“Yeah, that’s right,” she muttered softly, her nose inches from the tip of his prick, her fingers stroking her spit into the skin. “Come on, baby . . . come on, baby . . . come on baby . . .”
He stirred slightly and mumbled at her. She felt his hands on either side of her head as she resumed her steady sucking. In her mouth he went from firm to solid, then to stiff standing. She resisted the urge to climb on top of this glorious prick, to feel him inside her once more. This was about him, about his pleasure. She exulted inside when his mumblings turned to moans.
“Yeah that’s right, that’s it,” she coaxed, utterly caught up in her work. Her eyes flicked from his responding cock to his awakening face. “Yes, baby . . . yes, baby . . . come on . . . cum for Mama . . . cum for Mama –”
“Ohhh shit –” he grumbled. She laughed and kept sliding her spit-soaked fist up and down, up and down.
“Yeah baby — yeah cum for me — cum for Mama — cum for Mama baby –”
Her mantra seemed to excite him, helping to take him to the edge. It was exciting her as well. She couldn’t believe the words that came bubbling out of her, any more than she could believe any of her actions. Still she said them rapidly, and they seemed to strike a chord between mother and son.
“Give me that cum baby — come on, give it to me — Mama wants it — Mama wants that cum — come on honey –”
“Ohh God.”
“Yeah, come on baby — cum for Mama — cum for me — cum for me — yeah –”
“Ohhhh fuck!”
“Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes — yes! — oh yes! — yes baby yes –”
His head shot back with a whump against the pillow, his fingers twisted sweaty handles into the bedclothes. For a few spectacular squirts, his cum fountained out of him while he gasped and groaned and thrashed. Then it ran, slow and even, from the tip of his deflating cock, over his mother’s knuckles, and down to the brown curls at its base.
The phone rang. Incredibly, his mother answered it.
“Hello? . . . Yes, honey . . . Yes, is everything okay? . . . Uh huh.”
Head lolling helplessly to one side, Mark watched his naked mother at the edge of the bed. She was all bright smiles and full flushed cheeks, obviously talking with Lara.
“How was the game? . . . Didn’t you say you were all going to a game? . . . Oh, a movie — that’s right . . .”
While she was chatting emptily, she tilted her head toward the light from the window. He could see in the warm glare that she wore a spattering of cum spots across her cheeks, like freckles. A wide rivulet was running down her forearm. The hand holding the phone was a gooey mess.
She winked at him. He shook his head wearily, smiled weakly — amazed for the thousandth time.
He fell asleep.
XIV.
When Mark Dehner awakened he was alone. He found himself, coming out of his deep slumber, wondering if it had all been a dream. He swiftly discovered it could not be. For one thing, he was naked, and in his mother’s bed. She had straightened the sheets and covered his body, so that the room no longer looked like the sight of a no-holds-barred fuckfest. On the other hand, the room did smell like a fuckfest had taken place there, as indeed it had. Mark knew well the smell of cum: of his own solitary pleasure. This was the smell of sex — he lifted the covers slightly, inhaling the deep, heady aroma of two peoples’ mutual juices. His mother’s musky scent, which he had come to know from her panties and bath towels, now inundated everything. It was the most wonderful fragrance he had ever known: better than a garden of flowers, more appetizing than a cake in the oven.
His third bit of evidence that their night of rapture had really taken place came when he tried to get up: he was wickedly sore in every muscle, and groaned like an old man as his delicious aches and pains surprised him. A twinge in his back from hours of fucking, soreness in the arms from supporting his weight — a crick in his neck, courtesy of that last incredible blowjob. He felt like he’d been beaten up. It was wonderful. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he truly felt like a man.
The clock on the dresser said twelve thirty-five — he’d slept for four hours. Gingerly, he eased himself out of the bed and poked his head out into the hall. No sign of her. In his room, putting on some fresh clothes, he glanced now and then at the opening of his closet. Incredible to imagine — it too was now “the scene of the crime,” the place where it all began. He had stood right there in stupid shock, as his own panting, gorgeously naked mother bathed his cock with kisses and licks — he had leaned back against that door as he lost control, and loosed his first orgasm into her hungry mouth. His amazement at the previous night’s peep show — the way she seemed so very aware of her audience, the lewd and lovely acts and poses she performed before their encounter really began — now seemed a dim memory in his mind.
Wearing shorts, a tee shirt and some sandals, he made his way downstairs to find his mother sitting in the den, in a pensive mood. The television was on, unheeded. To his surprise she was smoking a cigarette, something he hadn’t seen her do for months. When he entered the room she looked up at him and smiled weakly; he noticed her worried eyes and wrinkled forehead, and they grieved him. Obviously she was troubled, confused, and scared. Her somberness tempered his own weary joy, and he quietly seated himself opposite her, awaiting her lead.
He had resisted the impulse to bestow upon her his usual kiss of greeting, something which had been habitual with them for as long as he could remember. It was incredible to consider, given the night they had shared, that he could not give her the simplest sign of affection — but her look had arrested him in the act, and now he sat worried and puzzled, feeling overwhelmingly guilty.
When she spoke at last it was halting, quavering tones. She talked about her work and Lara, how much she had to take care of on a daily basis, and how stressful it all could be. She then talked about his father — a subject that always made her look sad and alone — and how much she had been missing a companion, and a friend, and a lover in her life. As she talked, making her feelings known to him in the most roundabout way, Mark became less nervous, more confident. He could see where her confession was leading; she was trying desperately to explain. She was feeling guilty herself, and frightened, and was trying (as she always did) to shoulder all the blame and worry herself. But he was not going to let her do that, and he thought he knew how to stop her.
“Now,” she continued, with an unsteady sigh, “I . . . I don’t know what to make of what we . . . what we’ve done together. I don’t know where it came from — how I let myself get so . . . so carried away –”
“Mom,” he interrupted, in a soft, reassuring tone, “what we’ve done — what we’ve shared — well, it doesn’t change who we are. It doesn’t make us different people.”
She was shaking her head, not looking at him.
“Yes, I’m afraid it does do just that, M-Mark. Sex between two people — it changes everything. It makes everything so . . .”
“So wonderful?” he said.
Now she looked at him, tenderness in her eyes.
“Of course it was wonderful, Mark,” she admitted softly. “I’ve never known anything so wonderful, but –”
“Then it can’t be wrong!” he said. “You don’t have to explain it, Mom — to take responsibility for it. I don’t know how it happened either, but I’m glad it did. And the fact that it did — well, it doesn’t change who we are. To each other, I mean. You’re still my mother, I’m still your son. It’s just that we’ve found . . . well, a new way to love each other, maybe.”
Her eyes were moist as she looked at him, listening — she looked as though she wanted to believe him, but couldn’t quite commit to the idea.
“You know,” he said, “I could use one of those myself.”
He reached for the pack of Marlboros on the coffee table.
“No, you don’t Mark! Put those down — don’t you start smoking or –”
Suddenly she stopped in mid-harangue when she saw his smile.
“See?” he said. “You’re still my mom — protective, concerned. Devoted. And I’m still your boy. I do what you tell me.”
He dropped the cigarettes back on the table, while his mother visibly relaxed at his demonstration; she even giggled. With the light back in her eyes, and the worry lines receding from her face, Mark was struck by just how beautiful she was. He moved to sit next to her on the couch. She turned slightly, almost shyly in her seat, and the first time, they looked long and deep into each other’s eyes. Mark moved forward slowly — there was an instant only when it seemed like she might back away. And then they were kissing: slowly, softly. The kiss of lovers.
“You’re not going to tell me to pretend it never happened, are you?”
She smiled and wiped the moisture from her eyes.
“No, I’m not.”
“What about Lara?”
“She can’t know, of course,” she said, a ghost of worry remaining in her eyes. “No one can know. We’ll have to be careful.”
“I think we can manage that.”