m angry about the future her death robbed me of. I watch that video of me licking her pussy on the home page and feel angry at her for having deprived me of it for so long. I still don’t understand her, only what she showed me in a way that I never once suspected . . . I’d just discover something about myself and know she’d guided me there without me for one minute realizing it. And I know also that her cunt has led me through life, turning me this way and that. I swear, I’ve been gripped by my love for my mother, not some hybrid of God knows what. She isn’t my type.