Easy Mother

I stroke her cheek gently, tenderly. Over and over again I stroke it.

"Mum," I say softly. "Mum."

The sobbing and the shaking begin to lessen. The great shuddering gasps for air subside. I gently tilt her head to look at me.

Her eyes swim with tears and her ruined mascara forms a dirty halo around them and the cut above her eye is sticky with congealing blood and her hair is a mess and she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and she is naked and shivering and all I want to do is hold her and protect her and...

I bend my head down. She raises her face to meet me. We kiss.

She tastes of alcohol and softness and heat and sweat and tears. I kiss her very gently at first. Our lips brush against one another, the slightest of contacts. She leans in to me and the kiss becomes firmer, the softness of her lips sending tiny shocks of pleasure sparking through my body. It feels entirely natural to open my lips and allow her tongue access to my mouth. It feels entirely natural to tighten my grip around her body and draw her closer to me. It feels entirely natural to revel in the sensation of her breasts pressing against my chest. It feels entirely natural to feel her hair, to entwine its strands around my fingers, to stroke her neck with my thumb as I do so.

Time passes. We kiss and we kiss and we kiss and it feels to me as if the walls that have separated us for so long are dissolving and we are becoming something else, something new. After a while, her kissing becomes less exploratory and more urgent. Her tongue presses against mine; she opens her mouth wider. The space between our joined lips is moist and frantic with thrusting and tasting and feeling and yearning. It is the scalding flavour of crumbling walls. There is a heat building in the room, a pressure, an expectation.

And she is naked. And I am aware of her nakedness and, for the first time since I kissed her, I am aware that what we are doing is wrong, is horribly wrong. And as I am thinking this, I stroke her back and I caress her cheek and I kiss her lips. My body is no longer my own. It is hers if she wants it. It belongs to this moment, this thing that is growing around us, between us, within us.

Very consciously, very deliberately, I let my hand fall from her face to her breast and I leave it there, feeling her softness, stroking and pressing against it gently. Very very gently.

Reluctantly, she breaks the kiss and places her hand over mine. Her expression is difficult to read. She is not smiling; she is looking at me as she takes my hand in hers and I think - I believe, I know - that she will move my hand away from her and that this moment will fade into memory and I accept that. I prepare myself for that. I tell myself that that is only right and that I am her son and she is my mother and...

She moves my hand down a little. Awkwardly at first, but then with more urgency, she moves my hand around her breast, brushing it against the delicate, erect nipple, encouraging me to grip and grasp and cup and squeeze and, satisfied that I understand, she lets go of my hand and shifts her position on my lap so that she is facing me fully, one leg either side of me, her bottom raised slightly and her body pushed forward so that her breasts, heavy and tanned, hang more freely. I can feel the full weight of them in my hands. And now that my mother is supporting herself fully, I use both of them to caress and squeeze and massage. I moan with pleasure. The sensation of my mother's flesh is delicious.

Facing me, my mother's mouth twitches into a half-smile; her eyes glint with either amusement or enjoyment. It's difficult to tell which. I continue to play with her body, feeling the softness of her flesh, the hardness of her nipples, the silk of her skin, the few wiry hairs around her areolae. She closes her eyes for a moment and a powerful shudder shakes her body.

"Yes," she whispers.

We stay like this for a while. It's impossible to tell for how long we maintain this arrangement of son and mother, of need and flesh balanced against propriety and an unspoken line that feels perilously thin, hopelessly fragile. I have been waiting for her to tell me to stop, to be the responsible one, to say that we have gone too far, that we must turn back. I am beginning to realise that she is not going to.

Gently but insistently, she pushes against my grip, leaning in towards me, until it feels awkward and silly to keep kneading and stroking her breasts when I can wrap my arms around her and simply luxuriate in the sensation of them pressing against my chest. Her cheek, her uninjured cheek, is pressed against mine and she whispers into my ear.

"You've always been such a good boy. But I never have... I never have been good. I'm sorry."

It's difficult to think. Her closeness, the overwhelming feeling of her body pressed against mine, the alcohol-tinged heat of her breath against my ear, her warmth that is both motherly and something else, the implications of her confession - all these rob me of reason, steal my speech.

"I've been stupid," she says. "And I'm going to be stupid again. But I don't care." She draws back and her eyes, set in their sad, puffy rings of grey are serious. Her hands are delicate but sure and they brush across my chest as if she is removing crumbs or a piece of fluff from a shirt. The gesture is so automatic, so maternal, that I almost laugh at its absurdity. But then her hands are moving again, scuttling purposefully down my stomach towards my lap where the outline of a hard bulge can easily be seen in the cotton of my underwear. Her hand moves across it lightly and it is as if the air quite suddenly becomes thick and charged with a potential that promises both danger and wonder.

"This isn't you," she says quietly. She unbuttons the fly of my boxers deftly and reaches in with her hand. "This isn't your fault." She grasps my erection and moves it out of the thin cotton and into the light. "This is me. This is what I want." The foreskin of my cock is tight around its crown and she pulls it back deftly, revealing the swollen head glistening underneath. "You're a good boy." I gasp as she begins to manipulate my cock with a grip that has suddenly become extraordinarily firm. I don't think I can break it if I want to. I run my hand up and down her bare back. My gaze is fixed on her face. Despite the bruising and the cut and the smudged, ruined make up, she is stunning. A goddess.

I don't know what to say. In the end, I say the only thing I can.

"I love you, mum."

She smiles at that. "I love you too." And then she adjusts her position, raises her body and, without any further preamble, lowers it down, onto and then around my cock.

I gasp. The moment of penetration is an engulfing heat, slick and hungry, and an exquisite pain. My mother closes her eyes and smiles the same lascivious smile I have seen before when she has said goodbye to other men at the front door, wicked memories flickering in her mind. My eyes are wide open - partly in shock and partly because I am determined to see everything. My mother begins to ride me and her breasts begin to quiver slowly. Around me, her flesh tightens and loosens, tightens and loosens, clutching at my cock with a practised ease and then releasing it. Each upward motion exposes perhaps two to three inches of my cock before she slams back down again, and my cock is plunged into the silk-slick tunnel of her flesh.

Her rhythm is regular, relentless. I try to match it, try to move my body upwards to meet hers coming down, but her position and her desire-fuelled determination make my efforts mostly irrelevant. I lean back against the side of the bed and stroke her body, as if my hands are explorers staking a claim to a new territory, but I know I'm just kidding myself. It isn't my mother who is being claimed tonight. The modest swell of her tummy; her fleshy buttocks; her heavy breasts; the tauter skin of chest and forearms; the furnace heat of her cunt: how could I lay claim to these? She is my point of origin. For all her flaws and failings, for all the times she has exasperated and disappointed me, I love her and I am helpless before her.

My balls are tight in their sac; my cock is rubbed and gripped and stroked by the moist walls of my mother's cunt. The sweet friction; the intimate weight of her bearing down on me; the pounding of my heart; the ragged gasping of her breath: all these conspire to undo me.

I can't think. I am just feeling.

Slapslapslap.

Her cunt flexes around me.

Slapslapslap.

Her eyes narrow in pleasure.

Slapslapslap.

I am trying - I am really trying - to hold back, to prolong this moment. For her. For her pleasure. My heart is pounding.

Slapslapslap.

"Mum," I say hoarsely. "Mum... can't... hold..."

She continues to ride me hard and her skin is slippery with sweat. She leans forward and her hair falls like a veil across her face. She kisses me through the dirty blonde curtain. Her rhythm slows and she grinds against me and her nipples brush my chest and her arms are about my neck and her cunt is hot and slick and there is no escape, no leaving this moment.

And I hold onto her because that is all I can do and my hands slide across the dampness of her back and she grinds and wriggles and pushes against me.

"Do..." she whispers. "Do you feel that?"

The head of my cock is deep inside her, straining, always straining.

I can't think.

"Do you feel it?" There is an amusement in her voice, a triumph. I don't know what she means. She grinds herself against me, yearning for a more I cannot give.

"The place..."

And then I understand and the slow, remorseless motion of her body finally swallows up the last pitiful shred of my self-control.

I moan loud as I climax deep inside her. My eyes close of their own volition, as every muscle in my body seems to clench simultaneously and I deposit spurt after scalding spurt into her cunt. She lavishes me with kisses, fierce and possessive at first and then tender as the climax fades and my head lolls back and I feel a bone-deep tiredness wash through me.

My mind is shattered. I am sensation and instinct only. It takes me a few moments to realise my mother is talking to me.

"... not sorry. I love you, you know. I love you so much and you were there for me tonight and I..."

I can't focus. My mother gets off me and stands up and there is a cool dampness on my thighs and she looms over me, a tanned goddess, wanton, magnificent, all-powerful. She reaches her hand down to me.

I look at it for a moment. I had thought she needed protecting. I had thought she needed my love. What a ludicrous notion. And yet, whether she needs it or not, I give it willingly.

She is smiling. Is she proud of me? That idea makes me very happy.

"Come on," she says. "You're sleeping with me tonight."

I take her hand and, a little awkwardly, clamber to my feet. The room shifts around me for a moment, but her hand is warm and steady and her smile is beautiful.

"We... we should get you cleaned up," I say. "I mean..."

I look around me. I've been in this room so many times. Everything looks different now. The wardrobe, the chest of drawers with its knick-knacks and ornaments and solitary photograph of me when I was six.

"We can do that in the morning," she says calmly. "Sleep with your mum tonight, eh?"

I nod. What else can I do?

"Sure."

And she leads me to her bed. And she pulls back the covers and she tells me to get in and she strokes my hair as I lie there and she kisses me on my forehead and she climbs in beside me. The smell of her - of her perfume, of her sweat, of her body, of my semen oozing slowly out of her cunt - surrounds me and it smells good. It smells right. And as she reaches out to turn out the bedside lamp, I say, "I love you, Mum."

And she pauses and turns and smiles.

"I love you, too."

The light clicks off and the room takes on new contours and in the darkness my mother finds my lips with her own and her lips are soft and warm and I am very, very happy.

*