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Message-ID: <39072asstr$1036311006@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: threefriedeggs <parth_nogenesis@XXXhotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Tennis Did It (mF, inc, mom/son, oral, cons)
Date: Sun,  3 Nov 2002 03:10:06 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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This story is about incest.  It contains detailed descriptions of the
sexual relationship between a 13-year-old boy and his mother.  If you
are not of legal age in your community, or if you find such material
offensive, don't read it.

This story has no author.  It was born of the parthenogenesis of
cyberspace.  Please keep it that way. 

Tennis Did It
by Parthenogenesis

One Saturday in August, wearing only shoes and a ragged pair of old
cut-offs as my futile hedge against the heat, I was pushing the
lawnmower around the sculpted edges of the lawn, unconsciously
following the curves and contours and dodging overhanging flowers and
shrubs, just letting my mind wander where it wanted to.  I was
thinking about starting high school in the fall and looking forward to
my fourteenth birthday, which would take place in September as well.
Somehow, fourteen seemed like a magic number.  If nothing else, for
me, it marked the real entry into my teen years.  Thirteen was too
near twelve, and at twelve, you were still a kid.  And thirteen, like
twelve, didn't have a real number in it, like four-teen and six-teen.
So fourteen sounded a lot more like sixteen, when I'd be able to get a
driver's license, and be, well, a *real* teen-ager.

I was also, of course, thinking about sex, even if I wasn't actually
thinking about sex.  My mind seemed to be capable of multitasking, so
that no matter what I thought I was thinking about, whether it was
homework or Javascript, something about sex was churning in there
somewhere.  There were little blips of porn pictures I'd seen on the
web, descriptions in stories I'd downloaded, fantasies about the
best-looking girl in my class, and wondering when and how I might see
a real girl naked and when I was going to get laid for the first time.
And, even if I wasn't thinking about any of these things, I'd get a
hard-on anyway, for no apparent reason, and then I'd be thinking about
sex again.

On this day, I just plain felt good, despite the perpetual
undercurrent of sexual frustration, which I'd learned to push aside as
background noise.  Mom and I had a good life together.  I didn't
remember Dad.  He'd left when I was two.  All Mom ever said about him
was that they had been college sweethearts.  Mom became pregnant with
me when she was nineteen (nine-teen), and they got married.  The deal
they made was that after he finished his degree, she could get hers.
But as soon as he took his MBA, he left.  Mom never looked back.  She
set her sights forward and went on with her own life, and now she was
a highly successful landscape architect, with a constant stream of
commissions from local government, major corporations in the area, and
the wealthier folks who lived in the hills.  I'd asked her a couple of
times when I was younger if she ever gave any thought to remarrying,
and her answer was the same both times:  she couldn't see any
percentage in it.

Although we'd lived in modest apartments while Mom was building her
practice, four years ago she had finally been able to buy a sprawling,
suburban house, I think more for the yard than for the house itself.
Certainly we didn't need all the space, but the yard was a
demonstration of Mom's talents, and it was my job to maintain it.  Mom
had become fiercely independent as she built a career for herself, and
she did her best to instill that same self-reliance and independence
in me.  I must have heard Mom say a jillion times, "The lessons
learned best are the ones we figure out for ourselves."  She had a lot
of trust in me, and maybe that's why I really didn't mind taking care
of the yard as part of my share of the load.

It was one of those thoroughly surrealistic late summer days, with the
temperature in the 90's and the air dead still.  The whole world
seemed to be without depth or contrast, alternately shimmering at the
edges or lapsing into flatness, unreal in either case.  I was on my
own with my chores; Mom had gone to play tennis.  Mindlessly, I pushed
the lawnmower, letting my mind run, smelling flowers and the cut
grass, and feeling sweat trickle down my bare chest.

I was jerked from my thoughts by the sound of tires barking very near
by.  I looked up to see Mom's car lurching into the driveway.  The car
was still angled in the drive, rear bumper hanging out over the walk,
when the front end dipped to a quick halt.  I dropped the lawnmower
handle and started for the car.  Something had to be wrong.  This was
not Mom's usual ultra-cautious driving style.

As I approached the car, Mom got out, levering herself with elbows
atop the door and the roof, her face twisted in a grimace of pain.
"Oh, Alan!  Thank God you're home," she called out, with obvious
relief.

"Mom!  What's wrong?"

"I pulled a groin muscle playing tennis, and I can barely walk.
Justine and Donna practically had to carry me to my car.  And thank
God it's my left leg.  If it had been my right leg, I wouldn't have
been able to drive.  Can you please help me into the house?  I have to
get into a hot bath and let the muscle soak for a while."

"Sure, Mom," I said, rushing to her side.  I wrapped my right arm
around her waist to help give her left leg support, and she threw her
left arm over my shoulders.  We started toward the front door in kind
of a three-legged hobble, our hips bumping together as we worked to
get our steps synchronized.  Inside the house, we edged this way and
that through doorways and down the hall to Mom's bathroom.

By the time we got to Mom's bathroom, she was gasping with exertion,
pain still visible on her face.  We paused while she caught her
breath.  All of a sudden, whether I wanted to be or not, I was
terribly aware of Mom's presence next to me, the heat of our bodies,
our closeness.  I was enveloped in Mom's atmosphere, her humidity.
Her tennis shirt was damp , and her scent was all around--shampoo,
soap, the barest hint of perfume, her deodorant, a bit of fresh
perspiration, and ... and *her*, the unique scent of Mom herself.  I
had never before been conscious of Mom as a person, as a woman; I
mean, after all, she was my mother, my parent.  It had been years
since we were really close together physically, and certainly not when
we were both dripping with sweat.  I was also aware of the familiar
tingle of blood starting to flow into my cock, and I felt both scared
and ashamed, getting a hard-on while Mom was in pain, and getting a
hard-on because of Mom, period.

We separated ourselves, and Mom leaned back against the counter.
"Thank you, honey," she said, wiping her forehead with her wrist.  "I
don't think I could have made it without your help."

"You going to be okay, Mom?" I asked.

"I think so," she said, sniffing and wiping at her upper lip and nose.
"I just need to soak the sore muscle for a while and get it to relax."
Mom leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

"Okay," I said, "if you're sure."

I went out of the bathroom, leaving the door ajar six inches or so.  I
don't know why I didn't close the door all the way, but it didn't
really matter whether the door was shut or not.  I wasn't going to be
anywhere near the bathroom anyway.  I went to the kitchen and poured
myself a tall glass of lemonade.  But I guess it was one of those
fortunate coincidences that I did leave the bathroom door ajar.  I had
just taken my first satisfying gulp when I heard Mom call out.  "Alan?
Alan!  Are you still in the house?"  I never would have heard her if
the door had been closed.

"I'm in the kitchen, Mom," I called back.

"Please come here.  I need some more help."

I jogged back down the hall to Mom's bathroom.  She was still standing
as I'd left her, leaning back against the counter, but she'd taken off
her shirt and bra, and had unzipped her shorts and pushed them down
just below her navel.  I stopped dead in my tracks.  My jaw dropped,
and my gaze landed on Mom's breasts.  I saw--I mean, I *saw*--the
shape of them, their soft, perfect, rounded contours, just the right
size for the rest of her, nipples puckered in the air-conditioned
coolness of the house.

"I'm sorry, baby," she said with a chuckle, despite her discomfort.
"I don't mean to embarrass you, but I'm stuck.  Both my shorts and I
are so damp that they won't come off easily, and I can't keep my
balance and bend over to push them down at the same time.  Could you
help me?  Please?"

Mom and I have never made a big deal about our states of undress
around the house.  We're neither exhibitionists nor prudes.  If one of
us happened to walk in on the other when we were changing clothes or
walking around in our underwear, we'd just say "excuse me" and turn
away.  But I had never seen Mom *this* undressed, and never this close
up.  My mouth suddenly went dry.

"Of course," I croaked.  "What do you want me to do?"

"I think it would be better if you started the bath water.  I don't
want to fall on my face into the tub.  And, I'm afraid, I am going to
need some help getting my shorts off."

I reached into the tub enclosure and turned on the hot water, letting
it run over my wrist.  "Make it as hot as you can stand it," she said.
I did.  And when the water was rushing into the tub satisfactorily, I
turned back to Mom.

I knelt in front of her, looking down at her feet.  Reaching up, I
found the legs of her shorts by touch, and then tugged down.  Once the
shorts were over the swell of her hips, they dropped to her ankles.
Still looking at Mom's feet, I reached up again and hooked my fingers
under the damp elastic band at the top of her panties and began to
pull down.  Her panties didn't come off so easily, and I had to worry
them all the way down her legs.  When her panties were at her ankles,
Mom lifted her right leg, and I slid both shorts and panties off over
her foot.  As she began to lift her left leg, she stopped suddenly,
and moaned with pain.  "More help, please," she said.

I looked up at her face automatically, in the same instant realizing
that her bush was right in front of my nose, only inches away.  Mom
didn't trim her bush the way the ladies whose pictures I'd seen on the
web did.  It was lush, curling, dark brown, slightly matted from the
pressure of her clothing, and much more attractive than something
barbered.  I was flooded with sensation:  I felt the heat from Mom's
body and smelled the cocoa butter lotion she'd put on her legs, and,
for reasons I couldn't imagine, I wondered whether she'd taste like
chocolate.  In the midst of the cocoa butter was another faint scent,
one I'd never smelled before, but one that some primeval part of my
brain knew could only be Mom.  Mom's pussy.  I froze.  My cock became
rock hard.

"Honey," Mom said softly, "you're going to have to help me lift my
left leg."  Gulping, I looked down at her feet again.  I leaned in
toward her, placing my left shoulder against the inside of her left
thigh.  I reached between her legs, wrapped my arm around, took hold
of her ankle, and, with my biceps behind her knee, gently lifted her
foot off the floor and pulled her shorts and panties away with my
right hand.  Mom gasped.  I didn't look up from that position.  I
didn't dare.  It seemed that I could feel heat radiating from her
pussy onto my shoulder.  My ears were ringing, and my cock was
straining against my cut-offs.

"Thank you," Mom said.  With my eyes turned away from Mom, I brushed
her shorts and panties toward the wall, then stood cautiously.  "If
you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you'd stay long enough to help
me into the tub," she said.

In a half crouch, so that my hard-on wouldn't be apparent, I took a
step and sat down sideways on the toilet lid, studiously watching the
level of water rise in the tub.  Neither Mom nor I spoke.  When the
tub seemed to be full enough, I got up, stepped across the room half
bent over, and turned the water off.  "Ready?" I asked.

"Um, I think I'd better pee before I get in the tub," Mom said.  I
turned to leave the room.

"Please help me?" Mom asked in a small voice.

I lifted the toilet lid.  Mom turned around, putting her bare ass on
full display.  It was pale against the tan of her legs, and perfectly
shaped.  Mom's tennis playing was only one way she kept herself fit.
She worked out regularly, and had the body of a woman five or even ten
years her junior.  My mother was beautiful, even if she was my mother;
I mean, objectively, this woman, who happened to be my mother, was
beautiful.  Sexy.  I couldn't deny that.  I couldn't overlook it.
Cautiously, I placed my hands just at the bottom of her rib cage and
supported her as she hopped back a step to the toilet.  Just above my
hands, her breasts bobbed up and down.  When she was seated, I backed
out of the room, still half bent, and closed the door behind me.

Out in the hall, I leaned against the wall, drew a deep breath, and
exhaled slowly, my eyes shut.  I reached inside my cut-offs and
repositioned my hard-on to that it was pointing straight up instead of
jammed at a painful angle.  While I still had my hand on my cock, I
heard, even through the closed door, the hiss of Mom's pee into the
toilet.  I almost came in my shorts.  What in hell did pissing have to
do with sex?  That primeval part of my brain was in control.  I felt
crazy, really crazy.

Until I pulled Mom's shorts off and looked up at her, I'd never seen a
woman naked before.  The image of her pubic hair, only inches from my
face, the smell of the cocoa butter lotion, and the smell of her,
seemed burned into my brain.  I couldn't make them go away.  And, I
kept reminding myself, this was my *mother*, for God's sake.  I wasn't
supposed to be getting a hard-on over her--or wanting to touch her
again, or touch her more, or ... or any of the other things I found
myself thinking.  I wanted desperately to go to my room and beat off,
to get rid of the sexual charge and to get my head straight again.

The toilet flushed, and Mom called out, "I'm ready to get in the tub
now."

I steeled myself and went back into the bathroom.  Mom was standing in
front of the toilet.  As I came near her to wrap my arm around her
waist, it seemed that the faint scent of her urine lingered in the
air; oddly, it had the effect of a perfume on me, and the scent of her
seemed stronger, too.  It was my imagination, I was sure, the primeval
brain at work.  We got ourselves into the same three-legged position
we'd used to walk from the car into the house.  Wrapping my arm around
her waist, I carefully positioned my hand so that it was in thoroughly
neutral territory, not too near her breasts, and not too near her
bush.  When she put her arm around the back of my neck, my shoulder
nestled snugly into her armpit.  My senses were in overdrive.  I could
feel the slick wetness of her armpit against my skin, and the slight
scratchiness of a couple of days' stubble there.  We successfully
negotiated the two or three steps from toilet to tub.

When we got to the tub, we separated, and she turned to face me.  I
reached down and placed my right hand behind Mom's left knee, and
helped her lift her leg up and over the edge of the tub.  As she did,
I couldn't help but see her pussy.  I guess that, when she wiped
herself after peeing, she must have fluffed the hair some.  I was
aware, in minute detail, of individual hairs extending downward
between her legs, and of the folds of her labia beneath them.  When
Mom's left leg was firmly on the bottom of the tub, I put my hands at
the bottom of her rib cage and steadied her as she braced herself
against the shower door and the wall and lifted her right leg in.
Then I moved my hands up and under her arms, trying my best--not
completely successfully--to avoid touching the sides of her breasts.
When she was settled in the water, she let out a long sigh.  My hands
were trembling.

"Thanks, honey," she said.  "I'm probably going to need help getting
out of the tub, too.  And I'd appreciate it if you'd stay in the house
while I'm soaking, just in case.  Would you mind?"

"Of course not, Mom," I said, the calm in my voice belying the
quivering in my body.  "I'll be in my room.  Just holler if you need
me."

When I got to my room, I wanted to jack off in the worst way.  I was
dying.  That's all there was to it.  My sex life so far had consisted
only of pictures, fantasies, and my hand.  I'd never seen a woman
naked, felt her bare skin, smelled all the scents of her body, her
skin, her perspiration, her urine, her woman-smell.  Never.  It seemed
to me, all of a sudden, that I'd gained a new understanding of what
sex was *really* all about.  But with my mother?  I felt guilty.  And
dirty.  Perverted.  I didn't know what to think.  And, at the same
time that I wanted to beat off with a vengeance, I was afraid to, for
fear that Mom would call for me at just the wrong time, and I'd have
to explain to her what took me so long to get to her.  Instead, I sat
down at my desk, turned on my computer, and started a game of Diablo.

But as I began my descent into the dungeon, I could still smell Mom
all around me.  I turned my head to the right.  The scent of Mom's
armpit was radiating from my shoulder, invading my nostrils, her
deodorant, her sweat.  Her.  In frustration, I stood abruptly and went
into my bathroom, where I washed my shoulder twice.  I sniffed again.
Better.  Now, what I smelled was Dial soap and my own sweat.  Okay.

I settled down in front of the computer, and before long, I was back
on Level 32, picking up gold and spells, and swinging my sword and
hurling balls of lightning at Obsidian Lord.  Dimly, I was aware of
the sound of water draining out of the bathtub, and more water running
in.  I descended downward, chasing after Diablo.  After some period of
time--I don't have any idea how long--I heard Mom's voice calling, as
if from a great distance.  "Alan?  Alan.  I'm ready to get out of the
bath now."

"Coming, Mom!" I shouted, as I saved my game.  My hard-on was gone,
and my ears were no longer ringing.

When I walked into the bathroom, Mom was still sitting in the tub,
with the water running out, her breasts glistening.  "Okay," I said, "
how do you want to do this?"

We negotiated back and forth for a minute or two.  We came to the
conclusion that, if we simply tried to reverse the process we used
getting Mom into the bathtub, we were likely to run into
trouble--either her feet might slip, or I wouldn't be able to hold on
to her, with her skin wet and slippery.  We therefore decided that
we'd get Mom standing up, and she could dry herself off while she was
in the tub.  Then, if she turned her back to me, I could support her
from behind while she lifted her legs over the edge.

Knowing that I'd never be able to hold onto her wet midriff, I leaned
into the tub and cupped my hands under Mom's arms.  Levering herself
on the edge of the tub and the soap dish to help as I lifted, she
slowly rose to a standing position.  I handed her a towel, then
stepped into the hall to wait until she'd finished drying.  When she
was done, she called me back in.

This time, her back--her ass--was facing me.  And I started to get
hard again, just looking at her.  Since her back was to me, I was able
to give my cock a quick hitch and get it pointed straight up.  First,
I held her at the base of her ribs.  She held the shower door and
braced herself against the wall, and lifted her right leg out.  Then,
bending forward slightly, I wrapped my right arm around her waist and
put my left hand behind her knee to help her lift her sore leg out.
As her left leg was coming over the edge of the tub, she lost her
balance just enough to throw me off.  I put one foot back, and Mom
started to slide down.  I squeezed hard and lifted.  When she stopped
moving, she was leaning fully back against me.  My hard-on was lined
up perfectly in the crack of her ass, and I was gripping her left
breast firmly.  I could feel the heat of a serious blush start up my
chest and into my face.

As I stepped away from Mom, she turned and looked at me.  "Oh, you're
blushing," she said.  "It's okay.  Please don't be embarrassed.  You
haven't done anything wrong."

I was relieved that Mom wasn't upset, but I was sure that she'd been
able to feel my hard-on against her ass, and I had held onto her
breast for a long second or two before we regained our balance.

"Would you dry my feet for me, sweetie?" she asked.  "I still can't
bend over that far."

I looked down at Mom's feet and ankles, my gaze, of course, sliding
past her bush on the way.  Now, after a bath and toweling, her bush
was all fluffed out, standing away from her body, looking twice as
full and lush as it had the first time I saw it.  My hard-on began to
throb.  With a smile, Mom handed me her towel.

Mom put one hand on the counter, then edged herself along to where she
could lean back against it.  When she was set, I knelt in front of
her, keeping my eyes directed downward, and carefully dried one leg,
then the other, from the knee down, lifting each foot off the floor
enough to dry between her toes.  To the good side, her crotch didn't
smell the way it had before she took her bath.  All I could smell now
was soap.  And skin.  And a little bit of Mom-smell.  But the primeval
part of my brain took over again when I dried her toes.  I found
myself paying close, loving attention to each toe, gently working the
towel between them, making sure that her feet were fully dry.  I felt
like bending down and kissing those toes.  I must have taken an
awfully long time to dry Mom's feet, but she didn't say a word, didn't
try to hurry me.

"Now, would you please get my nightshirt out from under my pillow and
bring it to me?" Mom asked.

I did, but when I took her nightshirt out from under the pillow--I
don't know why I did this--I pressed it over my face and inhaled
deeply.  And my ears started to ring again.  It was laden with
Mom-smell.  Soap, perfume, skin, her body oils, her perspiration,
whatever it was that smelled so ... so *delicious*.  The smell was
wonderful.  I didn't think I could get enough of it.  I kept her
nightshirt over my nose and mouth all the way to the bathroom door.

When I handed the nightshirt to Mom, she put it on.  Period.  I didn't
leave the room, and she didn't turn away.  When she raised her arms
over her head, her breasts rose, too, and I watched, transfixed.  Mom
was becoming more beautiful by the moment, and I was becoming less and
less bothered by my enjoyment of her as a woman.

After Mom got her nightshirt on, we did the three-legged walk to her
bedroom.  She sat down on the edge of the bed; then I lifted her legs
up and got her straightened out.  As I was about to leave the room,
Mom said, "You know what I think would help a lot?  If you massaged my
leg a bit to help the muscle relax.  I took a couple of Naprosins
while you were getting my nightshirt.  They ought to kick in pretty
soon.  If you could just massage my leg for a few minutes, I think
I'll be able to relax and sleep for a while."

I gulped, and said, "Sure, Mom."

"There's a bottle of body lotion on the counter in my bathroom," she
said.  "That would probably make the massage easier."

I got the bottle of body lotion.  Back in Mom's bedroom, I kicked off
my shoes and peeled off my socks, which had grass clippings stuck to
them, as well, and got up on the bed on my knees.  Mom spread her legs
slightly, and I positioned myself with my left knee between her legs.
Mom's nightshirt was just that:  a shirt she wore at night, a
vee-necked cotton tee-shirt that was long enough to come about halfway
down her thighs.  I dribbled a little of the lotion onto her thigh,
and started massaging the area between her knee and the hem of her
nightshirt.  After I'd massaged that part of her leg for a couple of
minutes, she said, "You don't understand, honey.  I pulled a muscle in
my groin--higher up.

I slid the hem of Mom's nightshirt up a few inches, dribbled on a
little more lotion, leaned farther forward, and started massaging
again.  After a couple of minutes, Mom said, "No, Alan.  Higher."

I couldn't lean any farther forward without putting too much weight on
Mom's leg.  To get into a good position, I had to scoot up until my
crotch was snug against the ball of her foot.  I pushed the hem of
Mom's nightshirt up a couple more inches, applied lotion, and started
massaging again.  "Just a little higher," Mom said.

I was afraid to push Mom's nightshirt up any farther.  I withdrew my
hands and applied some lotion to them, then reached up under the
cloth, a little higher than before.  "Mmmmm," Mom said, "that's the
spot."  I began to massage her thigh in earnest.  "Oh!" she cried.
"Not so hard!"  I eased off.  Before long, I had the pressure down
right, and I kept rubbing and kneading the sore area, quite gently,
really.  It didn't take much pressure to make Mom wince.  The lotion
soaked in and my hands started sticking fairly quickly, so I pulled my
hands out to put on some more, and the cloth dropped down onto Mom's
leg.  After I'd done this three or four times, Mom lifted her bottom
off the bed and hitched up her nightshirt.

I was now looking directly into Mom's vagina.  Her pussy.  If she
looked down, it would appear to her that her crotch was covered, but
from my vantage point, I could see everything.  Every hair, every
contour, every fold, every wrinkle.  My hard-on was strained to the
bursting point, and I was getting seriously afraid that I was going to
lose it, right there, in my shorts, in front of Mom.  I leaned back
and flexed my hands a few times.  Mom opened her eyes and looked at
me.  "That feels so good," she said, almost in a whisper.  "Please
don't stop yet."

I applied more lotion to her thigh and resumed my massage.  I was
rubbing the top and inside of her thigh so high up that I could
sometimes feel the pubic hairs extending downward from her pussy
tickle the ends of my fingers.  It seemed to me that Mom would be able
to feel that, too, but she didn't say anything.  She began to purr,
sort of.  "Mmmmm." she said.  "Mmmmm.  Mmmmm.  Mmmmm."

Mom's pussy started to open like a rosebud in water.  First, her outer
lips puffed up.  Then they began to separate, exposing the moist, pink
flesh inside.  After a bit, the inner lips started to move outward,
widening the gap between them.  Pretty soon, the area that had been a
dark, hair-covered indentation was shining pink skin framed by Mom's
pubic curls.  I was intensely aware of every shining aspect that pink
flesh, each tiny hill and valley.  As I massaged her legs, it moved
and changed.  I could see her actual vagina, the opening, the hole,
the *place*.  I could smell her again, too.  This time, there was no
scent of her urine, but a different smell, a smell that was making my
mouth water and straining my aching cock even more.

As I watched, a glistening droplet of clear fluid appeared at the
lower edge of her vagina.  It grew and it grew, then it fell over the
edge and ran down between her legs.  Another droplet appeared in its
place, swelled, and ran down.  Then another, and another, until,
before long, a steady stream of the fluid was running out of Mom's
pussy.

Mom was still making the "mmmmm" purring sound and kind of muttering
to herself.  "Been so long," she mumbled.

I knew from what I'd read in the "what teen-agers need to know about
sex" books that when a woman became sexually stimulated, she produced
lubrication, or that, in locker room talk, a girl who was hot made a
lot of pussy juice.  But I didn't have a clue what pussy juice
actually was, or what it looked like.  I could only guess.  In the
midst of my mouth's watering over the smell of Mom's pussy and the
ache of a hard-on that was about to burst, some multiprocessing part
of my mind was dealing with logic.  Given the information I had, I had
to assume that the clear fluid running from Mom's pussy was indeed
pussy juice.  Mom was a woman.  If she was making a lot of pussy
juice, then she was hot.  The pussy juice apparently started to flow
in response to my massaging her leg.  Therefore, she was hot about me.

While my logic routine was running, Mom started flexing her calves and
wiggling her toes.  When she flexed her right calf, the ball of her
foot pressed against the base of my cock, and when she wiggled her
toes, she wiggled them against my hard-on.  I couldn't take this much
longer.

I knew that my hard-on had everything to do with Mom's overwhelming
sexual presence.  I didn't know what to do about what her pussy juice
signified.  I was at the same time thrilled and horrified.  Part of my
mind wanted woman-Mom to be turned on by me, and, although I could
rationalize being turned on by her, I wasn't sure I could rationalize
Mom's being turned on by me.  I knew that teen-aged boys had hormones
that would make them want to fuck mud.  But I wasn't sure that mothers
should really, truly, actually be getting hot for their sons.  I
didn't know what to do next.  That's not quite true.  The primeval
routine knew what it would like me to do next, but I was scared to
death to do it for fear I'd ruin the moment and it would be gone
forever.

I raised up from my squat to give both my legs and my cock some relief
from the strain.  "How you doin', Mom?" I managed.

Mom opened her eyes and looked down the length of her body at me,
eyeing me from head to crotch and back.  "Oh, Alan," she said, "that
feels *much* better.  I think you can stop massaging now.  Why don't
you just lie down here beside me for a few minutes.  I'd really like
that."

I didn't want to lose sight of Mom's pussy, but relief from the
pressure on my cock would be welcome.  And the idea of lying beside
Mom sounded very attractive.  I scooted around until I was pointed the
right direction, than lay down next to Mom, pressing my hip against
hers and wiggling into a comfortable position.

"Ow!" Mom said.  "Honey, the rivets in your shorts are scratching me.
Why don't you take them off?"

I would have been happy to get rid of the rivets that were making Mom
uncomfortable, but if I stood to take my shorts off, Mom would see my
hard-on for sure, poking out against my underwear.  "Uh, Mom, I, uh,
I'm, I mean, er...." I mumbled.

Mom was silent for a moment.  Then she said.  "Oh.  Of course.  You're
embarrassed about your erection.  It's okay, honey."

I hadn't been embarrassed, I'd been worried that Mom would know I had
a hard-on.  Obviously, she'd known all along.  *Now* I was
embarrassed.  But I also didn't have to worry about trying to hide it
any longer.  With a mixture of embarrassment and relief, I got off the
bed, unbuttoned and unzipped my cut-offs, and let them fall to the
floor.  Mom turned her head to watch me, not saying anything more.

I returned to my position next to Mom, the two of us lying hip-to-hip
and shoulder-to-shoulder.  "Mmmmm," Mom said.  "You don't smell like a
little boy any more.  You smell like a man."

I was embarrassed again.  "Sorry, Mom," I said.  "I need a shower."

"Don't apologize," she said.  "You don't smell bad.  You just don't
smell ... like ... a little ... boy ... any ... more."

Then, to my complete shock, horror, and delight, Mom lifted her hand,
almost as if she were dreaming, and placed it over my hard-on, giving
it a little squeeze.  "Mmmmm," she said.  "My little boy *is* becoming
a man."

Lightly, barely gripping my cock, she ran her hand up and down its
length, twice.  That was all it took.  I shot, right into my Jockeys,
with a force and volume I don't think I'd ever experienced before.  As
my prick pulsed, Mom let her hand rest on top of it.  Now I was
mortified.  I'd come, not just in front of Mom, but right under her
hand.  I was paralyzed with fear and embarrassment, not knowing how I
was going to explain what I'd just done or get out of it gracefully.

"Mmmmm," Mom said.  "You came.  How nice."

If those words didn't surprise me enough, what Mom did next was what I
would least have expected.  She snaked her fingers under the elastic
of my underwear and started rubbing her fingertips over the slimy head
of my cock.  My cock was so hypersensitive at that moment, and Mom's
touch was so light and so thrilling that I almost screamed.  I
couldn't believe what was happening.  It felt so good it was almost
pain, but I didn't want her to stop.

While we lay like that for several minutes, the logic process started
to run again.  Mom told me she'd known all along that I had a hard-on,
and she said it would be okay for me to take my shorts off.  She'd
touched my hard-on and stroked it a little bit, and when I came, she
said, "How nice."  Then she put her hand inside my underwear and
smeared my come around on the head of my prick.  The logic process was
running, but it didn't crowd out the primeval brain.  I was still
feeling Mom slip her finger around the head of my cock, and, although
the intense sensitivity had gone away, it felt incredibly good, and I
wasn't getting soft at all.  The logical conclusion was that Mom knew
exactly what she was doing and liked it, and she wasn't mad at me and
she didn't act like she was going to get mad.

Having come to that logical conclusion, I slowly lifted my hand away
from my side, reached my arm over Mom's, and laid my hand on top of
her bush.  It was kind of kinky, coarser than the hair on her head.
Pretty much like my pubic hair, but soft, in the sense that it was
springy, and made kind of a pillow against her skin.  Mom didn't move
or complain.  Tentatively, I extended my middle finger down into her
open slit.  When I felt her warm wetness against my fingertip, I
pressed down a little, then drew my finger up and over her clitoris.
Mom's legs and stomach twitched.  I almost pulled my hand away, but I
didn't.

"Mmmmm," Mom said.  "Mmmm-hmmm."

"Mmmm-hmmm" sounded like "yes" to me, so I extended my finger
downward, picked up some of the wetness from her pussy, and drew my
finger up again.  Mom didn't twitch this time, but she did flex her
thighs.  Her pubic hair and her wetness felt so good, I did it again.
And again, and again, establishing a slow rhythm.

"Mmmmm," Mom said again, "Mmmm-hmmm, mmmm-hmmm, mmmm-hmmm.  Soooo
nice."

So nice?  She liked it!  Yes!

We lay like that, not speaking, just stroking one another, for perhaps
five minutes.  Then the semen on the head of my penis started to get
sticky, and my underpants were becoming cold where they were wet.

"Mom?" I said, still looking at the ceiling.

"Mmmm-hmmm?" she answered.

"Do you suppose it would be okay if I went and got a dry pair of
Jockey shorts?"

"Mmmm-hmmm," she said.  "But don't be gone long."

I didn't intend to be gone long, that was for sure.  I didn't want to
be gone long.  I pulled my finger out of Mom's slit and removed her
hand from my underwear.  Then I jogged to my room, took a 90-second
shower, put on a pair of clean Jockeys, and jogged back to Mom's
bedroom.  During the two minutes I was gone, I realized that I'd made
one error in my logic.  I'd thought that coming would take the sexual
urgency off and allow me to come back to my senses.  It didn't.  I was
still as hard as a rock, and, if anything, I wanted more.

When I got back to Mom's bedroom, she was lying just as I'd left her,
with her eyes closed, her nightshirt hitched up just to the bottom
edge of her pussy, and her legs slightly spread.  The flow of liquid
from her pussy had slowed, and, once again, a shining drop was just
about to tumble over the edge.  Her bedroom seemed filled with her
scent, and she looked so beautiful lying there I could hardly believe
it.

Another mental process popped up from the background and reminded me
about the stories I'd downloaded from the web, stories all about
eating out and lots of other things, and I knew, in that instant, that
what I wanted to do the most was what the primeval process had been
telling me since Mom had first hitched up her nightshirt:  kiss Mom's
beautiful, pink, wet pussy.  Bury my face in it and lick it and eat it
for as long as I could.

I did an instant mental replay of everything that had happened from
the time I walked into her bathroom and saw her standing there with
her breasts bare and her shorts pushed down just below her navel--her
peeing, getting in and out of the bathtub, her slipping and my
grasping her breast, drying her feet, her feeling my hard-on, my
coming, her putting her hand in my underwear, and our rubbing each
other.  Nowhere along the line had mom got mad, complained, asked me
not to do anything, or asked me to do anything different.  Odds seemed
to be good that, if I did put my face between her legs, she wasn't
going to object.

I got on the bed, kneeling between her ankles.  Bending forward, I
placed my hands on either side of her waist, then leaned down and
kissed her pussy, just as if it had been her mouth.  A soft, gentle,
long kiss, moving my lips slightly, and letting my tongue play against
the edges of her vagina.  Her scent filled my entire being and closed
out the rest of the world.  She tasted a little bit like sourgrass,
and a little bit salty.  My cock throbbed.

When my lips touched Mom's pussy, she stiffened, but she didn't say
anything.  I waited a few seconds.  She didn't say anything, and she
didn't push me away.

I kissed her pussy again, the same way.  Mom still didn't make any
move to stop me.  I licked her pussy, softly, with a circular motion
of my tongue, running it around the edges of the opening.  I licked
again, and again.  Then I ran my tongue upward until I could feel the
bump of Mom's clitoris, and ran my tongue around it, too.  Mom's hands
flew to my head, and her fingers began running through my hair.

"Oh, Alan!" she said.  "Oh, yes, yes, yes."

I was in heaven.  I kept licking and nibbling and sucking, running my
tongue around Mom's pussy, dipping down to feel the hairs around her
asshole on the tip of my tongue, then licking back up to the top,
going around and around her clitoris; kissing her clitoris, sucking it
between my lips and squeezing it gently.  And then starting the cycle
all over again.

As I worked my face and my tongue and my lips between Mom's legs, her
breathing got faster and faster, her stomach started to move up and
down.  Her hands got wild in my hair, pressing my face more firmly
into her pussy.

And then, suddenly, she gripped my hair as if she intended to yank it
out and jammed her crotch up against my face.  Her entire body went
rigid, and she made a sound like an animal growling.  "Arrrrrr," she
went.  "Oh.  Alan.  Oh.  Alan.  Oh.  Arrrrrr.  Oh.  Alan.  Yessss."
And then she collapsed back onto the bed, limp and panting.  *That*
must have been a female orgasm, a tiny process informed me.  For a few
minutes, I licked her pussy gently, avoiding her clitoris, kissing all
around her thighs and on the springiness of her bush, pressing down
until my lips met the resistance of flesh.

When Mom's breathing had returned to normal, I lifted my wet face from
between her legs and found her looking back at me, her eyes hooded,
sly, wicked, inviting.  "Alan," she said.  "Sweetie, take off your
underwear."

Now, I felt no hesitation.  I got off the bed and pulled my shorts
down over bursting cock, which snapped past the elastic and pointed
nearly straight at the ceiling.  As I was taking off my shorts, Mom
sat up and peeled off her nightshirt.  I got back on the bed and knelt
between Mom's legs.  She lifted her arms to me.  "C'mere, sweetie,"
she said.

I'd seen pictures of people fucking, and knew how the pieces fit
together, but, having never actually done it myself, I wasn't sure how
to get from where I was to where I knew I was supposed to go.  I
lowered myself into Mom's embrace, placing most of my weight on my
elbows, so that my chest was resting lightly against Mom's, the hard
tips of her nipples pressing into my flesh.  Mom wrapped her arms
around me.  My cock came to rest nestled in her bush, lying along the
line of her slit.  "Mmmmm," Mom said, " that's right.  Now, back up
just a little, then bring your hips forward."

I did what Mom said, and my cock slipped and slid around in all the
pussy juice between her legs, but didn't go into her.  What was I
doing wrong?  When, after a couple of tries, I still didn't go into
her, Mom reached down between her legs, took my penis between her
fingers, and placed the tip of it right at her entry.  Then I pressed
my hips forward and slid into her.  Funny part was, going into Mom was
nothing like any of the stories I'd read.  The head of my penis didn't
pop past the opening of her vagina, I didn't have to push hard against
any resistance, I wasn't aware of any particular tightness, and there
was no notion of going in either fast or slow.  I just went in, easily
and gently, as if the parts were made to fit together, as if it
couldn't happen any other way.

Then I went nuts.  The world ceased to exist.  The universe became my
body, Mom's body, and the inside of my mind.  At the same time that
every nerve of my body felt as if it were naked and hyper-aware of the
slightest touch, my mind split into three parts.  To say that being
inside of Mom felt good would have been understatement of the grossest
sort.  Wonderful wasn't right, either.  It felt incredible, literally.
I couldn't believe the sensation that was the fact of the pictures I'd
seen and the words I'd read.  It wasn't *like* anything, it was what
it was, it was a feeling to which others might suffer in comparison;
it was consuming, marvelous, total.  Part of my mind said, "You're
actually fucking.  You actually have your penis in a woman's vagina,
your cock in her pussy."  Part of my mind was saying, "So *this* is
what fucking feels like."  And part of my mind was saying, "The woman
is Mom."

I began to move my hips, pulling my penis almost all the way out, then
pressing back in again.  Mom's fingers started a dance on my
shoulderblades.  Unconsciously, I experimented with the speed at which
I moved in and out of Mom, rotating my hips and moving them from side
to side, stopping, and then starting again; pulling out until the tip
of my prick was barely inside of Mom, then plunging back in with all
the force I could; driving inside of her and then staying there,
flexing my cock and feeling her pussy squeeze me back in return.
Every cell in the skin of my prick had its own separate awareness of
every cell in the walls of Mom's pussy, all sending messages to my
brain at the same time and then Mom raised her legs and wrapped them
around the small of my back and I was stroking and stroking and
stroking and moving in and out and in and out and I felt like I wanted
to scream and cry at the same time and like I was dying and I didn't
care and I wanted to come until it hurt and I wanted it to last
forever and as soon as this was over I wanted to do it again and it
was God and it was the world and there wasn't anything else and I
loved Mom so much I couldn't stand it my heart hurt and felt as if it
were going to burst and I was stroking and stroking and stroking
plunging and diving and getting lost and found again and this was home
where I was meant to be and there was nothing else and there was
nothing else and I wanted it to last foreve--

When I came back to my senses, Mom and I were clutching each other so
tightly my arms ached.  We were panting, our chests were slick
together, and a drop of sweat was balanced on the end of my nose.  I
was aware that I'd returned from someplace else, and I knew I'd come
until my insides came out because the pressure was gone and there was
an ache between my legs.  But I'd left this world entirely.  Where I'd
been was not a memory in my mind but in every cell and in every nerve,
and I knew that what I'd remember forever was not just skin and
sensation and words and pictures in my mind but a total experience in
all of my body.

I relaxed my grip on Mom, and she let her legs slip from the small of
my back to behind my knees.  I lifted my weight off her chest so we
could both breathe better, feeling the sudden coolness on my dripping
chest.  Mom's neck, chest, and shoulders were splotchy red, and there
was a puddle of sweat between her breasts.  As I looked at her, she
shuddered, and her vagina contracted.  For several minutes, we lay
together like that, just looking at each other, and little tremors
continued to run through Mom's body.  I dipped my head down and kissed
all around Mom's face, nibbled at her ears, felt her damp hair against
my nose.  My cock softened.  Mom gave one final shudder, her vagina
squeezed, and my cock fell out.

"Awwwww," Mom said.  "I didn't want you to leave so soon."

Mom legs came off the back of mind and spread wide.  I raised myself
and rolled over, so that I was lying on my back next to her.

"Sweetie," Mom said, "would you please grab the box of Kleenex off the
nightstand?"

Mom pulled a wad of tissues out of the box and put them between her
legs, then offered the box to me.  "You might need some, too," she
said.

I took several tissues.  My whole crotch was sopping with a mixture of
my come and Mom's pussy juice.  I dried myself off as best I could and
dropped my gob of soggy tissues onto the floor beside the bed.

I took Mom's hand, and we continued to lie side by side.  I felt like
I should say something, but I didn't have any words.  "Geez, Mom, what
a swell fuck?"  When it came right down to it, words didn't seem
necessary.  I was relishing the glow of the experience, living it,
reliving it, keeping it with me always.  There was nothing to say;
nothing to be said.  Words couldn't alter or improve just being there
and feeling it all.  I couldn't know, but I thought--hoped--that maybe
Mom was doing the same thing.

We continued to lie there.  I felt kind of like I was slipping in and
out of consciousness.  Perhaps we dozed on and off for a while.  Then
I remembered Mom's raising her hips to meet mine and the grip of her
ankles on the small of my back, and I started to wonder about her sore
leg, worrying that I might have hurt her.

"Mom!"  I said, abruptly.  "Your leg!  I forgot all about it.  Is it
okay?"

Mom put her legs together.  She drew her left heel upward until it was
resting against her butt, then lifted her leg and pointed her toes
skyward.  "It's *much* better, Alan," she said, "even better than you
might imagine."

I looked at her in astonishment.  "But how could the muscle have
healed to quickly?  I don't understand."

Mom looked back at me with a broad smile and a wink.  "Well," she
said, "you know what I always say.  The lessons we learn best are the
ones we figure out for ourselves."

parth_nogenesis@XXXhotmail.com

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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