Growing up, I was always aware that my mother was a completely normal human being. She was not terribly tall, certainly not slim or athletic, and full of her own personal foibles and faults. But she was a loving mother, and despite these imperfections, I always felt very close to her.

I went through my own Oedipal phase, and for probably a year, I masturbated with both incredible frequency and superhuman ferocity to thoughts of my mother. My folks were borderline hippies, and consequently nudity and sexuality were neither taboo nor dinner conversation topics. I saw them both nude more than a few times, mostly by accident, and I remember thinking that my mother’s body, in particular, was a thing of singular beauty. I remember a few times, when my father was away traveling on business, when I’d assume the role of “man of the house” and spend a night or two in their bed, and on at least one occasion, my own nocturnal fantasies took a turn for the practical when my very body acted them out on her sleeping form, with mixed results. I apparently wedged my 13-year-old thumb into her crotch (how I managed that in a state of deep sleep, I’ll never know), and she sweetly admonished me for it in the morning. Nevertheless, her slightly fatty shape, her full breasts and sizable rear were my masturbation fantasy of choice for many nights to come.

Years later, I had forgotten all those adolescent fantasies and vain hopes of consummation with my flesh-and-blood mother, and moved on to slender, small-chested girls of my own age. Like every boy my I age I ached to get some action with these awkward but ever-fascinating creatures, despite the fact that I really had no idea what “action” really was, or exactly why I wanted it. The non-stop parade of beer ads and hair metal posters had thoroughly indoctrinated me towards the pursuit of tender young females who, by their very age, upheld the societal standards of appearance and sex appeal. And sure enough, I had conjured up enough charm and minimal good looks to secure a healthy handful of sexual experiments and exploits.

By the time I was a sophomore in high school, my father was traveling far more frequently on business, and I felt my connection with him–which had always been strong, mutual and very supportive–begin to degrade. It was nothing deliberate on either side, just a consequence of frequent and prolonged absence. But the results were real enough, for both my mother and me. My older sister had long previous evacuated to the insular environment of a private college, where she engaged in all the regular routines of rebellion via drugs and sex (known to me thanks to her rigorous diary-keeping). So for a good chunk of high school, it was me and mom holding down the fort. And frankly, it was fine.

I remember my dad returning from a trip to Japan, and unexpectedly finding a Japanese version of Penthouse magazine, which was impossible to read, but an absolute delight to use for masturbatory material. The damn thing read backwards, and all the girls either showed their faces or their unkempt crotches, but under no circumstances did they show both. Fascinating.

About that same time, Mom got a new job that involved working second shift; that is, 2pm to 10pm. Since I was already driving, this didn’t present any difficulty, but it made our respective times at home even lonelier. We found ourselves increasingly cherishing our moments before school and before bedtime.

In the middle of my sophomore year, I had experienced my first true love. She was everything I was not: strong-willed, passionate, outspoken, confident, and care-giving. I was sure we would end up married. Ten months later, that vision evaporated and I spend another five months nursing my broken heart. My father, when present, had skillful words of wisdom for me, and his guidance was crucial in my recovery. But it was my ever-present mother, whose kind heart and gentle manner provided much needed refuge, who truly brought me back to life.

I was a junior now, starting off my second-to-last year of high school, filled with anticipation and dread for the experiences ahead. I found myself retreating from my longtime friends. I rationalized this as a natural pulling-away to make the final abandonment after graduation easier for all of us.

I started to notice my mother anticipating my eventual departure from the home, and as if to stave off the despair of “empty nest syndrome”, she made a point of engaging me more deliberately. We started making sure we shared meals as often as possible, and made the most of our evenings, even if only to watch pathetic network television well beyond midnight.

On more than one occasion, I fell asleep in their bed while watching late night TV, and found myself scrambling to get ready in the morning from the disorienting location that was clearly not my own bedroom. Sometimes she’d absentmindedly play with my hair while we watch Benny Hill reruns or Johnny Carson. During the bitterly cold winter, we’d occasionally find ourselves cuddling close under the heavy covers, our feet intertwined to provide mutual warmth.

One night, Mom came home in a frightful mood. Her struggling non-profit employer was having to cut time, salaries, and ultimately staff. While nothing had happened to her, she was quite certain that something would, and she’d end up being laid off or demoted. She slumped into one of the kitchen stools while I listened sympathetically and microwaved some leftovers for her. I felt miserable for her, as she alternately sobbed and protested. I finally took her book bag and coat and hung them appropriately. In near silence we sat at the dinner table while she collected her thoughts by way of her late night meal.

That night, we lay in her bed, the TV was on as usual, while she tried to work on her crossword puzzle (her typical MO for putting herself to sleep), she was clearly distracted by her workplace developments. I tried a few words of sympathetic encouragement, but they proved insufficient to turn her mood. Still, she at least found them darling enough to look over at me lying next to her and reach her hand up to stroke my young face. She gathered a sad smile and offered her thanks for my positivism and steadfastness in her darkness.

At that moment, I don’t think either of us had ever felt so emotionally close to the other since I had emerged from her womb some 17 years prior. I smiled back, and put my arm behind her head. She rolled over and rested her head on my chest while I stroked her back with as much comfort as I could muster. Under the din of the low-volume television I heard her soft sobbing and felt a cold tear hit my bare chest. I winced with an empathetic pang and kissed her sweet-smelling hair while holding her close. In response, she moved her free arm across my chest and rested it near my armpit. It tickled slightly, and I nearly giggled. Instead, I just squirmed a bit, and she slid her hand down so that her fingers were under my shoulder blade. My hand movements across her admittedly unflattering, matronly nightgown continued, with ever-so-slightly increased vigor. The whole scene must have been a comfort to her, and she cooed softly. I think we both drifted into a shallow sleep in this cozy embrace, while the late night TV droned on in the darkened bedroom.

I awoke sometime around 1 am, remembering the situation, and feeling suddenly quite annoyed by the persistent prattling of the infomercial that now invaded the bedroom. Mom had rolled onto her side, facing away from me. I fumbled for the remote and killed the TV set, and the room was instantly shrouded in darkness. I heard her grunt softly at the abrupt change in light and sound level, and then drift back into a deep sleep. I stared at her back for a few moments in the near-total darkness, relishing the closeness that we’d shared earlier. I reached out my hand to brush her neck for a moment before closing my own eyes and trying to surrender myself to some real sleep.

I remember smelling her sweet hair scent again, and feeling her hand on my chest as I flowed between layers of unconsciousness. My dreams subsequently took a turn for the erotic. Yet another of the countless teenage sex dreams played itself in my slumbering mind, and it would seem that the mental became physical in the form of a burgeoning hard-on, so typical of a young man entering his sexual prime. My stiff member ached beneath the covers as I visualized all manner of sex acts in my dream. I vaguely recall hearing a moan escape my lips as I absentmindedly pawed at my throbbing erection.

It would seem that Mom heard it as well, as she softly whispered my name with concern, in the dark.

“Trent, honey? Are you okay?” she mumbled in her sleepy state.

I heard nothing as I struggled against the demons of my torrential hormones in complete unconsciousness. I pressed my palm hard against my erection, and moaned again, this time more loudly.

“Mmmm, Trent, what’s wrong?” she managed, still awash in sleepiness. “Is something wrong?”

Somehow, her vocalization wormed its way into my erotic dreams, and I found myself staring at my naked mother. Her breasts were very large and slightly swollen. Her voluptuous (but certainly not pin-up) body in clear view. Her unkempt, untrimmed pubic hair, which I remembered so vividly from my younger childhood, sprung out like some jet-black clown wig. I suddenly felt very warm all over. Apparently, I started kicking off the covers. Mom became concerned that I was consumed in either nightmare or fever, and she pulled the remaining covers aside. It was at that moment that she saw her 17-year-old son groping at his own genitals whilst moaning with increasing fervor.

Awash with embarrassment, she pulled the covers back up and rolled back onto her side, trying to regain her former sleeping state. I, meanwhile, continued my motions and sound effects in the background. Finally, she gently woke me with a firm squeeze of my arm.

“Trent, honey. You’re having a bad dream. Wake up.”

Battling to remain with my sex fantasy dream, I reluctantly awoke to her repeated words. “Huh?”

“Honey, you were having a nightmare. Please don’t be afraid.” The darkness disguised her smirk, and her embarrassment.

Remembering my location and the contents of my dream, I quickly fell into character. “Oh, thanks, Mom. It was awful. Sorry if I woke you.” I rolled over away from her, my face burning with shame and my mind startlingly awake. I felt her roll away also, and I worked to get myself back to sleep. It was a long time coming, but I finally started feeling the tendrils of unconsciousness lifting my embarrassment in exchange for slumber.

It was right on the cusp of sleep that I felt her hands on my back, surprisingly warm, but still alarming in the middle of the night. I ignored it and closed my eyes again. Her hands moved slowly, gently, lazily, across the bare surface of my back and shoulders while I lay in mock sleep, trying to figure out if she was having her own dreams, imagining my father in his rightful place in their bed. It wasn’t uncomfortable, or even sexual, so I tried to use it to relax and return to sleep. Finally, her hand movements slowed to a stop and I heard her peaceful almost-snoring, and at that I succumbed to sleep again.

The next morning, Mom showed no indication of any knowledge of my nocturnal conditions from the night before, and I did nothing to bring them up. Everything was warm and comfortable as I readied myself for school. She gave me a warm kiss on the cheek and a quick hug.

“Thanks, honey, for putting up with my pity party last night. I’m sure I wasn’t a lot of fun, but I am afraid for the future of my position, and I want you to know I appreciate your kindness. Have a great day, love.”

The squeal of the bus breaks outside sent me flying out into the frigid winter morning without the chance to reply. The day passed without note, with the exception of returning sexual thoughts about my mother. I suppressed them well enough to survive the school day, and after a quick beat-off upon returning home, my evening alone was not out of the ordinary.

A few days and nights passed, and there had been no movement on Mom’s job or its future. She returned home nightly with grave doubts about it, but there were as yet no new facts to be had. As the looming fear of a layoff wore away, her mood lightened. Soon the threat appeared to have evaporated completely, and we both forgot all about it. Life went on into the spring without major news.

Dad came through a few times, of course, though seldom for more than a week at a time. I bore him no ill will, but it felt an awful lot like having a stranger in the house. By then, the advent of direct deposit had made his local presence nearly inconsequential, and we all seemed to find it more comfortable when he would finally head for the airport again.

In the spring, Mom’s job came under threat once more, and her dour mood returned. She never projected it at me, and I was very quick to respond with empathy. But it meant a few more nights in a row of comforting, crying and closeness until sleep overtook us. My recollections of the awkward winter night a few months back left me hoping that I would contain my burgeoning sexual appetites in these close quarters. It seems my fears were well-founded, but my hopes in vain.

After one night of late night TV, we found ourselves spooning in the cool spring night air. My long body was wrapped behind hers, my knees locked into hers, my arm across her waist, my face against her hair. I heard her snoozing, so I found the remote, killed the tube, tossed the remote aside and closed my eyes.

I marveled to see myself caressing my mother’s nude form in the bright spring sunlight. I sensed her satisfied smile at my touch, so I emboldened my caresses to her more erogenous areas, and soon found myself fondling her hairy bush. Still behind her in spoon position, I began to press my groin against her backside. I was alarmed to find myself also fully nude, but I quickly got caught up in the sensation of my soft thrusting. She lifted her top leg and I found myself sliding my cock into her wet, warm pussy from behind. I nearly climaxed right there, but I settled in to a rhythm. I wanted to savor this moment.

And that’s about when I gained a sliver of consciousness and realized with utter horror, that while my motions were more or less real, the setting was not in fact a bright spring day with two nude lovers, but in fact my mother’s bed, her in her nightgown, and me pressing my stiff prick against her! I stopped immediately and tried not to panic. I took stock of the situation: we were both clothed, we were still spooning, my hand was indeed near her crotch (though over her clothing), and I had been dry humping my mother in my sleep! My ears rang with panic as I froze and listened for any words of admonision or disgust, but I heard none. In fact, for all I could tell, she was still completely asleep, and either immune to my unknowing advance, or perhaps she had integrated it into her own dreams. I prayed she would neither notice nor remember, and I slipped away, retreating to the bathroom to pound my pud and get rid of my turgid pecker.

My next instinct was to go sleep in my own bed, but through some curious logic I decided that might appear suspicious. So I returned to her bed, and fought for sleep. For her part, she appeared never to have noticed. Finally sleep came, and I was grateful.

Once again, morning came with no alarming results or awkward words, and my shame and delight were both my own secret. The days passed, and once again Mom’s job concerns slipped off the front burner until after school let out for the summer. I had taken up my usual summer job at a nearby corner store, with hours not dissimilar from my school hours. In that way, our family routine changed little.

One sweltering night in July, Mom arrived home in a funk. Like the hydra, the threat of losing her job had reared up again. I thought that her agency’s lack of clarity on the matter was wholly unfair to the hardworking, underpaid social workers and other staff, but there was nothing I could do but be there for her. It was a Friday night, and neither of us had to be up early in the morning. So I made her a salad, and she opened up a bottle of red wine. We plopped down in front of the TV and watched most of a movie while we commiserated and talked. I tried to get her laughing, to get her mind off her cycle of job security hell. She offered me to share her wine, with a warning not to drink until I was 21, and we finished the bottle and opened another. The movie got boring and we got tired, if slightly tipsy. I helped her to bed, and she beckoned me to join her.

“Trenton, honey, be with me again tonight? Your mom is in a bad mood, and you’re the only company I’ve got these days.”

My cock twitched in my jeans, and my mind raced back to my last attempt to sleep through the night in her bed. But her sad and sweet eyes were lonely, and her room had the window air conditioner, so it was kind of a no-brainer. We readied ourselves for bed. I stripped down to my boxers and jumped into bed. Being a middle-aged woman, she had all manner of bedtime prep work to do. I aimed an AC vent at my head and tried to go to sleep. A shadow passed in front of the lamp, and I squinted to see her arrive on her side of the bed. Her summer nightie was much more feminine, with diaphanous panels and pieces of satin ribbon. Her back was to me as she sat on the edge of the bed. She glanced back casually to see if I was awake. I instinctively played possum, and satisfied that I must have been asleep, she turned back and lifted off her nightie. The light played off her womanly curves. The heaviness of her sagging breasts, the gentle undulating edges of her pudgy sides. This was not a model’s body. These breasts were heavy and not very shapely. They had done their service for my sister and I, and now they hung pendulous, her large nipples pointing out and down like pencil erasers. She did her lotion routine, moistening up her whole upper body, while I watched through squinted eyes transfixed on her matronly form. She powdered her breasts and stomach. Finally she retrieved her nightie and dropped it back on, covering her soft body. She slid into bed beside me and turned off her light. I lay there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling. I could hear her soft breathing under the dull roar of the window unit. Once again, I willed myself to sleep against the powers of fantasy. I coasted into a pleasant sleep, my nearly naked body being breathed upon by the cool breath of the air conditioner.

This time the sex dream came on slowly, and it was much less active. It was mostly a pleasant feeling of arousal, and even in my dream I felt far less concerned about what my body was doing at that moment. My cock felt very happy; it was as if it was getting stimulated all by itself. The sensation felt very real. As the sense of reality grew, I broke the surface of consciousness and still felt the stimulation. I exploded into alertness, and realized that someone or something was fondling my dick! My night vision slowly returned and I realized that my mother’s hand was casually manipulating my goods through my boxers. She appeared to still be asleep. It felt so great and since I wasn’t doing it, I didn’t stop her. Suddenly she rolled over towards me and her head landed on my chest. Her free hand hit my side and slid down to my drawers again. Her top leg slid onto mine, and I felt her pantied crotch against my thigh. I took a deep breath and tried to figure out what to do. I was completely freaked out, but utterly turned on at the same time.

A soft moan escaped her lips and her hand began exploring my cock and balls in earnest. Eventually her hand found the flap in the front and slipped inside. The direct contact of her hand on my rock-hard cock took the air of out my lungs. I gasped loudly, and she moaned again. Her hot body pressed against me, while the icy air from the window unit chilled my flesh. I had goose bumps everywhere. My mind raced, and my dick throbbed. Mom started to pump my shaft with some purpose now, and I started to question her supposed sleeping state. I felt her firm nipple against my chest, and the other was within sight, pressing against the gauzy fabric of her nightie. Almost without thinking a reached across with my free hand and touched it. Mother moaned again. I rubbed my fingertips across it, and the moans continued. Emboldened, I caressed her whole breast with my hand. As if in response, her hand slipped down onto my balls and began massaging them gently. Now it was my turn to moan.

Soon we were pawing at each other like a couple of horny teenagers, except that I really was. I think we each had given up on the idea that the other was still asleep, but no words were exchanged, or even eye contact. Just moans, coos, eventually soft words of encouragement, even a little dirty talk. Her moistened pubis pressed rhythmically against my thigh, and I pressed it back in time. She sat up and yanked at my boxers to get them off, and I took the opportunity to tug at her nightie. In one move she threw it off and tossed both the nightie and the boxers across the room. I threw myself at her massive exposed breasts, taking in their sweet perfumed scent as I rolled my sweating face between them. She fell back down onto her back, and spun to follow. I buried myself in her enormous flowing tits, finding her incredulously erect nipples and sucking them back into my mouth. She moaned very loudly, and I poured myself at my task. I felt her hand go down to her crotch, and I could smell the pungent, spicy musk of her wet pussy. My head was spinning with lust and madness at what we were doing. But it felt so good, and in fact it felt so right.

Her hand came up from under her panties and she found my mouth and thrust her sticky fingers into it. Her juice was tangy and primitive, and I immediately craved more. That, apparently, was her idea. I released her huge tits, and slid down the bed to sit near her hips. In the cold blue moon light, I could see her skin, glistening with sweat. She slid down her panties, and to my amazement, her twat was completely hairless! All my childhood fantasies that had centered on her mysterious, hirsute crotch were sent away forever in that moment, and as her panties slid off her feet, her legs parted and I threw myself in.

I had gone down on girls before, but I’d be the first to admit I didn’t know what I was doing. But Mom found a way to guide with her hands and her legs and the thrusting of her hips. She gave me guiding words of encouragement when I hit the right places, and soon I felt like an old pro. Soon her meaty legs were high up, as she held her legs back with her hands while I worked her musky hot pussy with my mouth, lips, tongue and fingers. I heard her climax coming, and the strains of her orgasm echoed through the darkened bedroom as my rapidly tiring tongue lapped furiously at her exposed cunt.

When I perceived that she’d had her fill, and that I had as well, I sat back up. Her hands reached up and rolled me over onto my back. She took up position between my legs now, softly running her hands across my twitching boner. She leaned forward to place kisses on my stomach, and her heavy breasts caressed my cock, and I gasped again. She happened on the idea of using her ample chest to tit-fuck me. I could just see the glistening tip of my cock, wet with precome, emerge from the top of her cleavage. It felt great, but it was clearly an uncomfortable position for her. Besides, she had other ideas. She pulled on my pecker for a minute or two with her hand, and then started to nuzzle it, pressing it to her face, smelling it, breathing it in. She placed a few tentative kisses on it, and finally she ran her tongue up the length of my shaft. The sudden wetness in the cool airflow made me shudder, and at that she plunged down on my cock, taking most of it into her hot, wet mouth. She worked it expertly, and it was all I could do not to come instantly. She could sense my reluctance to come so quickly, and she slowed down and carefully sucked, licked and worked my cock for what felt like hours. She then started to nuzzle my balls, finally taking one, then both, into her warm mouth. She rolled them around with her tongue while I fought to contain my desire to explode.

As if any of this could have been expected, she then did something I could never have expected. She grabbed my thighs and thrust them towards my chest. She then dove in to start licking my asshole. I nearly yelped, and it was all I could do to grab hold of my legs and hold them up and apart as she had done while I was eating her. She continued to play with my cock and my nuts with her hands while she licked and nibbled at my anus. The sensation was alarming but fantastically stimulating. I was really getting into it when she suddenly coated a finger with saliva and slipped it into my asshole. I almost shouted in protest, but the sensation was, much to my surprise, disturbingly pleasurable. She wiggled her finger around, pressing it into interesting and sensitive places, gauging her success by my vocalizations. Meanwhile, she popped my pecker back into her hungry mouth and resumed her oral ministrations. The combined stimulation of the blowjob, the finger in my ass, and the fact that it was my own mother, proved to be enough, and I noisily stammered something about my impending climax. She was ready when it came, and she milked almost all of it down her throat. I heard her gag and cough, and some started to spill out the sides of her mouth, but she kept at it, and eventually licked up and swallowed all of it. My spent cock popped out of her mouth, and her jaw hung there, exhausted. Her finger slowly slid back out of my ass, and she grabbed a tissue to clean her digit. I sat up and for the first time we made eye contact in the steamy darkness.

We sat there in silence, each of us still shuddering in small waves of post-orgasmic shock. We stared into each other’s eyes. I was terrified of speaking, for fear of ruining the moment or breaking the spell. I imagine she felt the same. Finally, still wordless, we both lay back down and stared at the ceiling. Finally she spoke.

“Trenton…”

Oh, I could hear it now. ‘It was a mistake, it was wrong, it was your fault.’ I had it all figured out, and I hated myself for it.

“Yes, Mom?” I swallowed noisily as I prepared for the worst.

“I know that was completely wrong. I think you do too. It’s called incest, and it’s against the law.”

Shit, I knew it. I felt myself tearing up, a mix of anguish, love, and rage. Why can’t we have this?

“Yes, Mom, I know. But…”

“Trenton, we both know it. Let me ask you, did you like it? Did it feel wrong?”

“No, Mom. To be honest, it felt so right. I don’t love anyone in the world as much as I love you.”

“Oh, Trenton. I’m probably a terrible mother. But I have to confess that I’ve imagined this for some time. For years, actually. I tried to get it out of my head. But a few times, I think you know when, I got the feeling that I wasn’t the only one thinking about it.”

I flushed with embarrassment, strangely, given what had just taken place. No sense hiding it now.

“Yeah, I’ve been fantasizing about it for years. I have to admit that I’ve masturbated plenty of times, thinking about you.”

My mother turned and looked at me, her eyes welled up, but smiling. She leaned over to kiss me. It wasn’t me who made it a passionate french kiss, but I was elated when it did. We kissed hotly for a minute or more, and I felt my cock stir again.

“Trent, do you want to make love with me?”

My heart jumped.

“Oh yes, Mom. More than anything.”

She smiled devilishly. She rolled over and opened her night table drawer. She rolled back seconds later with a condom.

“I think you know why.”

I laughed nervously. I didn’t want to be father to my own sibling.

“Um, yeah. Got it.”

I hastily put the condom on, and then I settled in and began to touch her all over. I kneaded her big breasts and played with her nipples again. I felt her smooth pudgy belly, and down to her smooth, hairless cunt. I toyed with hungry fingers, and was rewarded with quick-flowing warm juices and soft sounds from her throat. She rolled onto her side away from me, and I suddently realized that this was exactly the position from my dream.

She lifted her leg, and thrust her butt back exposing her hot muff. I angled for a minute, trying to get everything to line up. Finally, I pressed the head of my latex-encased cock against the sopping wet lips of her twat. She grunted, and I slid it in smoothly. She exhaled loudly and pressed back against me, pushing my cock all the way in. We froze there for a moment, savoring the unspeakable beauty of our immoral act.

Finally I started to thrust. She moved back against me in rhythm, and we quickly worked up a sweat. My free hand found her tits again, and put her hand on mine as we worked her nipples to responsive firmness. She took my hand and pushed it down against her slimy crotch, which radiated heat like a furnace. Our pumping continued as she pressed my fingers between her legs and between her parted labia. I felt a small button on my fingertip, and she grunted in response. With her guidance I worked the button with my fingers while I thrust my aching cock into her hole from behind.

“Oh, Trent. Trenton, make love to me. Yes!”

I mixed things up with speed and force, and the variations seemed to excite her all the more.

“Oh, Trent. Jesus, fuck me. Fuck me now.”

I assumed that meant harder and faster, so that’s what I did. I was concentrating on not blowing my wad, and trying to give her maximum pleasure at the same time.

“Yes, that’s it. Fuck me. Fuck your mother. You’re my son and you’re fucking me. Oh God. It’s filthy and wrong and it’s turning me on.”

I realized she was actually finding great pleasure not just in my physical activities, but in the very nature of our profane act. She was getting off on our incestruous relationship! The thought it that realization turned me on all the more, and soon I was talking dirty right back at her.

“God, mother. I’m your son and I’m fucking you. You’ve got your son inside you again.”

At this she gasped and bucked frantically against me. The first waves of climax began to wash over her.

“Oh God, Trent. Fuck your mother’s pussy and make her come. Come inside your mom. Make her come. You haven’t been inside me since your were born. Come inside me. Oh God, Trent, I’m coming!”

Her filthy talk and the hot friction were enough for me too, and we more or less came together, writhing and pumping and groping and panting. After almost a full minute of post-orgasmic thrusting, our hips finally stopped moving. Only our rising and falling chests moved as we gulped in air to catch our breath. I rolled back and my dick slipped out of her hot box with a slurping sound that made us giggle.

“Trenton, honey. Would you like to sleep in my room all the time? I mean, while your dad’s not around?”

I burst into a beaming smile and leaned into kiss her. She cooed while I explored her mouth with my tongue. Her lips were salty with sweat.

“Yes, Mom. I think that’s the way to go. We can stop if ever you say so, but I really hope we don’t.”

She pondered that a moment.

“Me too, sweetie. We’ll just keep our mouths shut about it, okay? Our secret.”

“Our secret, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you too, honey. We’d better get some sleep. I’m gonna want more tomorrow. I’ve been waiting to get fucked like this for a long time. That it’s by you is beyond my wildest dreams. I want your cock in me everyday. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

She threw me a sly wink and put a hand on my now deflated cock. I remembered the condom, pried it off and ran for the bathroom.

We slept in each other’s arms that night, and most nights after that. When I went off to college, coming home was that much more bittersweet. My friends always wondered why I never kept any girlfriends; I only enjoyed them and then left them. I’d tell them, ‘I don’t want bring any of them home to meet my mother.’

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