Code of Silence
by parthenogenesis

When I was thirteen, my mother fucked me, three times. Never did a word about it pass between us.

Which isn't surprising, because I grew up under a code of silence. It wasn't written down, and it wasn't told to me. It was just the way it was. In my family, nobody talked about themselves, who they were, what was important to them, which of their doings were triumphs and which were disappointments, or how they felt. Above all, nobody talked about how he felt. Bitterness, anger, frustration, joy, love, despair, even mere happiness were emotions I read about in books and suspected I felt, but I had no guidelines from the adults around me. Probably I felt like other people did—or people in books, anyway—but the fact was that either I had the range of feelings that other people did or I was all alone in the world. For the most part, it felt like I was all alone in the world. In my house, there was occasional laughter and more often anger, but nothing in between. Like most kids, I assumed that my family was normal, that all families were like my family. I didn't learn until much later that I grew up in a strange atmosphere, indeed, and learned phrases like "flat affect."

When I was very young, before I'd internalized the code like everybody else had, I'd tell my mother when I was unhappy, when I felt sad, when the world wasn't going my way, and her response invariably was, "Think happy thoughts, and the sadness will go away." I didn't understand until much, much later that that must have been my mother's way of coping with a life that consisted of a good deal of unhappiness.

With the expression of emotion so heavily proscribed, whatever I felt as a child stayed inside. I didn't know what to do with what I felt. It had nowhere to go. I think that, because I was never able to vent emotions, they stayed there and built up, so that small emotional events were magnified many times, and, during the course of a day, I'd whipsaw between dejection and elation, murderous anger and infinite love. Still, as a child, in a child's body, with a child's perception of the world, with a child's belief in the normalcy of his life, the pent-up emotions were not terribly troublesome. I could sneak off and climb trees or throw rocks or sing to myself, out of sight and earshot of my parents, not silenced for being what I felt. The pressure didn't really start to build until early adolescence, when flowing hormones added their force to relief valves that had been welded shut. The greatest pressure—it seems no surprise now—came from the strongest drives, the strongest emotions, the most prohibited of expressions: sex.

It wasn't as if I were ignorant. As a precocious reader, I'd looked up all the dirty words in the dictionary, I'd read some old textbooks I'd found around the house, and I'd read a variety of "growing up" books I'd found in the homes of relatives and friends. I understood the differences between male and female anatomies, and I understood the general Tab-A-in-Slot-B nature of sex. What I had no help with at all was the welter of feeling that surrounded sex, to say nothing of its physical expression.

Most of my sex "education" came from the other boys in the neighborhood. There were about a half-dozen of us, separated four to six year in age from youngest to oldest. I was the youngest. When I was ten or eleven years old, the older boys had learned about masturbation, and they'd have honest-to-God circle-jerks. They didn't stand. Rather, they'd lounge around the walls of somebody's garage or in a "fort" or treehouse one of them had built, whip out their cocks, and pound away. I was too young to understand either the attraction of the activity or the thrill. Nonetheless, they'd urge me to join them.

"C'mon, Mike," one of them would taunt, "pull out that little pecker and let's see what you can do with it."

So I'd pull out my little pecker, which would be hard. I'd grasp it between thumb and fingertips and stroke away. But I didn't feel much of anything. Before too long, one of the older boys would announce, in a strained voice, "I'm getting The Feeling!" and then spurt his semen unabashedly. The others would spurt their spurts, too, in fairly quick succession, and that would be the end of the activity for the afternoon. We'd all put our peckers back in our pants and get back about more publicly acceptable boy-play.

Of course, masturbation made sense to me eventually. One night when I was twelve, nearing thirteen, as I was lying in bed having a difficult time going to sleep, I suddenly started thinking about girls, women, female sexual organs, breasts. My adolescent penis became rock hard, and, remembering the motions of the circle-jerks, I started stroking myself. And, oh, my! So that was what The Feeling was. From that point on, I could barely wait until bedtime. I'd jack off and jack off and jack off. At that age, my cock wouldn't go down after I came, and I could do it four or five or six times before I was ready for sleep. More than once, I jacked off so much that I abraded sores on my prick, and would have to endure several days of abstention until I could once again beat my meat without pain.

I had no sisters and no female cousins. There were no girls in the neighborhood. No girl pals, no tomboys to climb trees or wrestle with, no accidental hands in the wrong places, no embarrassing exposure of very private parts, no opportunities for furtive glances or sneaked peeks. I never saw girls my age changing their clothes, running around in their underwear, going to the bathroom, or soaking in a bathtub. The only female around me was Mom.

Where was Dad? At work. At a meeting. Playing golf. Hunting or fishing. Out for a game with the men's softball league. For all intents and purposes, he wasn't there.

Although we respected each other's privacy, nobody made a big deal out of incidental nudity around the house or got upset if unintentionally interrupted while in a state of undress. That was just the way it was. As with most everything else, nobody said anything about it. I habitually walked nude from my bedroom to the bathroom and back when I went to take a bath. One rule that had been established verbally was that the bathroom door never be locked, in case somebody got sick or slipped in the bathtub and needed help. If I needed to talk to my mother when she happened to be in the bathtub, I'd just walk into the bathroom and address her, as if she'd been sitting at the kitchen table.

Mom was a handsome woman. Not beautiful, and not plain. Just good looking. Her one vanity was her body shape. She always took great pains to maintain what she referred to as "my figure." She would often skip desserts or make dietary choices with the announcement, "I have to watch my figure, you know." She was not voluptuous. She was proportionate. Her breasts were of medium size, and her hips never widened beyond what was appropriate for her height. She always had about her an aura of health and wholesomeness. When I spoke to her while she was in the bathtub, it seemed that she was always relaxing, just soaking, and she never made an attempt to cover herself. She was just there, speaking to me. I looked at her, of course, taking in all of her body, but I don't think I stared or gaped. Her nipples would be exposed as her breasts became buoyant, and her pubic hair would be raised in the water. I didn't know what little girls looked like, but I knew what a woman looked like.

Mom's nightgowns. Mom always wore the same kind of nightgown. Always. The only variation was that they were ankle-length during the winter and knee-length during the summer. If the weather were particularly cold, she'd wear a bathrobe; if not, just the nightgown, in which she'd move about the house freely. They were made of nylon, and she never wore anything underneath them. The part that covered her chest was lace, opaque, and rigid enough that neither the shape of her breasts nor the darkness of her nipples was visible, but the rest clung to her body like a second skin. Every nuance of her body and movement was transmitted through the cloth, the hollow of her navel in the slight swell of her stomach, and a softly raised area over her pubic hair. From behind, I could see every vertebra, the dimples at the small of her back, the beginnings of her gluteal cleft, and the gentle indentations at the sides of her buttocks. And, if she bent over, the shape and contour of what was between her legs.

One evening, during the time I was just coming to understand my sexuality and to appreciate it by masturbating several times a night, I walked into the bathroom to talk to my mother, and found her sitting on the closed toilet, cutting her toenails. She had one foot on the floor, and the other heel on the edge of the toilet seat. Her legs were spread slightly, and her cheek was against the inside of her raised knee as she leaned forward to pay attention to her toes. It was from that position that she spoke to me, not moving her head, but only raising her eyes to look at me. Her nightgown had slipped down her raised thigh so that her entire pubic area was exposed and open to my view. In the process of casually looking down at her foot as part of taking in the whole scene, I could not avoid seeing her genitals, which were right next to her heel.

For the first time, I saw not just a hazy triangle of pubic hair floating in bath water but all of her, the skin beneath the hair and the folds of flesh. And, right in the middle, a dark spot. In a rush, all the books I'd read, all the jokes the boys had made, all the coarse references to women's genitalia, all the disparate pieces of information I'd gathered, came together, and I realized that I was looking directly into my mother's vagina, slightly open because of her position. Her pussy, her cunt, it, the place, her hole. The understanding of what I was seeing impacted my hormone-generation machinery with such force that I nearly fainted. I suddenly felt hot and prickly all over. My mouth went dry, and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to speak. Almost certainly, I must have flushed visibly, but Mom didn't move a muscle. She just looked at me, with her eyebrows raised in her typical, "Yes?" facial expression. Even in my state of distraction, I knew that I didn't want Mom to change her position. I wanted to be able to look and look at her, and I knew that I had to maintain an ordinary demeanor. So I spoke to her. And she spoke to me, never changing her position, never moving her chin and closing her legs, never putting the raised heel on the floor. We had our exchange, and I left, with my heart still pounding so ferociously that the whole world had a pink hue. I went to my bedroom and stood for several minutes, supporting myself with one hand on my desk as my heartbeat slowed and I caught my breath. That incident may have been wholly innocent. Mom may not have realized the degree to which she was exposed. Or she might have thought that it was better for her not to make sudden moves to hide herself, as if she were embarrassed or ashamed, as if there were anything wrong. All I know is that that scene from childhood is indelibly etched on my brain. Indelibly.

Just after I turned thirteen, my father decided to take a new job in Denver, about a thousand miles distant from where were living on the coast of California. Of course, there was no discussion of the matter. Dad announced his decision as a fait accompli, then merely gave directives for what was going to happen next. He would go on ahead to Denver to start the job, leaving Mom behind to deal with movers and clean up the house. Of course, I stayed behind with Mom.

Mom hated long drives. Driving made her nervous and tense, and tired her quickly, so she decided to split the trip into three segments of about 300 miles each. That was okay with me, because I hated long drives, too. At that age, there was nothing in the world more boring than just sitting, hour after dreary hour, in a moving automobile.

The first leg of our journey took us across California's Central Valley, up the western slope of the Sierra Nevada, and down into Nevada. I'd been through the Central Valley before, and I didn't care much for it. Having been raised in the cool greyness of coastal fog, I considered the heat of the valley virtually unendurable. It was August, and the temperature was well above 100. We had all the windows in the car down, and, to me, it felt like we were driving into a furnace. The hot wind seemed to suck the air from my lungs and the moisture from my lips. As we drove, with the car undulating hypnotically over the slabs in the concrete road, I drowsed, went into an almost trance-like state, neither wholly awake nor fully asleep, adrift in a state of consciousness where fantasy and reality were not easily distinguishable.

In that state, I became aroused, and my thoughts turned to my mother, in her bath, and sitting on the toilet seat, calling to me with her open vagina. I imagined us together, both nude, touching one another, gently, lovingly, exploring one another. Mom was not being wanton or lascivious; in fact, not acting in a particularly sexual way. Because I'd had no sexual experience, I knew nothing of sexual behavior, so I couldn't fantasize it. We were just there, touching, Mom being present, loving, and caring in a motherly way...but more, something more I was able to sense, but not fully realize. I fixed on her pubic hair and mine—pubic hair was a novelty to me at the time—and I imagined our pubic hair rubbing together, just enough to be aware of it, another kind of caress, a slight tickle. And then...and then, it was inevitable. Mom wanted me and I wanted her, all that could happen next would be for me to slip inside of her, and I could see her smile broaden as we joined. I must have floated through this dreamworld of utter innocence and extreme sexuality for more than an hour, re-experiencing Mom's and my joining over and over.

I've always found the scent of evergreens particularly pleasant, stimulating, as if a memory of them were buried in my cells someplace, as if the mountains were somehow part of a past I didn't remember, and I left my dreamworld when we reached the treeline in the Sierra. The temperature dropped to a comfortable level instantly as we passed from one layer of air to another. Mom was hunched over slightly, her attention fixed rigidly ahead, both hands gripping the steering wheel almost to the point of white knuckles. Her skirt was hiked halfway up her thighs, and her legs were spread. I could not re-enter the dream-state, but I could remember it, and I thought about what I'd been thinking about, truly wondering if the impossible could become possible.

We continued up the mountains, around Lake Tahoe, into Nevada, and down the barren eastern slope of the Sierra to hot, dry, wretched, boring desert. We reached Austin, the end of our first day of driving, late in the afternoon. Mom checked us into to only motel in town, a ramshackle collection of warped clapboard cottages that was probably a survivor of dustbowl days. She took a room with a double bed because it was cheaper than one with two single beds. She and Dad had had words about her wanting to take three days to make the drive when Dad thought she should be able to do it in two, so she was trying to economize wherever she could to compensate for what Dad had called her "indulgence." We parked the car, dropped our bags in the room, washed up, and walked next door to the only cafe in town, where we ate a dinner of what tasted like grilled cardboard as we contemplated the fly-specked walls.

The motel room was almost as barren inside as the desert was outside. Rough studs stood naked along the unfinished walls, and three small, hazy windows were covered by yellowed curtains. The bed, one rickety chair, and a side-table whose surface was laced by generations of cigaret burns barely left room for two people and two suitcases. The bed was an ancient affair, a mattress on steel springs, shaped more like a hammock than a bed. In the bathroom were a severely stained toilet, a rusty tin shower, a rusty sink, and a mirror with half its silver missing in a rusty metal frame.

Mom was nearly catatonic after her day of driving. Her eyes half closed with exhaustion, she said, "We'd better take showers and go to bed. We have a long day of driving ahead of us tomorrow." For the next few minutes, we shuffled around each other, arranging suitcases and trying to stay out of each other's way, while Mom got out her travel kit and nightgown. I sat in the rickety chair and waited, thinking about Mom in her bathtub at home and thinking about Mom in the shower a few feet away. Once again, I remembered my fantasies of the afternoon, and, once again, I became aroused.

In moments, it seemed, Mom was back in the room, wearing only her nightgown—short, of course, since it was summer—stuffing her dirty underwear into a laundry bag and wrestling her suitcase into the alcove that served as a closet. I got out my ditty bag and my pajamas, and took my turn in the shower. Although Mom's shower produced nothing but the sound of running water, mine was punctuated by thumps and bongs as I elbowed the walls of the tiny stall. And I had a dilemma. My hard-on wouldn't go away, and I was desperately afraid that the single-snap fly on my pajamas wouldn't afford me the modesty I would have preferred. Quickly, furtively, I jacked off, coming as quickly as I could. After I came, I didn't immediately get soft. I thought about school, I thought about mowing lawns, I thought about playing baseball, I tried my best to ignore visions of Mom's pussy on the toilet seat, I tried my best to put myself in a frame of mind to share a bed with my mother without embarrassing myself. By the time I'd dried, with a moth-eaten piece of cloth that barely had enough terry loops left to be called a towel, my cock had gone down to about one-third mast, and as long as I didn't think about pubic hair, as long as I didn't flex the muscles....

Mom was in bed, flat on her back, her arms outside the threadbare cover, nearly asleep, when I came back into the room. She rolled her head in my direction. "What took you so long?" she said.

I must have blushed from head to foot; fortunately, the room was so dim in the dubious light of the 25-Watt bulb in the bedside lamp that it probably didn't show. "I'm not used to showering," I offered. Which was true, since we had only a bathtub at home, even if not the real reason.

"I can't stay awake much longer," Mom said. "Hop in. Be sure to stay on your side of the bed, now."

I got in, clinging to the edge of the mattress to stay as far on my side as I could. Mom turned out the light, said "Good-night," rolled away from me, exhaled one long sigh, and was instantly asleep.

I didn't fare so well. Between my having dozed during the day, the bed's being strange and uncomfortable, the room's being strange, my never having shared a bed with anyone, and Mom's admonition to stay on my side of the bed and my apprehension about what would happen if I didn't, I couldn't get sleepy. I lay there the way you do when you're a kid trying to get to sleep and your brain won't shut off. I thought about stuff. All kinds of stuff. But no matter what I thought, my thoughts would return to breasts and pubic bushes and pussies; to Mom in her bathtub, to Mom sitting on the toilet, looking at me with the eye between her legs. I got a disastrous hard-on. It wouldn't go away. It just kept getting worse and worse, so hard I thought it was going to pop. I couldn't jack off as I would have at home, and I was afraid to get up and go into the bathroom for fear of waking Mom or her asking if I was sick or something. To make matters worse, every time I relaxed my grip on the edge of the mattress, I slid down against Mom's back. That bed didn't have sides. It only had a middle.

The third or fourth time I slid down against Mom and then clawed my way back up to my side again, she turned her head toward me and hissed, "Lie still!" I lay still, my shoulders against Mom's shoulders, my butt against Mom's butt, in total agony. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't turn my brain off, and I couldn't make my hard-on go away. In pained silence, I lay there, suffered, and hoped that sleep would eventually come.

Apparently, sleep did come, because the next thing I knew, I was awake again, in pitch darkness, and my cock felt wet and warm and wonderful. I was completely disoriented. In the darkness, I couldn't get a fix from my surroundings. I only knew that I wasn't at home, in my own bed. And then both memory and awareness flooded into me: Mom and I had driven from where we used to live to Austin, Nevada; we were sharing a sagging bed in a falling-down motel.

My hearing switched back on, and I registered my mother's voice, saying, "Oh, no. Oh, no. No. No. No."

What had happened, I reasoned—though I could hardly claim to be reasoning logically—what I intuited was that, during sleep, I rolled over so that my front was against my mother's back. Her nightgown must have hitched up as she slept, my perpetual erection escaped from the barely closed fly of my pajamas, and, somehow, found its way into my mother. I had no idea whether I had pressed forward into her or she had pressed back onto me. It didn't matter. Fantasy had become reality.

With each "no," Mom rocked her hips and pressed against me. Between no's, she rocked her hips forward and pulled away. Three rocks of Mom's hips after I became fully aware of what was going on, I came, helplessly and uncontrollably. With the first pulse of my ejaculation, Mom rocked her hips back against me, squeezed her ass cheeks together hard, and didn't move. I heard her inhale through her teeth, then hold her breath. For my part, involuntarily, I think, I drove my hips forward and pushed as deeply into her as I could. That was a come like I'd never experienced before. I felt like I'd discovered heaven and eternal bliss in an instant, like I was going to die and was afraid I wouldn't, like I was going to live forever in a state of utter ecstasy. I came so hard and so long that I got a cramp in my asshole. Only after I'd spurted my last spurt did Mom exhale and relax her grip on my cock.

And then I was scared shitless. My brain felt like it was split into two warring pieces, one reveling in the exquisite feelings of the moment, wanting that moment to last forever, wanting to have more moments like it; the other telling me that I had done something awfully wrong, awaiting punishment, knowing that my mother was at any moment going to ask me what in the world I thought I was doing, telling me to get back to my side of the bed. The half of my brain that was telling me I'd done something wrong was also telling me to pull out of Mom, to turn my back to her, to climb back up my side of the bed and cling to the edge, to shut my eyes as tight as I could and pretend that nothing had happened. The half of my brain that was basking in delight was telling me to kiss the back of my mother's neck, to stroke her skin, to press back into her, to live the moment more. Part of me tried to imagine that my mother was fully asleep and didn't have any idea what had happened, and I was afraid that if I moved, she'd wake up, and I'd be in big trouble. Part of me didn't want to move. In fact, I was paralyzed, torn between the warring factions in my brain. I neither pressed forward nor moved away. I stayed put, right where I was.

But I did not get soft. After some period of time, Mom bent forward and drew her legs up slightly, and the same time relaxing her thighs and her ass completely, permitting her pussy to be nearer to me, and letting me slip more deeply into her. Then she started rocking again. I still didn't know for sure whether Mom was awake and doing this consciously, or whether she was asleep. What I knew was that the moment wasn't over yet. I got the rhythm of Mom's movement, and matched it with my own. As I started the in-and-out thrusts of my hips, Mom quit moving hers so much. It felt so good that I kept speeding up, moving in and out of her faster and faster. When I got to going too fast, Mom would clench her pussy and press her ass back against me to stop my movement. Then she'd set the rhythm with her hips again, I'd match it, and she'd decrease her movement. After a few repetitions of that cycle, I understood what Mom was telling me with her body, and I slowed my pace until it wasn't a contest between us any more.

There was no light, there was no clock, there was no time, there was no place. There was only Mom and me, joined together, rocking, rocking, rocking. For an eternal now, right here, wherever it was, I pressed in and withdrew, pressed in and withdrew, pressed in and withdrew. Then Mom began to move her hips no matter what I did, and she started to breathe audibly, as if she were running. The movements of her hips became more jerky and pronounced. Matching her motions with my own, soon I was slamming into her, driving as deep as I could with each stroke, and I started to feel my come building. All of a sudden, Mom jammed her hips against me with exceptional force and started jerking spasmodically, in much the same way my cock pulsed spasmodically when I came. At the same time, the inside of her pussy squeezed my cock and began to jerk spasmodically, too. It felt to me as if a huge force had entered my body and taken control. I arched backward, pressing against her as tightly as I could, driving into her as deeply as I could, and my entire soul began to exit my body through the end of my pulsing prick. Totally in the throes of an all-consuming orgasm, I cried out, helplessly and mindlessly, unknowing and uncaring whether my voice would alter the moment.

"Oooooooooooh," Mom breathed. "Ooooooooooh. Oooooooh. Oooooh. Ooh, oh, oh."

Mom and I relaxed and lay together, breathing heavily, my cock still inside of her. Neither of us moved for some time. I felt my cock begin to soften, then shrink. When it shriveled all the way out of Mom's pussy, back out of the fringe of hair decorating its edges, and onto her leg, Mom rolled a quarter turn toward me so that she was lying on her back. She raised her hips and pulled her nightgown down. After a few minutes, I understood that the door had been closed, and I turned, too, so that my back was toward her. My brain was such a jumble of thoughts, feelings, questions, fears, hopes, and desires that I couldn't sort out the pieces. I lay there, my back against Mom, and tried my best to dissociate whatever it was that made me, separate from my thoughts, from all the mental clatter.

I awoke to the sound of the shower running. The room was filling with murky early morning light filtering in through the hazy windows and yellowed curtains. Memories of Mom's and my fucking in the blackness of the wee hours of the night danced in the same mental space reserved for the recollection of dreams. Had it really happened? I reached down and touched myself. My cock and balls were sticky, and my sparse pubic hair was crusty. It had happened. It was real. I had fucked my mother. My mother had fucked me.

The bathroom door opened, and Mom stepped out, fully dressed, with her travel kit in one hand and a small roll of cloth in the other.

"I think you'd feel better if you took a quick shower before we start driving," she said. "It's going to be hot again, you know."

I had lived with the code of silence long enough to be able to decode what Mom was really saying. Her taking a shower first thing in the morning, and her suggestion that I take one, too, was extremely unusual. We were a family of evening-bathers. Nobody ever bathed in the morning. This was Mom's acknowledgment that we both needed washing, her confirmation that she knew what had happened during the night. I placed this fact into the jumble of thoughts and questions in my mind, and took my turn in the bathroom.

When I'd finished showering, Mom was packed and ready to go. I put my ditty bag and pajamas into my suitcase, and I was ready, too. After a breakfast of greasy eggs and soggy toast at the Fly-Speck Cafe, we returned to the motel room for one more pass through the bathroom, then put our bags in the car. Mom took the roll of cloth she'd carried out of the bathroom and draped it over the upraised flaps of a box of last-minute odds and ends in the back seat.

"I had to wash out my nightgown," she said. "Mike, would you please keep an eye on it so that it doesn't blow away, and turn it so that it dries evenly?"

With that, we got in the car and left. That day's travel took us from Nevada to someplace in Utah. I remember nothing about the drive. I was so completely locked into my mind, trying to restructure my whole picture of reality, that, for all intents and purposes, nothing outside of me existed. The relationship between my mother and me had changed, and I didn't know what to do with that change. I sensed a war between notions of right and wrong and my own pleasure and desire. I was curious about the sex act itself, what it felt like to Mom, how she was put together, how the whole thing worked. I wanted to know why. I wanted to tell Mom that I loved her. I wanted to touch her arm, stroke her thigh. I wanted to fuck her again, but I wanted it to be open, acknowledged. I wanted to talk. I wanted to scream, "MOM, WILL YOU PLEASE TALK TO ME!"

But I had lived with the code of silence long enough to know that that wasn't permitted. I was scared to death to say a word. If anything was going to be said, it had to be Mom who started the conversation—and she wasn't saying anything.

Along the way, as Mom had asked, I checked on her nightgown, which was both evidence and reminder of our sexual union. Each time I touched it, ran the smooth nylon between my fingers, I traveled back to the night before, to the feel of the material then and the texture of Mom's skin next to mine; to the new, indescribably wonderful feeling of being inside of her, to an orgasm unmatched by any other I'd ever experienced, to the spasmodic jerking of Mom's hips and pussy, and her long sighs. The nightgown was well dry long before noon. When we stopped for lunch, Mom folded it carefully and put it into her suitcase.

The town we stopped in that night was bigger than Austin—and much more attractive. We had our choice of several motels, and, to my surprise, Mom didn't pick the cheapest. Instead, she willingly parted with an extra ten dollars so that we could stay in a nicer, more comfortable place. But, to compensate, she again took a room with one double bed rather than two singles. At that point, I really had to wonder whether she had other reasons for taking the double bed, whether expense was only the justification. I wanted to ask, to say something, but, of course, I didn't dare. Silently, I started to hope.

After we'd checked into the motel, instead of walking to the nearest cafe, we drove around town until we found a small family restaurant, where we had a thoroughly acceptable meal. By the time we got back to the motel, Mom was once again on the verge of exhaustion, and we performed the same routine of showers and preparations for bed. This room was spacious by comparison to the rough cell in Austin. There was a real closet for our suitcases, two cushioned chairs with end-tables and lamps by them, and plenty of space to move around. The walls were finished with varnished knotty pine wood, and the whole room had a fresh, clean smell. As I slipped between the sheets, Mom said, "Be sure to stay on your side, now."

This night, Mom's admonition to stay on my side had some meaning. The bed was almost new, and didn't sag at all. It was wonderfully comfortable, a delight to be able to relax completely, not to have to cling to the edge to keep from rolling to the middle. But I was disappointed. There was no excuse for Mom and me to roll together while we slept. Of course, my mind was filled with thoughts of the night before. Of course, I had a raging, nearly painful, hard-on, about which I could do nothing. Mom began to snore softly. I lay there, silently, motionlessly, waiting for sleep to come. And, as always, sleep sneaked up on me and took me unaware.

I awoke inside of Mom's pussy again. She was rocking her hips against me, but, this time, she was not saying, "No, no, no." She was saying, "Ungh, ungh, ungh." This time, I did not lie motionless and fearful. I immediately picked up her cadence and fell into rhythm with her. I came quickly, and Mom held her breath and clenched her pussy around my cock. My cock relaxed, but did not get soft. We waited. After a few minutes, my cock got fully hard again, and I started moving in and out of Mom once more.

All of a sudden, Mom twisted away and rolled over so that she was facing me. "Take off your pj's!" she said in a loud whisper.

"What?" I said.

"I said, take off your pj's," Mom said louder. She grabbed the front of my pajama shirt and ripped the snaps open. As I slithered out of the bottoms, Mom sat up sharply and stripped off her nightgown. The room was dimly illuminated by outside lighting, not enough to see color, but enough to see gradations of darkness, silhouettes, movement in shadow. Her breasts lifted as her arms went over head, then dropped back with a slight jiggle. She kicked the covers off of both us, then lay back. I could see white skin on white sheets, and the dark triangle of her pubic hair. She raised her knees, spread her legs, and opened her arms to me. "Come here," she said.

I knelt between her thighs, unsure what to do next. Her hands moved in a "come on" gesture. "Lean forward," she said. I did, and began to understand the geometry of the position. As I lowered my hips toward her crotch, she reached down, took hold of my penis, and guided it to her pussy. When I felt the tip of my cock begin to enter her wetness, I pressed my hips forward and slid all the way in. As soon as I was in to the hilt, Mom grabbed the cheeks of my ass with both hands and began pivoting her hips on the bed. She held me so tightly and was rocking with such force that her bush felt like sandpaper against my pubic arch.

"UH-huh, UH-huh, UH-huh," she said, grinding harder and faster.

For several minutes, she rocked her hips like that, still holding my ass so that I couldn't move much. Then, without warning, she locked her legs behind my knees, squeezed for all she was worth, and growled a long "Aaaaaaaaaaarrr," followed by "Uh. Uh. Uh." Even though Mom had me locked in such a grip with her hands and legs that I couldn't move, she still bucked spasmodically, and her pussy pulsed and clenched at my cock. I didn't come. I just held on, for dear life, it seemed, riding out whatever Mom was going through. Her breath came in gasps. Finally, she relaxed, and her breathing evened. After a few moments, I began a slow, steady, rhythm in and out of her, and she lay almost motionless.

How long did I maintain that peaceful rhythm? I haven't the slightest idea. I was once again living instant by instant, consumed by the sensations and emotions I was feeling, hoping that each instant would last forever. Mom's pussy felt so good—but, then, good was hardly the right word to describe a sensation like no other in the world, the combination of heat, wetness, and smoothness caressing my cock with each stroke. Smoothness wasn't quite the right word either. The inside of Mom's pussy had texture, contours that seemed to be designed solely for the purpose of holding my cock. Caressing wasn't the right word either. Nor was squeezing. Nor was rubbing. There was friction but there wasn't friction. I think the only right thing to say was that it felt like fucking, wondering at the same time how I seemed to be able to feel the touch of Mom's pussy on my penis all over my body, knowing that a good deal of what was going on was going on in my head, not in my cock.

Mom's hips began to move again. She wasn't gripping my ass or holding onto my legs, so it wasn't a harsh, grinding motion. It was more like a gentle undulation, as if we were swimming together, in and around each other.

"Mike?" I heard her say. "Mikey?"

"Yeah, Mom?"

"Raise up."

Disappointed that she wanted me to separate from her, I started to lift my hips in preparation for withdrawing.

"No," she said, "not your hips, your torso. Stay inside me. Kneel between my legs."

Of course, I did what Mom asked, immeasurably relieved that she wasn't bringing our coupling to an end. Mom raised her legs and hooked her knees inside my elbows. "Now lean forward again," she said.

I did, and when I did, Mom's back bent so that her pussy was both impossibly wide open and pointed almost at the ceiling. I slipped deeper into her than I'd yet been, and I felt even my balls within the open wetness of her pussy lips.

"Yes," she said. "Like that. Now, deep. Go deep."

It took a little practice, but after a few minutes I got the hang of balancing my weight right so that I held Mom's legs where she wanted them without either breaking her back or smothering her while moving my cock in and out of her at the same time. As she requested, I went deep. I drew my hips back as far as I could, until just the tip of my cock was in her, then pressed down and down. When I was fully in her, Mom kind of wiggled her hips from side to side, and I could feel something slide across the tip of my prick. I began to experiment, sometimes staying deep within her for a few moments before I began to withdraw again, sometimes teasing her pussy lips with just the tip of my cock before I drove in. I angled my hips slightly from one side to the other, increasing the pressure I felt from the sides of her pussy. Whatever I was doing now seemed to be coming naturally, and Mom seemed to be liking it.

After a while, I began to feel my come building. Not within my prick, and not within my balls, but someplace far, far back; not as if I just had to come right now or even very soon, but as if my coming was what was going to happen in a while, and what I had to do next was prepare for it. My strokes began to speed and lengthen. My mind stopped and that invisible force took over. I was being driven by instincts I never knew existed before. The way we were hooked together, Mom's body automatically matched my motion, and whatever we were doing, we were doing together. Before too long, I wasn't moving my cock in and out of Mom, I was slamming her, drawing out as far as I could and driving in as hard as I could. My crotch was nothing but wetness, and I could feel my balls slide down the open cheeks of Mom's ass and bounce off her asshole.

"Ooh? Ooh? Ooh?" Mom started to say, a question mark at the end of each sound, as if in expectation of something that was going to happen. My hips went faster and faster, and Mom made her questioning sound each time I plunged into her.

And then I exploded. I didn't come, I exploded. A chunk of me gathered force and rocketed out of my body, and, for a moment, it felt as if my cock and quadrupled in size, as if I were going to collapse into myself and all of my being was going to become a missile that rocketed straight into my mother's depths.

Mom made a sound I couldn't hope to describe. She screamed. She sighed. She wailed. She cried. She shouted. All at the same time, with her body locked into an impossible state of rigidity. Her pussy grabbed my cock and squeezed and milked it, stroked me from the inside.

For some moments, we held that position, frozen in time. And then we relaxed, gasping, panting as if we'd run a race for our lives. Mom's legs hung slack in the crook of my elbows. Slowly, gently, one at a time, I lowered her legs back down to the bed. I stayed as far into her as I could in that position, lying motionless. From time to time, Mom's body quivered, and her pussy clenched, though with nothing of the force of a few moments ago. I began to soften. The quivers and clenches became farther apart in time and lesser in magnitude. With a final quiver and clench, Mom expelled my soft cock from her. I rolled off of her and lay on my back at her side. I took her hand. While we were lying there quietly, sleep sneaked up and took me away again.

When I awoke, Mom and I were lying in the same positions we'd been in when I fell asleep, except that we weren't holding hands. The room was quite light. Apparently, we'd slept considerably later than we had the previous morning. I turned my head and looked at Mom. She was staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide open. Of course, I had a morning hard-on that was tenting the blanket. Before this trip, I would immediately have raised my knees to keep my "secret" from my mother. Now, there didn't seem to be much point in it. I lay there quietly, waiting for Mom to say that it was time for us to get up and take our showers. Long minutes passed, and Mom remained silent, unmoving. I wondered what was going through her mind.

Then Mom slid her hand over and took hold of my hard-on, squeezing and stroking it gently. After she'd done that for a few minutes, I slid my hand over, and placed it atop her pubic mound. That was the first time I'd actually felt her pubic hair, and just touching it sent a tingle to my cock. Mom's legs were slightly spread, so I dropped my middle finger into her slit, pressing lightly and stroking softly. Not sure quite what to do, I just kept up that movement. Mom reached her other hand down and placed it over mine. Using her hand as a guide, she showed mine what to do, where to touch, how hard to press. My finger dipped lower, into the opening of her vagina, which was very wet and slippery. I picked up some of the moisture on my fingertip, then moved it back up until I hit the bump of her clitoris. Mom's grip on my cock tightened. I ran my fingertip around and around Mom's clitoris, dipped it back between her legs for more lubrication, running it around the edges of her pussy and pressing into it, then returned the slippery finger to her clitoris. Mom started making throaty sounds of pleasure and moving her hips in slow circles.

In one motion, Mom let go of my cock, sat up and threw the covers off of us, rolled and swung her leg over me so that she was straddling my hips. She reached down and took hold of my cock again, aiming it as she started to squat. As I watched, she came down slowly, and I saw my cock enter her pussy and disappear. With my hard-on fully inside of her, Mom sat up straight, and smiled at me. I smiled back, a mixture of delight and astonishment. Then she leaned forward, and began moving her hips up and down.

Her breasts were right in front of my face, swinging back and forth as she moved her hips. I kissed first one, then the other. Mom helped by swinging her torso from side to side to bring one breast and then the other in direct line with my mouth. I took one nipple into my mouth, ran my tongue around it, and sucked gently. When Mom was ready, she drew back and fed me her other breast. While I was kissing and sucking her breasts, I ran my hands lightly up and her sides and around her back.

Mom sat up again, wiping her hair from her forehead with her hand. I reached up and took both her breasts in my hands, kneading them gently and rubbing my thumbs across her nipples. Mom's eyes were closed, and a slight smile played at the edges of her lips.

After she'd been sitting up for a while, she leaned forward again, and rubbed her breasts in my face. I reached around and took hold of her buttocks, following their motion, helping her lift. I started to feel my orgasm building. I wanted to come, but I didn't want to come. I wanted this to last as long as possible. But Mom was in control. There was nothing I could do. The feeling of coming built until I was almost over the edge, then Mom sat up suddenly and remained motionless. The urge to come passed, and I relaxed slightly. When I did, Mom started moving her hips again.

We repeated that cycle three times, then Mom's motions began to get urgent, too. She raised up higher, and slammed down harder, and her chest began to heave with each breath. I grasped her buttocks firmly, and my fingertips reached down into the crevice. As I gripped her ass and helped her move, my fingers got slick with her moisture, and began to slip upward, running across her asshole. As Mom's motions got more and more frantic, I felt my come building again, and I began to try to pump my hips upward to match her movement and to drive myself into her as far as I could. We got into sync and we got out of sync. I grabbed her ass tighter to try to keep us together. Then Mom raised up one more time and slammed down hard. The slick tip of my middle finger popped into her asshole up to the first knuckle. I started coming—and came, and came, and came. Her entire body went rigid, and her eyes flew open wide.

"ooooooooooOOOOH!" she said. And then she quivered all over, inside as well as outside. When she stopped quivering, her abdominal muscles and her pussy began the clenching. Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.

After several minutes, the clenching and squeezing slowed to a halt. She gave a squeeze with her asshole, and expelled my finger. Mom remained upright, with my cock still in her pussy. I began to soften. Finally, as I was about to shrivel out of her entirely, Mom bent forward, and placed both hands flat on my chest. She dipped down and kissed me on the forehead.

"We'd better take our showers and get going," she said.

With that, she swung her self off of me and off the bed, and went into the bathroom. My crotch was completely gooey with all her fluid and my semen that had run out of her as she sat up, and the air was heavy with the scent of sex. I just lay there, lost in my own thoughts, until it was my turn for the shower.

After breakfast, we came back to the motel room to pick up our bags, use the bathroom one more time, and take one last check for anything left behind. Then we put our bags in the trunk and got into the car.

Mom turned and looked at me. She ran her fingers down my cheek, around my jaw, and back up under my chin. "Mike," she said. "Oh, Mikey. It's time to go home now."

Her chin quivered slightly, and she pressed her lips together firmly. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She turned her gaze forward and started the car.