I had fingered lots of girls — it was the hit game that all the cool kids were playing — so I felt pretty good about my skills to get Mom off. I gently traced around her pussy till I found the little nub that was certain to bring her pleasure. Then I started stroking it back and forth.
I was touching my mom’s clit. I was playing with her pussy. I could feel how hot and wet she was. Oh God.
As I worked Mom over, she redoubled her efforts on my dick. We mirrored each other’s movements. As if steering each other with our respective sexes. Whenever Mom slowed, I did the same. If she sped up, I matched that too.
I managed to get Mom off first. Is it weird that it was one of the proudest moments of my life? I saw Mom stiffen, her face flushed, and then she let out a long, drawn out sigh.
A moment later, she brought me my own pleasure. I came hard, coating her hand and the blanket with my spend.
Both of us sank into the cushions, looking at each other playfully.
“Stuff on your hand?” I asked.
“Weirdly, yes,” Mom said, “You?”
“Little bit,” I said, “I don’t mind it though, really.”
“Oh, me neither,” Mom said, “But we should still probably take care of it.”
We both got up and went over to the basement bathroom. Mom went first and I followed. As I dried myself off, Mom called to me from the couch.
“You know, I think this blanket is stained?” she said.
“Oh,” I said, “Well that’s too bad.”
“I guess we should throw it in the wash,” Mom said, “But don’t worry. I’m sure I can have it ready for tomorrow night’s movie.”
“Yes, I wouldn’t want to get cold,” I said, taking the comforter from Mom and stuffing it into the washing machine.
*
We established a whole new routine. In the mornings we’d wake up and go for a run. Then we’d clean up and have breakfast. We spent the middle of the day doing our own thing. I had class and Mom had Mom-stuff.
At night, we made dinner and cleaned up together. But we stopped watching movies. There didn’t seem to be any point. Since we weren’t really paying attention, we could have any old show on.
Every evening, we sat under the blanket on Dad’s couch, and brought each other off with our hands. Each of us pretending as best we could that nothing was going on.
Now that she knew she could trust me, Mom started changing up her habits. Sometimes, I would discover she’d put lubricant on her palm beforehand. Holy crap did I cum ropes the first time she did that. Other times, she’d use her other hand on my balls, lightly cupping them while she drained them dry. She’d also change up her movements, straight up and down, or kind of a corkscrew, or running her thumb up the underside of my dick. One time, she did all those things together, and I nearly died.
I had to keep up with her inventiveness. I brought out all the tricks I knew. I played with her clit again, yes, but I’d also slip a finger inside her (the first time I did that, I actually came without Mom needing to touch me). I found that Mom usually liked a combination of two fingers in her twat while my thumb rubbed her clitoris. Her butthole, on the other hand, was a flat no-go. Still, I found lots of other ways to make things interesting. Like me, it seemed that Mom mostly liked variety.
We never discussed our evening activities with each other. Once we were both satisfied, we’d turn off the TV and go to bed. The next morning, we’d do it all again. Nothing changed. I honestly believed that nothing ever would.
*
“Have you gone all the way?” Mom asked, as if this was a totally normal mother-son conversation.
We were sitting outside in the backyard. Mom’s feet were up on my lap, and I was slowly painting her toes. She’d already finished with her fingers — going from dark purple to a cute, canary yellow.
The problem was, Mom’s question actually felt perfectly normal. This weird existence we had where we were both fooling around regularly while also pretending that we weren’t, meant that we could have these incongruous conversations that seemed like they should have been weird but were actually ordinary.
“No, I’m not a virgin,” I said.
“Cassie?” Mom asked.
It said a lot that enough time and handjobs had passed that I didn’t even flinch when Mom mentioned my ex. Honestly, the only girl I ever thought about those days was the sexy, sultry woman whose toenails I was painting.
“I had sex with Cassie, yes,” I said.
“Was she any good?” Mom asked.
I eyed her. I wasn’t sure if this was a trap question. You don’t tell the person you’re fooling around with that you had amazing sex with your ex. But then, Mom and I weren’t doing that. Supposedly.
I decided to answer honestly. “It was OK,” I said, “Cassie had a lot of hangups.”
“Like what?” Mom asked, leaning forward as best she could with her foot in my hands.
“She was, well. She was sort of afraid of my stuff. You know what I mean?”
“Honestly, can you blame her?” Mom asked.
“She was on the pill, and we always used condoms,” I said. I was surprising myself with how candid I could be. “Even with oral. I couldn’t ever really enjoy my… Well, when I… You know.”
How was it that I was sharing an orgasm with my mom every night, but couldn’t say the word during the day?
“I understand,” Mom said, “You felt like you did everything to get her off, but when she did it for you it wasn’t the same.”
“Yes,” I said, “Exactly. One time, though, we got drunk and did it and it was like being with a different person. She totally abandoned all of her issues and it was amazing. The next morning, she was mad, though. Said it was all my fault.”
“Honey, you of all people can understand,” Mom said, “Considering our family history. Honestly, we all probably would have been much happier if I had a little more of your girlfriend’s healthy fear of ejaculate.”
“And then you wouldn’t have me,” I said.
“Oh, honey, that’s not what I mean.”
“Do you regret having me?” I asked, “Did I ruin your life?”
“No,” Mom said, “You’re amazing. Having a child was the best thing that ever happened to me. I just wish it could have happened when I was 28 instead of 20.”
I understood. Of course I did. I nodded and went back to painting Mom’s pinkie toe.
“The truth is,” Mom said, “If I ever got the chance to trade — if I could go back and be a regular mom? I would still choose you. Every time.”
“Why didn’t you have more kids?” I asked. I knew it was an impertinent question, but I couldn’t help myself. “You said you loved having me. You’re still young. Why not more?”
“Well, at the time taking care of one was enough,” Mom said, “And then your father got busy with work. One day, I looked up and you were going off to college. But…”
Mom looked away, blushing.
“What?” I asked.
“Well,” she said, her voice thin, “Your father and I… After you moved out, I missed having a baby around. So, we’ve been, you know. Trying.” Mom eyed me anxiously.
“Cool,” I said, “I’d love a little brother or sister.”
Mom let out a large sigh of relief. Like she’d really been anxious about how I would react. Admittedly, it would be weird if I was out of college with a sibling that was barely out of diapers. But Mom was so young, it made sense that she would want to start a second chapter of the family story.
“I guess when Dad gets back, you’ll be able to try again,” I said. For some reason, that thought bothered me.
“I guess so,” Mom said, and she gave me an empty smile.