Katherine, Female, 34

	- Mother of Michael

	- 5'7, 140lbs, beige skin, mahogany hair to her neck

Michael, Male, 15

	- Son of Katherine, suffers from Coffin-Lowry syndrome

	- 5'3, 105lbs, beige skin, cropped medium-brown hair

There are few situations in life which are harder to deal with than caring for a child with very special needs. I should know. I'm Katherine. My son Michael was born when I was nineteen, a pregnancy I almost terminated but decided, after weeks of weighing things, to see through. I was unmarried and in college. To say the least, it changed my life immediately. I had to miss classes towards the end of my pregnancy, and, as it would turn out, I never got the chance to finish my degree.

I was a happy mom, though. I loved Michael with all my heart and though I had to work a couple of dead-end, low-wage jobs to support us, I found a way to do it.

Things got hard within a few months of his birth. He wasn't thriving the way our pediatrician thought was normal, Michael not growing as fast as expected, so tests were performed. I was devastated to learn that my son had Coffin-Lowry syndrome (CLS.) It meant he would have moderate-to-severe learning disabilities, physical challenges, and would never have what I thought of as a normal life.

CLS is a genetic disorder that affects about one in fifty-thousand births. There was a range of affectation in mental and physical abilities and it was far too soon to know where Michael might fall in that range. There was no cure, and nothing but supportive therapy as he got older. I was heartbroken.

My Mom and Dad helped out in those early days, supporting me both financially and emotionally, and my sister Kristen helped, as well. Michael grew slowly. Like most kids with CLS, his coordination, physical growth, and learning were slow to develop. By the time he should have been walking easily on his own, he was barely crawling. His words were not discernible as words until he was almost six, and his sentences were not intelligible until he was eight.

There were countless physical and behavioral therapy sessions. He went to special classes for school. I was dedicated to my son and I ensured that he got to every class, every appointment, thanks, often, to my parents and sister. Michael was a beautiful boy, though he had many of the characteristics of a CLS child. Wide-set eyes and a large forehead. A broad nose. Large ears. Short fingers.

Even once he could walk it was often with the assistance of me or a therapist or someone in my family. He had a wheelchair which was used regularly. The physical therapists worked with him for years to try to help him use it less, but it was an uphill battle and proceeded very slowly.

It was a burden on me and those close to me. Such is the case for everyone with a special needs child. I joined support groups and met many parents in similar situations. It helped me to talk to people who understood about the challenges Michael and I faced. I did the best I could given how difficult life could be with Michael.

He was a surprisingly happy boy, though. That seems to be a theme with CLS kids. They can often be cheerful, content in each moment regardless of what was going on. That was a big help. Many of the parents in my support group dealt with children with autism or other disorders where mood swings and anger and despondency were regularly displayed by their kids. Rarely was Michael angry or emotionally down. That was something I was extremely thankful for.

He could mostly care for himself once he was about ten. He'd gotten pretty good with the wheelchair or using walls and furniture to get where he needed in our home. Michael used the toilet on his own. He could bathe reasonably well. Though his coordination wasn't great, he did alright most of the time.

Sometimes, Michael was having a tough day and I'd have to help him wipe or to wash him in the tub. I never minded. It was a joy to be around Michael even with the deep-set sadness his condition had brought me.

Puberty hit around his fourteenth birthday. He started to grow a bit faster and there were suddenly hairs over his lip. His ability to move about regressed, though, and Michael needed the wheelchair more often. He needed more assistance bathing and on the toilet. I knew this was not unusual for CLS kids. I hoped the backward slide didn't last long or grow worse.

Over that period, from my pregnancy with Michael to the summer he was fifteen, I never seriously dated anyone. I went out with my sister or a couple of close friends I'd made in the parents groups, but the idea of romance with anyone felt alien. I didn't have time, or energy, for that sort of thing. I was asked out a time or two but I always declined.

I think I was rather pretty, though I knew the years caring for Michael had added lines to my face. I was fairly average height and weight, dark mahogany hair that I usually kept trimmed around my neck, beige skin which bordered on pale if I didn't get enough sun. My breasts were motherly, moderately weighted, areolae dark red with small nipples. The curve of my hips looked really good in a pair of tight slacks or jeans. I expected I had been referred to as a MILF at some point behind my back.

But the last guy I'd had sex with was over fifteen years in my past. Michael's father was the last, and I hadn't seen him since I'd told him I was pregnant all those years earlier. Michael never asked about him, and I tried my best to forget the man existed. He didn't matter, anyway. Michael and I did just fine together without him.

I did masturbate. How could I not? My life was full of worry and tight deadlines and stressful appointments. Playing with myself gave me a few minutes of pleasure and release. I did it in the bathroom, usually, and sometimes at night in my bed. I fantasized about having sex again one day, but it was an idle thing, not a serious hope that I would work towards. With Michael being the focus of my energy, I couldn't see ever having the time or stamina to entertain a lover.

The summer Michael was fifteen changed many things for me and for him. As his ability to walk and care for himself were diminished, I had to take on more of a caretaker role than before. More like when he was a toddler, in some ways. Michael's communication skills abruptly became toddler-like, too. He'd been doing well with words and making his thoughts understood, but that summer he started to regress to mumbled nonsensical phrases, only sometimes being lucid and clearly understood. Again, it was heartbreaking.

My father had died the previous year and while most of his estate went to my Mom, he'd set aside almost $150,000 for me and Michael that he wanted us to have when he passed. It made a huge difference the next year during Michael's regression. I was able to work only part-time and the rest of my hours each day were spent with Michael.

I wheeled him on long walks through the parks in the area. We went to see an outdoor concert or two, which Michael always seemed to enjoy. We went out to eat on the days when Michael was able to use his fork effectively. I loved my son so much, and while it was difficult seeing him lose the gains he'd made over the previous years, I never regretted the moments I spent with him.

It all started to move in a new direction that summer. He was having a day where coordination was difficult, and so I'd helped him to the bathroom in his wheelchair. I turned on the water in the tub and began to undress him. When I pulled off his sweatpants and underwear, I saw something I'd never seen on Michael before.

He had an erection.

I'd seen my son naked many times out of necessity. I'd noticed the way his genitals had grown, slowly perhaps, but they had matured over the past few years. I'd immediately seen the small dark hairs which finally showed up between his thighs when he was fourteen. Since his birth, I'd probably touched Michael's penis ten-thousand times or more. And it was nothing any loving mother would have done differently.

But in all that time, not once had his penis been erect. I stood staring at it a moment. I'd not seen an erect penis in person in over fifteen years, and for a minute or so, it didn't even matter that it was my son's.

His cock was beautiful. Six or so inches long and moderately thick, it, along with his testicles, were the only parts of him to have developed fairly normally. His flesh was reddish and light brown, a few freckles dotting the shaft. It throbbed lightly with his heartbeat.

There was nothing sexual in my awareness of my son's erection. I didn't even think beyond that moment, soon helping Michael into the bath where together we washed him clean. His penis softened for a while but grew again when I wiped a soapy cloth around his groin. He smiled when I did that. But then, he regularly smiled. It wasn't really that unusual.

At one of the parent support group meetings, I was talking with a woman who had become a close friend. Marsha was a mother of a child with CLS. Her daughter, Jessica, then in her twenties, was better able to care for herself, and though they still lived together with Marsha's husband, the girl was able to work part-time at a grocery store and was largely independent.

"And just last week, Jessica said she liked a boy!" Marsha told me, bubbling with pride.

"Seriously?" I asked. "That's a big step forward for her."

"Huge." Marsha replied. "She's mentioned boys a few times in her life, but never really seemed to care about relationships. I've met this boy a few times, and though he's a bit slow himself, he's a cutie. He works at the same grocery store, bagging and whatnot."

"Do you think," I asked gently, "they'll get to the point of, you know, sex?"

Marsha shrugged, "Probably. If he likes her back. Why not? She's perfectly capable of making that decision."

"Even with the challenges?"

"Even with the challenges. Jessica is aware of her body and mature enough. If she wants to have sex with him, she'll have my blessing. I worried that she'd never have a chance to so much as fall in love, let alone be intimate. There were years where I wondered if she'd be able to hold a job. If she would like to have sex, who am I to try to stop her?"

I nodded, silent.

"Michael," Marsha said gently, "not likely he'll get there, is there?"

Shaking my head, I replied, "No... no, unfortunately, this past year or two has been a big step back, as you know. No, he'll never be able to fall in love or have sex..."

"Shame..." she said with sadness.

"Not like he isn't physically able, I assume." I added. I told Marsha about my son's erection before and during the bath. "But mentally, I don't think he'll ever be there."

"Wish there was something we could do to fix all this. CLS sucks."

It got me thinking about Michael and sexuality and what he might be feeling. Was he like other boys his age? Thinking sexual thoughts? Frustrated by not finding release? Michael's coordination wasn't great that summer, at least most of the time, and I doubted he could even masturbate if he wanted to. I was around him enough that I should have noticed if he was playing with himself. I never saw him so much as notice that he had a penis, not even when it was erect in the tub.

How hard that must be, I thought, to never be able to get that release. Even if mentally he didn't understand and held no context for what that might mean, his body was mature enough for sexual release. The hair on his privates and the size and hardness of his penis made that clear. Would my son go though his life with perpetual blue balls?

It made me speak to a physical therapist I trusted one afternoon while another therapist was working with Michael.

"I have a... weird... question for you," I told the woman.

"Ask away," she said.

"The other day, I noticed my son had an erection. Do you... do you know if that might be a source of frustration for him?"

The therapist eyed me seriously. "Not sure I understand."

"You know... other fifteen year olds can... take care of themselves. There's no way Michael can do that. It just seems like... I dunno. I don't want him frustrated if there's something we could do to help. Some drug that makes it better. Some therapy. I dunno."

The therapist shrugged. "Nothing comes to mind. It sounds like he's a very normal teen boy in that aspect."

"Except he'll never have sex or even the prospect of some relief..."

"True," she replied. "Sorry, I can't think of anything to do for him."

"Alright, thanks..."

I couldn't put the image of my son's erect penis aside. I grew frustrated on his behalf. The next few weeks, when I bathed him or helped with the toilet, Michael was often erect. He talked rarely over those days, but he was still a happy lad, and despite his surely-frustrating erections, he seemed not to notice it too much.

But I certainly did. I became somewhat fixated on it. It wasn't even really sexual to me. I wanted my son to know that relief. I was heartbroken to think he would never be able to masturbate, never ejaculating unless his body forced it out in the night, which I never found in his underwear. I wanted him to feel that release. To orgasm.

That's why I found myself laying on my bed with him late one evening not long after my conversation with the therapist, an idea growing in my mind. Michael slept in my bed often, though he had his own in my room where he slept at times. It wasn't unusual for him to be naked. I changed his clothes or bathed him daily, so his nudity was nothing new. He was on his back, and his beautiful penis was erect and bobbing slightly. Michael never pulled the sheets over himself before we turned off the lights to sleep. This night, I had something to do before I covered his naked body.

Yes, Michael was my son, but in many ways, our emotional relationship was much different than mother-and-child. He depended on me, but I depended on him, too. He brightened my day with his smile. He was always happy to see me. We spent more time together in a single year than many married couples do in a lifetime. We'd been through much hell together and so far we were still alive.

It was with great love and greater intentions that I slid my hand over his body and took hold of Michael's penis. "Michael," I asked him, "would you like to try something new tonight?"

He gave no responses and I didn't expect any. I don't know why I bothered asking, really. But I often spoke to my son without expecting a response. That's just how it went some days.

"I want you to feel something you'll like a lot. This is going to feel good, okay?"

My son just grinned and moved his arms a bit on the bed. I cocked myself onto my elbow and watched his cock twitch in my hand.

A shiver of fear and doubt and shame ran through me but I didn't release Michael's penis.

I'm his mother! But I was also his caregiver. I was doing him a kindness, I hoped. It wasn't about me. It wasn't about how we were related. I wanted Michael to feel good for a few minutes. I hoped he could understand.

I slowly moved my fingers up and down his shaft, drawing the skin along with my motions. Michael's cock pulsed and remained rigid. I gripped a bit tighter and I could feel the heat of his flesh much better in my hand. It felt really nice to hold a hard cock again after so many years. Michael's was about perfect, I thought, and I didn't care in that moment that it was my son's penis I was stroking.

Michael's small movements relaxed and stopped. His grin remained and he mumbled something that I couldn't understand.

"Does this feel good?" I asked.

His response was, "Mm-go," which in recent Michael-speak probably meant it felt good.

I saw drops of moisture appear in the small hole at the tip of my son's cock. It began to shimmer as it gained volume, then slid down the side of his penis and over my hand. More flowed out of his slit. My son was releasing precum, and soon, it was coating his shaft and my fingers. He became slippery, and the precum started to froth into a whitish foam as I continued to slowly stroke him.

Michael's body rose slightly, his hips up from the bed. "Mm-go," he said again. "Mm-go."

I shuffled my hand along his length, only a little faster than before. I drew out my motions, wrapping around the head of his penis before sliding back down his shaft. He seemed to like that, letting out a small giggle each time my hand swept up and down.

His flesh became more slick and sticky as precum continued to flow freely from the tip. My son's body then convulsed, his abdomen sucked in, his legs flattened stiffly. "Nng-nng-nng-nnnnnnnng," he groaned. I knew what was about to happen and I watched my son in amazement.

A thick rope of white cum shot up into the air several feet and a second was airborne before the first had fully landed. "Nnnnnnnng." The sticky fluids landed on his stomach and thighs, on my arm and hand. A third, fourth, fifth shot of sperm flew out, my son's ejaculation more forceful than any I'd seen, rivaling anything I'd seen in a porn video. "Nnnnnnng." Six, seven, eight times. I lost count after that.

Cum covered his midsection and much of my arm, the warm semen quickly cooling on my skin. Sperm continued to bubble out of my son's penis after his forceful jets stopped. I slowed my strokes and held still, suddenly unable to make my fingers open from Michael's cock.

My son giggled and turned his head towards me. He didn't say a word, but his eyes said, 'Thank you.' I kissed his forehead and told him, "I love you, Michael."

Slowly, reluctantly even, I let go of my son's penis and slid off the bed, grabbing a towel and a canister of wet wipes, then spent several good minutes cleaning up the both of us. Michael's penis throbbed a few times but largely remained flaccid throughout.

I kissed his forehead again after pulling the sheets over us and told him again that I loved him. There really was nothing terribly sexual in what I'd done. My son needed release. I did what I thought was best for him. At least he'd have that moment, I thought, to know the touch of a woman. Even if that woman was his mother. He wouldn't go his entire life without knowing that.

- - -

The next morning was one of the most confusing in my life. I felt ashamed. I'd jerked off my own son! Incest was never in my thoughts when I'd stroked Michael to orgasm and then cleaned the cum from his body and mine. It wasn't sexual to me. And yet, I knew I could never talk to anyone about those moments. What we'd done was illegal in several ways. He was my son. He was fifteen. He couldn't really consent, legally or emotionally.

I felt numb for a while even as I went through the day, feeding us both and doing some cleaning around the house. Incest. I never thought that word would describe something I'd done in my life. I told myself I'd never touch my son that way again. I told myself it was a one-time kindness, nothing more. I loved my son. I didn't want to add incest to his troubles.

And yet, I'd enjoyed what we'd shared. Despite my shame, I didn't actually regret jerking off my son. He needed it, I told myself. He enjoyed it. While I was certain of that, Michael couldn't make clear to me that it was true. That part was very difficult to wrestle with.

- - -

I might have partially intended that night to be a singular event, but a few days later I found myself showing my son the same kindness. I jerked him off in the bathtub this time. Michael was leaning against one end of the tub and his penis was above the water, erect, pleading with me to bring it comfort. Michael smiled, oblivious, I thought, to his erection or my conflicted emotions.

But I soon wrapped my fingers around his cock and stroked it slowly until Michael ejaculated a large volume of cum again, some of it flying forwards and splashing on my face. For just a second, our intimacy became sexual for me. The warm cum which was slowly sliding down my cheek was arousing, and even as I let go my son's penis as it softened, I felt horny.

I cleaned Michael quickly and helped him to dress and get back in his wheelchair, then parked him in front of the television where I put on a silly movie that he had always liked.

I closed myself in my bedroom and lay down. My son's cum was still drying on my cheek. I unzipped my jeans and slid my hand into my panties. I was wet there. I knew I'd become aroused, but it had been some years since I'd soaked my panties and left a puddle of sticky juices in them. More girl cream was held inside my vagina and it trickled out when I slipped two fingers inside.

I came quickly, fingering myself and thinking about the cum on my face. Michael's cum. My son's cum. I was hyper-aroused and kept playing with myself until I'd had a second, soon a third orgasm. Only then did I feel again the shame and guilt and I rushed to clean myself up and quickly rubbed Michael's semen from my skin.

- - -

A few more days later, I couldn't resist giving Michael another release. He'd seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood, even for him, in the days after the first intimate night. Cheerful, often humming to himself a bright tune, my son's mood kept mine lifted despite the shameful thoughts in my head. Everything felt different to me, perhaps negatively, and yet, Michael kept on going as if all was right with the world. It was yet another reminder that he may need me for a lot of things, I still needed my son's help, as well.

This time, Michael and I had gone for a walk. His coordination was rather good that day so he pushed his wheelchair ahead of him, holding the handles for stability, and we slowly made our way deep into the natural forest of pines and oaks and elm. The day had been overcast when we'd arrived, but no rain was in the forecast. It was a surprise to hear thunder booming nearby. Rain began to fall immediately, and I led Michael quickly to the picnic area in the middle of the woods.

It was little more than a small, peaceful clearing with a modest covered gazebo made from treated wood, two uncovered picnic tables, and trash and recycling containers. We got under the gazebo roof and I sat Michael next to me on the built-in bench.

As was usual for us, I talked to him with little response. He's said 'yes' or 'no' a couple of times that morning when I'd asked questions, which was a good sign those days.

The rain picked up and there was some lightning around. It scared me a lot, but we had no other place to seek shelter. The gazebo was exposed except directly overhead, and the driving rain soon soaked us completely. Thankfully, it was a warm summer.

Michael said two words together for the first time in weeks, "Go pee."

"You need to pee?" I asked for clarity.

"Need to pee," he responded flatly.

The lightning had moved away but the rain continued to pour down. There were few options. "Okay. Stand up, I'll help you."

He did and I moved us to the edge of the gazebo facing opposite the direction of the rain. I pulled his sweatpants down and took hold of his penis. It was flaccid, but because it was good size in general and also in relation to Michael's underdeveloped body, it still looked large. "Alright, Michael. You can pee now."

I held my son's penis as I had many times before. Over the years, when Michael's cognitive and motor skills were at their worst, if we found ourselves somewhere out and he needed to pee, it was often an urgent matter. There was no time to wait. I'd pull over the car and have him pee in a ditch, or I'd pull us off a path and have him do it out of sight of others. I usually had to hold his penis to ensure he didn't pee on his shoes.

And so, as my son's flow sprayed out the tip, I waited patiently with my soaking clothes sticking to my body. Michael urinated for a minute, then it trickled to a stop. Thanks to the rain, I didn't need to wipe him off.

But before I released him completely, his penis began to harden. It became erect in my hand.

Michael said with a smile, "Feel Good."

His words, repeating the ones I'd spoken to him that first night, compelled me to help my son again. I stroked him freely, not too worried about anyone coming by in the downpour. I had to carefully hold Michael upright with one arm while jerking him with the other. As he had twice before, when my son ejaculated, it was with volume and distance. Michael spurted thick ropes of cum out onto the grass several times before he finished.

He grinned the whole time, making small grunting noises as his body tensed and writhed. Once his penis softened again, I tucked it back in his underwear and pulled up his soaked sweatpants. I held my hand out in the rain to wash the small drops of Michael's sperm which had drooled onto my fingers.

There was nothing left to do but sit back down and wait out the heaviest of the rain.

- - -

For several weeks, things went much the same. Every two or three days, I'd jerk off my son and make him feel good. The shame and guilt gave way to a new sense of contentment. It became normal. Just something I did to make my son's life better. Other than that one time, when Michael had cum on my face, it was not sexual to me. Not really. I did what I did for my son, not for me. I didn't even masturbate thinking about it other than that night with my son's semen drying on my cheek.

Michael began to talk more. Nothing complicated, but his thoughts and intentions became more clear. At one point, I asked him, "Michael, do you like when I touch your penis?"

"Penis?" he asked. Sometimes, retaining vocabulary was difficult for him.

I often had to define words he'd known in days or weeks before. "The thing that gets hard down here." I placed my hand over his crotch and he smiled again.

"Feel good," he told me, "I feel good, yes."

"I like doing it," I said to my son, "it makes me feel good, too."

He laughed. "I like now."

I cocked an eyebrow. "Your penis isn't even hard right now."

He laughed again, "Mom make it hard."

I couldn't help laughing with him. "Is that so..."

We were seated on the couch and I began to caress my son's crotch through his sweats. Michael smiled and repeated, "Mom make it hard."

He was right, too. As I stroked him there, I felt his nice cock beginning to harden. Within seconds, my son's penis was erect. I pulled on the waist of his sweats and he rose slightly so that I could slide them down to his thighs. As had become normal for us by then, I wet my fingers and slowly stroked Michael's beautiful cock.

Up until then, though, I'd never really considered doing anything else. Not once, that I recall, had I thought about doing more for my son than a hand job. He loved it so much, and like I said, it wasn't sexual to me. Hand-jobs were the lowest form of sexual activity to me, and I wasn't doing it to be aroused.

Yet, as I stroked Michael's cock on the couch, I had an urge to do something new for him. "Would you like a special treat?" I asked my son.

"Treat like?"

"Well... something else on your penis you will like..."

He laughed. "Feel good."

"Yes, it will feel good."

"Feel good, okay."

That was as clear a consent as my son had ever given. Only I could decipher it so certainly, but that was my son saying to show him a new pleasure.

I knelt and pulled off Michael's sweats and underwear. His cock bobbed and I spread my son's legs. Wrapping my fist around the base of his penis, I moved my head closer. His flesh smelled warm and comforting. I liked being so close to my son's cock. I felt myself growing wet despite my intentions.

I slid my lips around the head of Michael's hard penis and slowly took him deeper in my mouth. He tasted wonderful. We'd just cleaned him in the bath and his flesh was lightly-meaty, only a little salty. The first dick I'd taken in my mouth in over fifteen years tasted like a rare mignon filet, so warm and juicy and robust on my tongue. I shuddered with each breath as I began to suck Michael's penis.

I hummed lightly along his length, and it didn't take long for my son to start groaning in a way I knew meant he was about to cum. I braced myself, sucking gently, moving my lips up and down his shaft. I knew Michael would cum a lot, and I worried I might choke on the volume.

"Nnnnnng," my son moaned, "Nnnnnng."

Hot fluids filled my mouth in long, thick spurts. I held my breath as the pungent saltiness washed over my tongue. Michael groaned, "Nnnnnng," and filled my mouth over long seconds. By the time he finished, I was nearly choking.

I slowly pulled off Michael's dick and closed my lips, swallowing his load in one gulp. There had never been any doubt I would swallow Michael's seed. It just felt right.

I looked up at Michael to see him smiling down at me. "Feel very good," he told me laughing, "Feel very very good."

I smiled broadly and I knew there was still a bit of his cum on my lips and teeth. "Me too, Michael. Me too."

"Feel good again, again," my son told me. For the first time, his hand slid to his penis and he shook it in front of me. "Again."

I doubted very much he would be able to get hard again, and my mouth was a bit sore from having not sucked a dick in many years. Plus, Michael's cock was rather thick and long. I was well out of practice and had never sucked one so large.

But I took Michael's penis between my lips again with no more hesitation, and despite my doubts, he was quickly erect and moments later spurted another, somewhat smaller, load down my throat.

This time he was satisfied. "Mom, thank you. Feel very very good."

"You're welcome. I love making you feel very very good."

- - -

From that point, there was no turning back. I'd accepted by then that Michael and I were going to be incestuous as long as we lived. He enjoyed it and I did too. I began masturbating after we were intimate, not yet adding Michael to those moments, but getting myself off while tasting Michael's cum in my mouth. And I sucked him off most of the time after that. I loved swallowing my son's seed.

Somewhere, deep in my mind, I had to know that we wouldn't stop at blow jobs. As summer turned to fall and then to winter, Michael slowly improved, more often capable of walking for distance unaided. Conversations moved up to about a fourth grade level. Complete sentences were again the norm. He even grew an inch or two.

Puberty surely took its time with Michael, but by the winter holidays, it was clear my son was still developing. His pubic hair grew in thicker. His penis was longer and thicker. His loads tasted more salty and rich.

I couldn't help starting to wonder what it would feel like to take my son inside me. I masturbated to the thought of such an act. It took some time to make a conscious choice to do so, but on Christmas Day, Michael now fifteen-and-a-half, the moment was clear.

My son and I were in the living room, lounging on the couch together, his head on my shoulder, while we watched Miracle on 34th Street. Michael began to shuffle a bit beside me and then I realized he'd started masturbating. He'd been doing that sometimes over the recent weeks, sometimes to orgasm, but if I saw him doing it, I usually sucked him off myself.

I smiled when he grinned at me. "I'm horny," he said with mirth. "You make me horny, Mom."

His words were like soft butter in my ears. "You make me horny, too, Michael"

Michael pulled his cock out while I paused the movie, then I slid down and began to suck him as I'd done so often that year. He started to groan and moved his hips with my slowly-sliding lips. That was the moment I desperately wanted my son inside me.

I said gently, "Would you like to try something new? Something... more intimate?"

"Sure," my son said with a laugh, "I like trying intimate things with you. Yes."

I stood before him and shed the night shirt I'd been wearing with nothing underneath. My son had seen me naked often enough that he wasn't overly aroused just because I was naked. But I saw the eagerness in his eyes when I straddled his thighs on the couch and said, "I want to take you inside me, Michael. In my special place. I promise it will feel good."

He grinned and nodded.

I grasped my son's penis and moved myself into position. I wondered only briefly if this might be going too far, but that doubt was flushed as soon as I felt the heat from Michael's cock pressing into my vagina. I gasped, "Ohhmm..."

"Nnnnnnnng," Michael agreed.

I watched his face as his large penis opened me. He made me feel very tight. Maybe I was. It had been many years since a man had been inside me. Michael's father, the last to do so, had not been as big in size, though. I sucked in my breath, trying to take more of my son's cock into my pussy. God, I felt so stretched!

Slowly, very slowly, I moved up and down with only about half of my son's length inside me. I heard him groan in that urgent way, and I knew he was going to cum.

I never even considered pulling him out of me. I wanted to feel him ejaculate inside my cunt.

Michael groaned louder, "Nnnnnnngnnnnnngnnnnn..." and I felt warm wetness splashing in the depths of my vagina. My cunt twitched and without so much as touching my clitoris, I exploded in orgasm while my son came inside me.

Waves of pleasure rippled through me and into Michael and back into me. We rocked together, slowly despite the power of our mutual orgasms. My son's cum was trapped inside until he'd ejaculated so much that the overflow was forced out along the topside of his shaft. I felt it rushing down my thighs.

Michael's eyes were bright and excited. "Mom. Oh, Mom. I like that. I like that you feel good, too."

He was aware that I'd had an orgasm, the first really sexual comment he'd made which involved my pleasure. It made me tremble. I pulled my face close to his, and it only felt natural to kiss him as my vagina twitched and my son's penis throbbed small bubbles of cum inside me.

Our kiss was passionate even though Michael was unsure how to do it. He seemed to catch on quickly, and before long, our tongues were moving together. I broke away, flushed with pleasure and an emotional connection unlike any I'd ever known. "I love you, Michael. I love you so much." I felt his penis jumping with each heartbeat, still held deep inside me, still mostly erect.

"Mom. I love you. I love you, Mom."

I moved again as we kissed, slowly working my pussy down his cock. The volume of cum in my vagina made it wet and messy and it was easier to stretch myself to fit his length. We were soon rutting again, my son's penis smashing against my cervix. I still didn't have him all the way inside me.

I felt so full, and not just inside my twat. I was full of love. I was in love, strange as that may seem. Maybe it was the hormones released from our copulating together. Maybe it was some form of desperation. Whatever it was, it was real and I clung to that feeling with every nerve in my body.

Together, we milked Michael to another orgasm, my vagina again overflowing with my son's seed. I rode his half-hard penis to my second, as well, and then I was spent.

We kissed awhile, cum still on his cock and balls and groin, my pussy freely leaking his cum onto the couch. Then I did something unusual for us. I slid beside him and put my head in his lap. Always before, it was Michael resting on my lap. This time, I wanted to feel his love in a different way.

I melted all over when Michael put an arm over my shoulder and hugged me, then said, "Mom. Thank you. For everything. Always." I purred against him and whispered my love again.

- - -

I never worried about getting pregnant. After his diagnosis with CLS as a child, I had genetic tests done. CLS was usually not closely associated with inherited genes, instead being the result of an in utero mutation. However, the gene could also be passed down and it turned out I had a version of the gene which could lead to CLS. As a result, I decided soon after the diagnosis to have a tubal ligation. I never wanted to risk bringing another child with CLS into the world.

So, that winter and spring, Michael and I had sex regularly. For the longest time, it involved me riding us both to an orgasm or two. I loved riding my son, and he got better at participating, often caressing my breasts after I asked if he wanted to touch them. He held my hips while we rutted. He told me when he was going to cum or how good it felt while we did it.

I'd been napping one afternoon on my back, wearing just my nightshirt. I woke to feel Michael crawling over me. For a moment, I was confused. Maybe he was having an episode and confused himself. Maybe he was trying to cuddle with me. But I swore I woke to him spreading my legs. I'd felt that, right? His elbows were beside me, my son's face inches from mine, a huge smile on his face. "Mom. I'm horny now."

I laughed. "As usual."

He started to move off me and I realized it was just coincidence that he'd positioned himself as if to fuck me. I put a hand on his thigh and said, "Wait. Let's try something new..."

Michael grinned, "Okay."

I pulled him back over me and spread my thighs wider, pulling my nightshirt up over my stomach. I drew Michael's hips to mine and took hold of his erect penis. "Like this," I told him, putting the tip against my labia. "Now push down slowly."

I gasped as my son penetrated me on his own for the first time. I stretched around him, something I was getting better at after a lot of practice. Michael sank into me and I wrapped my legs around his waist, my arms under his shoulders and over his back. "Oh, Michael..."

"Mom. Feels good?"

"Feels very very good. Uhnnn... Now move slowly in and out... Uhnnnn..."

For several long, amazing moments, my own son fucked me in the most satisfying way. I was stretched and full of him, the clean smell of his recent bath in my nose as I kissed and licked his neck. I kept moaning and sighing, "Oh, Michael." Those were, up to that point, the most fulfilling and deeply contented moments of my life. I whispered, "I love you," several times and Michael repeated it.

It seemed too soon when I felt him begin to shudder into orgasm. He never sped up or slowed down, maintaining the same careful, deliberate rhythm, fucking me gently and perfectly. Even as my son came inside my pussy, he never changed his movements. The softness, the care, the love I felt as Michael filled me with semen was more than enough to make me slowly crash into a climax of my own. I clutched my son's back and pulled him down hard on top of me. I wanted to feel his full weight on me, the heat of his body warming me, his breath on my neck. I was so in love.

Michael didn't grow soft as we kissed for several minutes and soon we were rutting again. This time, a prompted my son to move a little faster and he did so, the force of his thrusts felt deeper and more fully. I came again, and moments later, my son ejaculated a second load of sperm against my cervix.

My son beamed down at me after we broke from another long kiss. "Mom. I liked that. I want to do that again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day. And—"

"Okay," I laughed, "We will." I let out a very contented breath and said, "And I have so much more to teach you..."

Michael laughed, "More? Like what?"

"You'll see. I promise."

I felt his long, thick penis plop out of me after finally growing soft and my son's cum rushed out of my vagina. I guided Michael to my side and scooped up some of his sperm with my fingers. Michael watched me closely as I stuck them in my mouth and tasted his salty, creamy load.

Apparently, that gave my son a new idea. He moved down the bed and got back between my legs. Deliberately, Michael ran his tongue from the bottom of my slit up over my clit and then down again. I heard him swallow. I shivered at his touch. Again, he licked his semen from my pussy and swallowed it. My son was eating his own cum from my twat! Over and over he cleaned away the sticky cream, happily eating his own load.

"Lick here," I pleaded with him, directing him to my erect clitoris, "please."

Michael was always happy to follow directions and he moved higher, lapping like a cat against my nub. It made me cum hard again, riding my son's face as his tongue moved in a careful, even rhythm. I heard and felt semen sputter from my vagina as I orgasmed, and I pushed Michael's head back down where he returned to eating the cum he'd left inside me.

When I finally pulled my son back up the bed, I was more than spent. I didn't even want to clean up. I nestled my head onto Michael's chest and felt like the luckiest woman, luckiest mother, who ever lived.

- - -

My life with Michael became one of romantic love and intimacy. We lost the feel of being mother and son by his late teen years. He still called me 'Mom' all the time, but it felt more like a partnership and less like a dependency. That's not to say Michael wasn't largely dependent on me. He did well in his speech and physical and emotional therapies, but there was a plateau that would never be topped. He'd never be able to be independent and he still usually need direction to ensure the basic necessities were taken care of each day.

But I had an emotional partner. A lover. A friend. He understood me in ways I'll never comprehend. He became good at reading my moods, knowing when to approach me for sex and when to simply hold me. He was always gentle and full of mirth. Nothing ever seemed to get him down, even when there were setbacks. He was a rock for me.

I went back to working full time to support us and Michael became my house-husband, of sorts. He kept the place clean and even learned to cook simple meals on his own. We made love most nights and often during the day on weekends. No matter what we faced together, we overcame it.

I sometimes try to remember what it felt like in the early days, when I'd first jerked off my son and made him cum. That guilt, that shame. Those powerful feelings of wrongness. They never came back as more than a momentary glimpse into my past life. I loved Michael. I loved my son. What we did together was special, gentle, and caring.

Michael was a boy with special needs.

Needs, it turned out, which could only be met, fully and happily, by his own mother.