|This story is about incest. It contains
detailed descriptions of the sexual relationship between a 16-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.
It's All Academic
It was a Saturday morning. I’d slept in a little, and was lying on my bed,
covers tossed back, in the process of taking care of a morning hard-on. Just
as that first wonderful-feeling, tension-releasing spurt of come began to leave
my prick and start its upward journey, my mother burst through my bedroom door.
“Soren, I Ohmygosh!”
I turned my head toward Mom and our eyes locked. She stood there, frozen,
and time went into slow motion just long enough for that first dollop
of come to reach its apex of flight, hang in midair like a living pearlescent
jewel, and begin its descent. Then she stepped back and slammed the door
shut. I think part of me must have tried to stop coming when I saw Mom.
It was futile, of course, but it both produced a very strange sensationI’d
never tried to stop coming beforeand distracted from my full
enjoyment of an orgasm. I spurted to a dribble and mopped up on some
kleenexes. I wasn’t really embarrassed by Mom’s walking in on me. Well,
a little, maybe, but not a lot; I mean, after all, as far as I’m concerned,
masturbation’s a part of life. I was more annoyed than anything else.
Not angry, just annoyed. She really should have knocked.
Mom was in the kitchen when I went in to get some breakfast.
“Soren,” she said, “I do apologize for bursting in on you while you were masturbating.
I mean, I know that you’re sixteen, and, although I’m perfectly aware of your
chronological station, I hadn’t correlated that with a developing sex drive
and consequent increased need for privacy.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” I said. “But maybe you could knock next time you find the
“I shall, Soren, I shall indeed.”
Some people may think that that’s a pretty weird way for a mother to talk to
her son. Not in our household. My parents are both full professors at the
university. They live lives of the mind, and any topic is fair game for discussion.
Our house has always been a hotbed of far-flung ideas. Mom and Dad would often
hold casual seminars in the den, inviting their favorite or most promising graduate
students over. In the den, we had one of those huge whiteboards that would
make a printed copy of what was written on it, so that pearls of wisdom could
be preserved forever.
Dad’s field is philosophy. Matter of fact, that’s how I got my name. Dad
was heavy into Kierkegaard when I was born, so Dad named me after him.
(It could have been worse. I’ve always been grateful that he wasn’t interested
in Kant or Pascal, for example.) The crowd that Dad attracted for his
seminars was something else. “Disheveled students with disheveled minds,”
he always called them. “I may not be able to affect the way they dress,
but I can teach them how to think.” I had been jammed with philosophy
the way some kids get jammed with their parents’ religions. Most kids’
parents read Piggly-Wiggly and other children’s books to them when they’re
little. Dad read to me from Plato’s Republic.
I did have to give Dad credit for letting his toes touch the ground every once
in a while. About four years ago, when I was twelve and just starting to think
about philosophy on my own terms, he was trying to engage me in a discussion
on some point that I couldn’t have cared less about, and I told him I thought
it was all bullshit. Some guy would sit down and write what he was thinking.
Then, in another country or on the other side of the world, so would another
guy. Then they’d argue about who was right, or who had “flaws” in this thinking.
“You’re right,” he’d said, “but I prefer to think of it as entertainment.
As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen a system of philosophy perfectly
implemented in all its details. People just don’t work that way. They
take a little piece here and a little piece there, they blend it with
their own perception and experience, and they come up with their own approach
to life, their personal gestalt. But they don’t have a clue why
they think what they do. The entertainment is trying to find the why.”
But Dad’s influence on me may have been somewhat academic itself. Also about
four years agonot too long after I told him I thought philosophy was bullshithe
decided to move in with one of his graduate students, a young woman twelve years
Mom’s a mathematician. When most people hear the word “mathematics,” they
think of numbers, arithmetic. Nothing could be further from the truth. Real
mathematicians look upon numbers with utter disdain. Numbers are for mere physicists
or engineers or accountants. Pure mathematics is wholly abstract. Mathematicians
are people who can construct and inhabit whole other multidimensional universes
in their heads. Just as it takes a particular genetic quirk or kink in the
brain to be able to play the cello like Yo Yo Ma, have a voice like Bobby McFarren,
or create physics like Steven Hawking, so does it take a particular genetic
quirk to be able to think like a mathematician. Somewhere along the line, I
decided that math is a lot like music. If you can imagine thinking in music,
then maybe you can imagine thinking in mathematics. Truth to tell, I think
Mom has a whole lot more mental horsepower than Dad does, and that may have
been part of the reason he left Mom to move in with a budding philosopher.
Anyway, this is the kind of house I grew up in, and why it didn’t strike me
as odd to hear my mother say “I do apologize for bursting in on you while you
were masturbating.” I had been masturbating and she did burst in on me, so
it was a perfectly correct statement of fact and a proper apology.
After a bowl of Wheaties and a glass of fruit juice, I went back up to my room,
checked my email, dropped into a couple of chat rooms, and skated around
the web for a while. By the time breakfast had soaked in, I was starting
to get twitchy, so I grabbed a basketball and hopped on my bike to go
down to the south side of campus and see if I could find a pick-up game.
Not a problem. The basketball court was another interesting aspect of
living in a university community. It was a common meeting ground for
preppies and college jocks and street-wise Black kids. Whatever differences
they might have had under other circumstances disappeared on the court,
where it was nothing but the game. That’s not quite true. There was
a lot of black-white competition, and a lot of hollering and shouting
and insulting and posturing. I think we all blew off a lot of steam of
all kinds while we were running around and jumping up and down. But nobody
ever really got mad and nobody got hurt. When everybody left, they punched
each other in the shoulder with a certain kind of respect and affection,
and parted with lines like, “Just wait ‘til next time, mothafucka.” Today’s
game was as lively as any other, and, by late in the afternoon, I was
pooped. I rounded up my basketball and pedaled back up the hill to home.
Over a dinner of whole-wheat spaghetti with roasted garlic sauce, Mom said,
“Soren, a thought occurred to me this afternoon.” This is academic for “I’ve
been thinking” or “I have an idea.” But notice the passive construction of
the sentence, where the thought, not the thinker, is the subject. With lives
of the mind, it was the thought that was most important. The other interesting
aspect to this approach is that a context was never offered along with the fact
of the thought. You never knew what was going to come next.
“Yes, Mom?” I said.
“I was ruminating on your masturbating this morning, and it struck me as odd
that, whereas we as parents pay close attention to every aspect of our children’s
well-being, learning, and physical development while they’re small, we virtually
ignore their sexual development and function, as if there were something amiss
or forbidden about it, and it’s occurred to me that perhaps I should know whether
your sexual development and function is progressing healthily and normally.”
I all but blew breadstick crumbs across the table. Even for my mother, this
was a little weird. I took a gulp of milk, then said, “Well, Mom, I, uh, I
mean, I suppose I’m doing just fine, I mean, I don’t think I have any problems.”
“I see,” she said. “And how would I know if you did? I expect that if you
encountered any other sort of disquieting physical phenomenon, such as pain
or malfunction; if, perhaps, your bowels weren’t performing normally, you’d
inform me and seek my advice or assistance. Would you be similarly inclined
in the case of sexual anomaly or malfunction?”
“Uhhhhh, I don’t know. Probably. I might. I guess I would. I mean, it’s
never happened before, so I really can’t say what I’d do.”
“I see,” she said. “It occurred to me that perhaps I should observe your masturbating
to assure myself on the point. And, I must admit, it would be educational for
me as well. I’ve never had the opportunity simply to observe a flaccid penis
attain a state of full tumescence and then discharge its complement of semen.”
“Mom, you and Dad were married for thirteen years!”
“Yes. Well. You see, our physical relationship wasn’t such that the opportunity
for an observation of this kind ever presented itself. I really shouldn’t speak
with you about your father’s and my sexual relationshipor should I? Now,
there’s an interesting permutation on the proposition. If I believe that I
should know more about your sexual development, then should I not be equally
as willing to speak of my own sexual experience? I’ll have to ponder that further.
Meanwhile, what about my original proposition?”
“Mom, I don’t know. It sounds a little wack to me for a mother to watch her
son jack off. Besides, why now? It seems like, if you were going to talk to
me about sex, you should have started a couple of years ago, when I first hit
“Good points, Soren. To the first, I must reiterate that I am your mother.
I have a responsibility for your well-being in all aspects, and it discomforts
me to think that I might have been neglectful. To the second point, two statements.
First, I assumed that your father was attending to those duties. Second, I
must admit that that I hadn’t been paying too much attention. My energies were
primarily directed toward my projects and my classes. Finallyto be completely
honest once againseeing your erection and ejaculation this morning arrested
my attention in an odd way and turned my thoughts in directions I hadn’t previously
“Mom, did it ever occur to you that this might be a seriously personal matter?”
“Of course, Soren, I’m not dull-witted, you know. As I said earlier, this
is a matter of healthy bodily function, which should not be taboo; further,
I believe that there are aspects of curiosity and education that shouldn’t be
ignored. I’m curious, for example, how often you find it necessary to relieve
yourself in this way. Daily? Several times a week? Weekly? I have no idea
the frequency with which sexual urges impress themselves upon an adolescent
“Actually, Mom, I usually jack off two or three times a day. In the morning,
before I get up, and again at night, before I go to sleep. And sometimes during
the day, depending on what’s happening, how I feel, and whether I have the opportunity.”
“Two or three times a day? My goodness! I had no idea it might be that frequent.
How fascinating! In any event, Soren, please give my proposition some serious
consideration. We’ll speak about this again later.”
After dinner, I took a much-needed shower to wash away the sweat of the
basketball game. I watched TV for a while, then went to my room and got
on line for a couple of games of Worms and StarCraft. But, all the while,
Mom’s “proposition” was churning away in the back of my mind. I was really
torn. On the one hand, just logically speaking, as Mom had suggested,
why shouldn’t I let her watch me jack off? Jacking off and coming
were an integral part of teen-age existence. If kids my age didn’t jack
off, there would probably be fights and rapes and unwanted pregnancies
all over the place. I was going to continue to jack off as long as necessary
to keep my head on straight, whether Mom watched or didn’t watch. On
the other hand, getting too seriously into sex with your mother felt …strange.
Suppose I told Mom I didn’t know anything about female masturbation and
asked her if she’d let me watch? That probably wouldn’t work. Parents
always have the upper hand, and transactions with them are usually one-way.
What’s sauce for the parent isn’t sauce for the kid, so to speak. The
problem was, I really couldn’t think of anything wrong with it,
logically. It was just a feeling that maybe it wasn’t right. The one
thing I knew for sure was that Mom would keep after me until I gave her
an answer. And that if I didn’t give her the answer she wanted, she’d
keep trying until either she got what she wanted or we arrived at complete
I took one more check for email, then turned my computer off and brushed my
teeth. I went down to Mom’s study and said good-night to her, then returned
to my room and got into bed. I’d been in bed for about three minutes, and was
just starting to think about Marianne and massage my cock when I heard a knock
at my bedroom door. I let go of my cock.
”Come in,” I said.
“Soren,” Mom began, “have you masturbated this evening yet?”
“Uh, no, Mom, actually, I haven’t,” I said.
“Well, then,” she said, “have you come to a decision about my proposition?”
“No, I haven’t”
“Have you given it any thought at all?”
“Yes, Mom, I have.”
“Well, then, when do suppose you might be inclined to reach a decision?”
Good grief. The metaquestion: if you can’t give me an answer, then tell me
when you’ll give me an answer. Hitting me with the metaquestion meant that
Mom wasn’t going to let me off easy. Once she gets locked onto something, she
doesn’t let go. I made up my mind on the spot. If I put her off, she’d keep
at me until I gave her an answer. If I didn’t give her the answer she wanted,
she’d keep at me until we wore each other down. The easiest way out was just
to give her want she wanted, and be done with it. But despite the logic of
the situation and my desire to be relieved of the pressure of having to give
her an answer, I still couldn’t get comfortable with the situation. It just
didn’t feel right.
I thought about it some more while Mom stood a few steps away from my bed,
looking at me with her eyebrows raised in anticipation.
“Let me ask you a question or two, Mom,” I said, finally.
“Of course, Soren,” she replied. “You know that serious questions are always
I organized my thoughts a bit, cleared my throat, and started. “To tell
you the truth, Mom, I’ve given your question a lot of thought. I understand
that human sexuality is a natural function, and that masturbation is a
normalnecessaryactivity for a teen-age boy. I also understand
and am grateful to you for your concerns about my health. And I understand
your curiosity for curiosity’s sake. The problem is that I can’t abstract
jacking off in front of you into the realm of pure inquiry. It makes
me feel uncomfortable, like something’s wrong. A boy and his mother
shouldn’t be sharing sex. Or something like that,” I trailed off lamely.
“Why, Soren!” Mom exclaimed. “The hole in your thinking is as big as a barn
“It is?” I said.
“Of course. If I went and watched you play a basketball game, I wouldn’t be
playing basketball with you, would I?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, then, there you have it,” Mom said, looking triumphant in her logic.
“Watching you masturbate is not sharing sex with you, is it?”
She had me there, if the analogy heldwhich I wasn’t sure of. Mom wasn’t
a basketball court, but she was a woman. Or something like that. I couldn’t
get it quite right. This was one of the craziest discussions I’d ever had with
Mom. It was logical, but, then, again, it wasn’t. I had the feeling that this
discussion could go on for a long time. And I had the feeling that to pursue
it further would only make it worse. Because of Mom’s determination, it was
one of those I couldn’t win, even if I was right. However right might be defined
in the circumstance.
Mom’s voice yanked me back from the mental loop I was getting into. “Watching
you masturbate is not sharing sex with you, isn’t that right?”
“Strictly speaking, no, Mom, it isn’t.”
“Well, then?” Mom pressed.
“One more question, then: this is a one-time deal, right? You just want to
watch me jack off one time to satisfy your curiosity about watching me get a
hard-on and then coming. Then it’s over. Agreed?”
“I should think so,” Mom said. “I had no further ideation or intention in
“All right, then, you can watch. One time.”
“Splendid. And when will be able to carry out our little experiment?”
“Why not right now? Let’s do it and be done with it.”
“Oh, goodie!” she said. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Mom went over and got my desk chair and rolled it to the side of my bed, then
sat down, hands clasped in her lap, as if she were about to hear a lecture.
I reached up and turned on the bedside light, then kicked the covers off and
pushed my jockey shorts down. At that point, I had a soft-on, not all the way
shriveled up, but not hard, either. My cock, near its full length, was lolling
lazily to one side along my thigh. I closed my eyes, turned my thoughts to
Marianne and thinking about unbuttoning her blouse and taking off her brassiere,
and started to massage my cock again. It was hard in moments. Then I started
to stroke it, slowly, savoring the feeling.
“Soren,” Mom said, “what causes your penis become erect?”
I stopped stroking and turned my head toward my mother. “Blood, Mom, it fills
with blood. Surely you know that.”
“Of course I know that, Soren. Don’t be impertinent. I mean, what causes
the blood to be diverted into your penis? What happens in your mind or your
“What happens? I don’t know. I don’t have a clue. I think about sex, and
I get a hard-on. Heck, sometimes I get a hard-on for no particular reason at
all, then all I can think about is sex. That’s why I jack off. I get tired
of thinking about sex all the time. That’s all I know.”
I shut my eyes and went back to Marianne. I imagined that her breasts would
be small, firm, and high on her chest, that they would be yielding to my touch,
and that her nipples would harden when I took them between my lips, first one,
then the other.
“Soren,” Mom said, “when you think about sex, what exactly is it that you think.”
I stopped stroking and looked at Mom. “Mom, I fantasize. I think about a
girl I find attractive and imagine being with her.”
I closed my eyes and picked up where I left off, stroking slowly, imagining
that Marianne’s breasts and nipples were slightly perfumed, and maybe just a
bit salty to the taste. I imagined her nipples hardening and I imagined her
putting her fingers in my hair and sighing with pleasure.
“Soren,” Mom said, “could you provide a bit more detail?”
“A bit more detail about what?” I asked.
“About what you imagine about being with a girl you find attractive. I’m curious
about your thought process, what it is that produces the effect in you.”
Letting mom watch me jack off was one thing. Letting her into my mind was
quite another. Masturbation was external. Thought was internal, much more
personal, more intimate, more like sharing sex than merely stroking my hard
“Mo-om,” I said, making two syllables of the word, just like a little kid,
“what I think about while I’m jacking off is pretty personal. I’m not sure
I want to share that with you.”
“Soren, I’m astonished at your response,” Mom said, in apparent real astonishment.
“You know that products of the mind are always of value. And need I remind
you that a pertinent question in pursuit of knowledge is never amiss?”
“Aw, Mom,” I began, “what I’m thinking while I’m jacking off is hardly definitive
logic or creative thought. It’s imagination. Fantasy.”
“Nonetheless, Soren, it will provide me insight into the functioning of your
sexuality; of male sexuality in general. That insight could be valuable.”
This interruption had caused my hard-on to begin to soften. “Mom, you’re going
to wear me down. Okay, one time.” I locked my eyes onto Mom’s, defiantly,
I felt. “I’m thinking about a girl I find very attractive, someone I’d like
to be with and to have sex with.” I gripped my cock firmly and started to squeeze
and stroke it, in an exaggerated sort of way. “In my mind, I’m unbuttoning
her blouse, slowly, savoring the idea of seeing her neck and her chest come
into view. Button by button, her blouse comes open, the pale, smooth skin of
her chest exposed by degrees. When her blouse is unbuttoned, I gently slide
it off her shoulders, then reach behind her and unclasp her brassiere and help
it slide down her arms. Her breasts are naked before me, small and perfectly
formed, with beautiful pink nipples. I put my nose between her breasts and
inhale the scent of her, her soap, her perfume, the essence of her skin. I
kiss between her breasts, then along the left one to her nipple. I kiss her
nipple, then lightly run the tip of my tongue over its surface, tasting her,
her slight salt, feeling the exquisite texture of her flesh. Her nipple hardens
in my mouth, she runs her fingers through my hair to the back of my head, and
presses me to her chest. ‘Mmmmmmm,’ she says, in pleasure.
“That’s what I’m imagining,” I said. My cock was hard again. Harder than
hard, it seemed.
Mom was still looking straight into my eyes, her facial features relaxed and
her lips parted, her breathing shallow and tentative. While I was talking,
her right hand had moved from her lap to her left breast. Suddenly, she blinked,
looked at her right hand as if it belonged to someone else, and returned it
to her lap.
“Sssss…” Mom began. She stopped, cleared her throat, and started again. “Soren,”
she said, “have you ever had sexual intercourse?”
I shut my eyes and kept stroking. “No.”
I speeded up a little. As soon as I came, Mom would have seen what she came
for, and this would be done with. A silent minute passed.
“Soren,” Mom said, “have you ever seen a girl your age or a woman in the nude?”
“No, I haven’t. For Christ’s sake, Mom! Do you want to watch me jack off
or have a conversation? This does take a certain amount of concentration, you
“Soren! It does not require a blasphemous utterance to return my attention
to the point under consideration. Of course, I wish to continue to witness
your masturbation and subsequent ejaculation. That is why I’m
here, after all, is it not? Further, as you’ll recall, I did say that
there was an educational aspect to the matter. I am still in pursuit
of knowledge, you know.”
“Yes, Mom. Sorry.” That last exchange had caused me to soften a bit. My
concentration had been broken. I shut my eyes, grasped my cock firmly, and
turned my mind back to Marianne’s chest.
“I must say, Soren,” Mom said, “your penis certainly has grown since the last
time I saw it. I do believe it’s fully as large as your father’s. Perhaps
a bit larger, even. This is quite curious. Do you mind?”
I looked over and saw Mom’s hand heading for my cock. I short-circuited slightly,
and, without thinking, let go and drew my hand away. Mom grasped my cock lightly
between her thumb and the tips of her fingers. When she touched me, I almost
came. “She’s not just watching the basketball game,” I thought, “she’s getting
onto the court.” But I made no move to stop her. She pushed my cock to one
side, then the other, then forward, then back, as if she were testing the control
stick of an airplane. She let go of my cock and cradled my balls in the palm
of her hand, hefting them slightly as if testing their weight.
“Fascinating apparatus,” she said. Then she wrapped her hand around my cock,
squeezed it just the right amount, and gave it one up and down stroke. My toes
“Oh, my,” she said. “That does feel nice. So warm. And such an interesting
texture, much like fine velvet, or perhaps doeskin. Firm, yet soft at the same
time. And the skin slides so easily!”
Mom relaxed her grip on my cock and supported it in the palm of her hand.
She took her glasses off and leaned in for a close look. As she ran her gaze
down my prick, I felt the warm exhalation from her nostrils pass over the head
and down the shaft. My toes curled again, and my hands clenched reflexively.
“Fascinating,” Mom said, “utterly fascinating. And you have such a nice smell
of clean, healthy skin. Odd. I’d never have thought that a penis might be
considered attractive. Well. Sorry for the interruption, Soren. I’ll keep
my place. Please do carry on.”
My heart was thumping as if I’d just maneuvered through a full court
press. Nobody besides me had ever touched my cock before, and you can
bet that nobody else had ever stroked it. The feeling was out of this
world. It was the same motion as if I’d done it myself, but what
a difference. And this was my mother! But this was my mother.
I shouldn’t be feeling like this. God, I would have loved it if she’d
decided just to keep stroking. I shouldn’t be thinking like this.
But I was stiff as a board. Hard as a rock. Blue steel. And it was Mom who’d
made me that way. I shut my eyes, took hold, and stroked with a purpose, but
I wasn’t exactly fantasizing just at the moment. What I was doing was remembering
the feel of Mom’s touch, and of her warm breath running down my cock. It was
all over in less than a minute.
I felt the come gathering somewhere between my legs, then I let go with an
orgasm like I’d never had before. A spurt of come arched high into the air
and landed on my chin with a splat. The next one landed in the hollow of my
throat. And so the spurts marched back down my chest and stomach, until they
fizzled into the final oozes that ran down over my fingers.
I looked over at Mom. Her eyes and mouth were three very round O’s. “Hhhhhhhh,”
she said. She cleared her throat. “That was quite remarkable, Soren,” she
croaked. She cleared her throat again and swallowed hard. “I had no idea.
I simply had no idea.”
“Wuuuuuuuuuuuh,” I said. I cleared my throat. “Well, Mom, does that satisfy
your curiosity?” I croaked.
Mom looked down at my gooey cock and hand, then she looked toward the wall
as if what she were seeing was far on the other side of it. “Yes. Yes, I suppose
it does,” she said, more as if she were talking to herself than to me. “Thank
you, Soren. Good night. Pleasant dreams.”
The next thing I knew, I was being dragged from sleep by an insistent tapping
at my bedroom door. I cracked one eye open, noted that it was morning, and
turned my head to one side to glimpse at my alarm clock. 8:17. My heart thumped
and adrenaline rushed through my system. Shit! I was going to be late for
school! Then I snapped back to my senses. Today was Sunday. What the heck
was Mom doing knocking on my door at 8:17 on a Sunday morning?
“Cuh,” I said.
The door opened, and Mom breezed in, dressed in sweats, bringing with her a
waft of soap and shampoo, her hair still slightly damp from the shower. Mom
runs. “Oxygen is the brain’s fuel,” she’s reminded me about a jillion times,
and, since Mom’s biggest job is thinking, she wants to be sure that her brain
has enough fuel. She gets up early every morning and runs before she starts
her day, and, if she’s stuck on a problem, she may run again at any other time
during the day, both to take her mind off the problem and to give herself an
extra shot of brain fuel.
“Soren,” she started, “have you masturbated this morning yet?”
“Geez, Mom, I haven’t even woke up yet. It’s Sunday morning. Us growing adolescents
need our sleep, you know? Besides, you watched me jack off last night, remember?
Our deal’s done.”
“It’s we growing adolescents, Soren. And yes, of course, I remember
that I observed your masturbating last evening. It’s because of that
that I’m here. After a good deal of contemplation, I’ve come to the conclusion
that I’m more ignorant about male sexual function than I’d previously
considered, and I also believe, in retrospect, that the objectivity of
my attention was distracted and I didn’t observe all the aspects about
which I was curious. I believe that one more observation is in order.
Do I have your consent in the matter?”
Of course, I had a morning hard-on, about 60% piss and 40% sex. My thinking
was clouded. As usual with waking thoughts, about six things were going on
at the same time. I was thinking about sex, of course. I was also thinking
about homework and the yard work I’d promised Mom I’d do. I was thinking about
basketball and X-Files. I was annoyed with Mom for having awakened me as she
did, and I was annoyed with her for wanting to go back on her deal. At the
same time, I was remembering all too clearly the touch of her fingertips on
my cock, that one stroke, and the feel of her breath running down my shaft.
“No,” my mind said.
“Yes, Mom,” my mouth said.
I tossed off the covers, swung my feet to the floor, and stood, the bulge of
my hard-on evident in the front of my Jockey shorts.
“Where are you going?”
“I gotta take a leak, Mom. One tube for two purposes, you know? If I have
to piss too bad, I’ll never come. And, if I’m about to come, there’s no way
I could take a leak.”
“Crudely put, but understandable,” Mom said. “I suppose that’s an aspect of
male anatomy I’d never stopped to consider. Well, be about it, then.”
I went to the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, scooted back as far as I could,
pressed my hard-on down below the level of the seat, shut my eyes, and waited
until I’d softened enough to be able to piss. Sometimes the one-tube construction
is a real pain in the ass. When I stood up again, I just took my shorts off
and tossed them in the hamper. My next stop would be a shower and clean shorts
anyway, so what the hell.
I walked back into my bedroom with my 40% hard-on swinging in front of me.
Mom’s gaze went briefly to my face, then locked onto my cock.
“Soren!” she said. “Isn’t that rather gross comportment?”
“Ah, c’mon, Mom,” I said. “I’m just going to take my shorts off anyway, and,
besides, isn’t that what you wanted to see?”
“Yes. Well. Logically speaking, you’re absolutely correct.”
I lay down on the bed, grabbed my cock, and started to think about Marianne.
Then the image of Marianne faded and the memory of Mom’s touch and breath took
its place, and I got rock hard. Fast. I started stroking. Mom leaned in closer,
drew a deep breath, and exhaled. The air blew across my cock. I picked up
“Soren,” Mom began.
A pertinent question in pursuit of knowledge is never amiss. I really should
know to expect this by now.
“Soren ... will it work if somebody else does it? I’m sorry. That was terribly
imprecise. What I mean to say is that, although I understand that masturbation
is inherently a personal activity, I’m curious whether you would still ejaculate
if another person performed the manipulation of your penis.”
“Yeah, sure, Mom. Haven’t you ever heard of mutual masturbation? Didn’t you
experiment with boys when you were dating in high school?”
Mom folded her hands in her lap primly and looked down at them. “No, Soren,
I didn’t. You see, I didn’t date while I was in high school. I had known from
the moment I could verbalize my thoughts that I wanted to be a mathematician.
All my time in high school was spent in pursuit of my studies.” Mom sighed.
“I wasn’t particularly interested in boys at the time, and I don’t think I was
considered dateable anyway. Boys didn’t seem to be too interested in the class
‘brain,’ and, to tell you the absolute truth, I think they called me things
like ‘nerd’ or ‘geek’ behind my back.”
Mom had told me a lot about everything she studied and where she went to school,
but she’d never before talked about her personal experience of growing up, of
being a teen-ager. It seemed obvious to me that she’d been lonely, even if
she couldn’t admit it. I could sympathize, feeling as strongly attracted to
girls as I did, but at the same time being scared to death of them, sensing
a barrier between us that I hadn’t yet successfully learned how to get over,
under, around, or through.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to pry. But, yeah, it’ll work if somebody
else does it.”
“Well, then, I believe that I’d like to try a hands-on experiment, as it were.
As you well know, the more senses are engaged in a learning process, the better
the knowledge is acquired and retained. Therefore, it seems to me that I would
understand better and be able to observe better if more of my senses were applied
to the situation.”
“You want to jack me off?”
“Well, yes, I suppose you could put it that way; I mean, I have to admit that’s
the upshot of what I’m saying.”
Speech never fails me in conversation with Mom. We’ve almost always
been able to talk about anything, primarily because, I think, the discussions
are always academic, exchanges of thought and information. No matter
what the topic, they’re never really personal. But, all of a sudden,
speech failed me. I didn’t know what to say. I loved the touch of Mom’s
fingertips last night, and I loved the feel of her breath on my cock,
I couldn’t deny that. But letting my mother jack me off? That was very
personal. I tried to imagine how the guys might respond if I said, “Hey,
guys, guess what? My mother jacked me off last night.” How would I respond
if one of them said the same thing to me? My cock, the traitor, throbbed.
“I don’t know, Mom,” I said. “This is a lot more than you asked for to start
with, and I’ve already fulfilled my part of your original request. Besides,
if you remember your own basketball analogy, your jacking me off would make
you a participant in the game.”
Mom blanched, and opened and closed her mouth without saying anything.
Had I finally caught my mother hoist by her own logical petard? My hopes
for a win on logical grounds faded as soon as Mom started speaking again.
“I understand that I’m seeking to extend the conditions of our agreement,”
Mom said, “and I accept full responsibility for that. In many instances
of study or inquiry in the past, I’ve found that an initial quest for
knowledge often leads to the desire to know more, and I believe that to
be the situation that applies here. I genuinely want to know more.
“As for the analogy, well, you’re not actually having sex, are you?”
“No,” I said.
“I think it could fairly be said, then, that what you’re doing is practicing,
working out in anticipation of a real game, as it were. If you were at a basketball
practice session rather than an actual game and the ball went out of bounds,
I might throw it back in to you. I would, in that sense, be assisting your
practice, but not participating in the game. Isn’t that right?”
“Uhhh, I don’t know, Mom. That sounds like you’re stretching it, to me. Maybe
we both should think about this for a while?” I said, hoping for a reprieve.
“Please, Soren?” Mom asked, in a voice I didn’t think I’d ever heard before.
Her hand started to edge toward my groin.
I could have said no. I could have reached down and deflected Mom’s hand away
from me. I could have jumped off the bed and pled a sudden need to go play
basketball, to work in the yard, to do homework, to go to the store for a gallon
of milk. But, mesmerized and paralyzed, I watched Mom’s hand continue its slow,
tentative journey across the bed.
Suddenly fascinated by the scene unfolding before my eyes, I saw Mom’s hand
get nearer and nearer to my cock, then reach it. Like vines creeping around
a branch, Mom’s fingertips disappeared behind my cock and appeared on the other
side, then began to close. My hand started to move away from my cock as slowly
as Mom’s had approached.
Mom’s hand reached its goal. She closed her fist just enough to be grasping
my cock, then squeezed a couple of times experimentally, trying to figure out
how much pressure was enough. The sensation was like nothing I’d ever imagined.
Heavenly. I couldn’t think of any other description. When Mom was satisfied
with her grip, she tried a tentative up-and-down stroke. I might have done
it differently, but I sure couldn’t have done it any better. Then she started
a slow up and down rhythm.
“Am I doing it right?”
“Yuuuuuuuh,” I said. I cleared my throat. “You’re doing just fine, Mom.”
Mom was doing better than fine. She was doing wonderfully. She was stroking
more slowly than I would have, but that only made the sensation better. Everything
inside of me was saying “speed up,” and everything Mom was doing was making
me slow down. The tension was nothing short of exquisite. I closed my eyes
and turned control over to Mom. There wasn’t a fantasy pussy in my mind. All
my attention was focused in my cock, in her touch, and in the sensations Mom
was producing. She didn’t vary her stroke at all, didn’t speed up, didn’t slow
down, didn’t pause. Just up-down, up-down, up-down ... out-in, out-in, out-in.
The need to come started gathering around my body like an electrical charge,
starting at the top of my head and at the tips of my toes, traveling through
my nerves toward my crotch. By now, I would have been stroking furiously, pushing,
pushing, pushing for the release of coming. But Mom didn’t change her pace,
and the electrons gathered, and gathered, and gathered. My cock, improbably,
got harder and harder, and felt like it was swelling, in danger of bursting.
“Soren,” Mom said, in a quieter than usual tone, “it feels like your penis
is getting even larger and harder. Does this mean that ejaculation is imminent?”
“Yeah, Mom” I panted, “I’m about to come.”
And then lightning struck. All those free electrons arrived at the base of
my cock at the same time and went off. I exploded with such force that I may
have blacked out for a moment. My eyes were shut, so I didn’t see my own come,
but I wouldn’t have been surprised if it hit the ceiling.
“My God, it’s pulsating like something alive,” Mom murmured.
And it pulsed, and it pulsed, and Mom got strokes and squeezes coordinated
with the pulsing, and I didn’t think it would ever stop. The lightning discharged
out my cock, and the thunder rolled through my body. Mom hung on until I’d
dribbled out the last drop. When I opened my eyes again, she was sitting motionless,
looking at my cock and her hand, come running across her fingers and knuckles.
Finally, she blinked hard and shook her head, as if she were coming out of a
“Yes,” she said, “I understand better now.”
She let go of my cock and drew her hand up toward her nose. “It has a distinctive
odor,” she said, in that talking-to-herself voice, “not unpleasant. Musty.”
She moved her hand in front of her mouth, then stuck her tongue out took a small
lick of the semen on her fingers. Wordlessly, she grabbed a handful of kleenexes
from the box by the bed and wiped her hand. Then she mopped me up, too, starting
with my chest and moving down, finishing by wiping my cock, very gently and
“Thank you, Soren,” she said, standing.
“Nuuuuuuh,” I said. I cleared my throat. “No, thank you.”
Mom looked down at me for a few moments, her face unreadable. Then she left,
closing my door behind her. I went back to sleep.
I didn’t wake up again until nearly noon, pretty late for me, even for a Sunday.
I had a hard-on again, of course, but I didn’t really feel like jacking off.
The pressure wasn’t that great yet, and I didn’t want to spoil the memory of
Mom’s touch on my cock. If I closed my eyes, I could still almost feel her
light, experimental grip, her first tentative strokes, and her slow, steady
rhythm against the building need in my balls. So, instead, I went straight
to the shower, then read the comics while I ate some Wheaties. After breakfast,
I checked my email. What I would have liked to do then was go play basketball,
but what I had to do was mow the lawns and clean the yard, get the trash out
for Monday’s pick-up, and do homework. In this house, not doing homework was
not an option. I took on the homework first, to get it out of the way and off
my mind. Two hours later, I’d finished a problem set for math, read a chapter
in my social studies book, and written a short paper for my English class.
Then I tackled the yard. The lawns were easy enough, but leaves had accumulated
around the shrubbery, and weeds I’d neglected when they were smaller were beginning
to look aggressive and ugly, so I decided to do a complete job of it. I didn’t
really like doing yardwork, but it felt good to be outside and exercise, even
it I couldn’t be on the basketball court. The bad part of doing yardwork is
that it’s completely mindless. It requires almost no thought at all, which
means that my mind drifts on any of the seven or so levels it generally operates
at. After sampling all the other levels, it settled in on sex, as usual.
While I raked leaves out from behind bushes and pulled or hoed weeds, I followed
my mind to memory and fantasy. Sometimes I thought I fell in love a little
bit six times a day, once in each class period. In each class, there was one
girl who was my favorite, and for that hour, when my thoughts strayed from classwork,
I’d imagine what it might be like to kiss her, caress her, undress her, and
have her want me. To have her want me. Hm. I’ve always thought about wanting
a girl, wanting to see and touch and feel, wanting to fuck. But I hadn’t given
much thought to having her want me.
Then I thought about Marianne, which was where my thoughts about girls always
returned. Marianne was truly my dream lover, my fantasy of choice. Although
I’d known Marianne since the eighth grade, I’d never really talked to her.
We exchanged greetings and sometimes discussed assignments or other school-related
subjects, but nothing more. There was no logical reason for me to talk to her
about anything else, and, besides, if I asked her out and she said no, then
my fantasies about her would be destroyed.
To me, she was beautiful, not in a sex-pot sort of way but in her simple beauty
and wholesomeness. She was a distance runner on the girls’ track team, and
she had a runner’s body, lean, lithe, and muscled. Her short hair was naturally
an amber blond, not quite brown, but not quite red, either. She wore no makeup
except for a light hint of lipstick, and she dressed in a way that reflected
not a cheap sexual allure but confident femininity. She moved with the grace
of a savanna cat and had a smile that made me melt. Unfortunately, we moved
in different circles. I didn’t socialize much at school and didn’t participate
in organized sports despite my interest in basketball. Something of a loner,
I focused on my studies and my individual interests. The truth was, I led something
of a life of the mind, too, I suppose.
Having turned my thoughts to Marianne, I started undressing her in my
mind. No. My mind was too impatient to undress her. I saw her standing
there nude, facing me, but with her torso turned slightly to one side,
posed with a tension that accentuated her lean muscularity. I saw her
small, high breasts, with their demure pink nipples; her flat stomach
with a dimple of a navel, her amber-blond bush, not wide, I imagined,
but a narrow strip extending up from the top of her labial cleft about
a third of the way to her navel.
I suddenly realized that I’d stopped raking leaves, that I was standing stock
still with a death-grip on the handle of the rake, staring into the bushes on
the side of the house. My cock was throbbing painfully against my jeans, and
I was getting crazy with wanting to see and touch real breasts, a real pussy,
to run my fingers through the hair and smell it, right in front of my face.
I couldn’t stand it any longer. I put the shrub rake down and went to the downstairs
bathroom. Fortunately, Mom was in her study, doubtless lost somewhere in a
seventh dimension or transform theorem, and not around to ask questions. I
took my cock out and gave it a dozen quick strokes. That was all it took.
Jeez, what a heat!
Sunday night was quiet, back to Mom’s and my usual household routine. Mom
always liked to review her notes and lecture materials for the coming week.
I did a couple of loads of laundry so that I’d have clean clothes and underwear
for school. Surfed the web aimlessly for a while. Took a shower, brushed my
teeth, and hit the sack.
The following week was routine, too, as were most of our weeks. Mom had her
school schedule and I had mine. We had dinner together, as usual, and exchanged
the usual kind of talk about daily events. Nothing was said about our activities
together the preceding weekend. Business as usual, between Mom and me.
I jacked off daily, of course. That was part of the week’s routine, too.
And I thought about Marianne, as usual. But I can’t say that I didn’t think
about Mom as well. The fact, whether I liked it or not, was that something
had changed. A new element had been introduced into the environment. Two new
elements. Mom’s and my relationship had had introduced into it an intimacy
that had never been present before. Moreover, at the same time that Mom had
got her hands-on experience with me, so had I had a hands-on-me experience.
That was the first time anybody besides me had touched my cock in a sexual way,
and it was the first time a female had touched my cock, period. Whenever I
jacked off, all this came to mind at the same time. A literal touch of reality
got mingled in with my fantasy, with the effects of making the fantasy more
intense than ever before and of escalating in my mind and in my body the desire
for some hands-on experience of my own.
The upshot of all my mental churning about sex was that, by the time Friday
night arrived, I truly didn’t know whether I was hoping Mom would want to further
her knowledge of male sexual function during the weekend or not. I was precariously
balanced on a tightrope of desire and concern: desire for more touch, and concern
that the touch being my mother’s was not right. What I really wanted was for
some outside force to give me a nudge, to push me off center, so that I could
get off the tightrope and land firmly on one side or the other.
Thus it was with a mixture of regret and relief that I woke at my own time
and alone on Saturday morning. Mom had not come in with a request for further
research on her part. My mental state was such that I didn’t even feel like
jacking off, so I got out of bed and went down to the kitchen to find some breakfast.
While I was musing over a bowl of granola and the Saturday comic page, Mom came
into the kitchen. Although she’d long been out of her post-run shower, she
was wearing a tee-shirt and a pair of jogging shorts. Quietly, she moved about
the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. The next thing I knew, she was standing
behind me, gently massaging my shoulders.
“Good morning, Soren,” she said, running her hands over my deltoids.
The aura of soap, shampoo, and clean skin lingered about her.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “What’s up?”
She moved out from behind me and took a seat at the small kitchen table directly
opposite from where I was sitting. Her nipples were points against the fabric
of her tee-shirt. Clearly, she was not wearing a brassiere. I couldn’t remember
her not wearing a bra before.
Looking me directly in the eye, she said, “Soren, as I’m sure you’re aware,
I often predicate something I’m going to say with some measure of explanation
in order to assure clarity of expression and unambiguous communication.”
This is true. Mom usually does a lot of verbal beating around the bush before
she gets around to what she really wants to say. The precision and attention
to detail that are part of her work seem to leak into other parts of her life.
“This morning, however, I’d prefer to be direct and to the point: I’d like
to masturbate you one more time.”
“Why?” I asked, almost despite myself. “Haven’t you learned all you wanted
to learn yet?”
“Since you’ve asked for an explanation, I’ll be happy to provide one.” Mom’s
face clouded slightly. “However,” she continued,” I must admit that, in this
case, I feel as if I might be proceeding with conflicting and perhaps mutually
exclusive goals in mind. Perhaps it is, in fact, that what I need to resolve
is the exclusive factor. That is new to me, and, I believeyes, yes, I think
I’m beginning to understand better nowresolvable only through experience.”
Her face brightened again.
“You’re trying to do two things at once?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “You see, when I masturbated you last Sunday, it was with
the goal of furthering my observationsbeing able to have the issue closer
to hand, as it wereand at the same time increasing, as you’ll recall my telling
you then, the number of sensory inputs engaged in learning. However, I realized
when thinking through the experience later in the day, I had not observed all
I wanted to observe. For some reason, my objectivity became clouded and my
attention wandered. I will even admit, though not proudly, that I may have
closed my eyes at some point. I therefore wish to repeat the experiment to
be sure that I didn’t miss anything; or, that, in case I did overlook some aspect
of the event, to see what I might have missed.”
“That’s one,” I said. “What’s the other?”
“Why, to be keenly aware of circumstances that might have caused my attention
to falter last weekend so that I can be on guard against its happening again.
I am not accustomed to having unaccounted for lapses in my awareness of phenomena
in my immediate surrounds.”
This wasn’t exactly the nudge I was hoping for, but the tightrope twanged,
enough for me to lose my balance. I could feel blood starting to flow into
“I see,” I said, not wanting to appear too eager. “Did you have a particular
time in mind when you’d like to carry out this particular experiment?”
“Why, as soon as possible, of course,” she said. “As I’ve told you many times,
when curiosity announces its presence, one must not be hesitant to respond.
But,” she continued glumly, “realistically speaking, I assume that you masturbated
before coming down to breakfast, so I’m prepared to adapt my schedule to be
more compatible with your ability to participate.”
I set the comic pages aside and scooped up the last spoonful of granola. After
chewing the cereal carefully, swallowing, and taking a drink of milk, I said,
“Well, as a matter of fact, Mom, I didn’t masturbate this morning, so I don’t
see any reason why we couldn’t take care of business immediately.”
Mom looked at me and smiled, her glum expression instantly gone. “Well,” she
said, “then let’s get about our research.”
Together, we walked back to my bedroom. I shucked off my shorts and tee-shirt
and lay down on the bed, my hardening cock lying along my stomach. Mom pulled
up my desk chair and sat down. Without hesitation, she reached for my cock.
He hand was warm, her touch was gentle, and the effect was electric: I went
from hardening to hard in an instant. Despite an tremendous desire to shut
my eyes and lose myself in a world of sensation, I also wanted to watch Mom’s
face and her reaction to what she was doing. I guess I wanted to do a little
research of my own. I was suddenly curious whether she was really going to
learn what she said she was going to learn or whether, maybe, she was fooling
Mom gave my cock a couple of gentle up and down strokesthen she closed her
eyes, and her free hand slipped from her lap, moved up under her tee-shirt,
and grasped her breast. The motion of her shirt made it plain that she was
caressing her breast with the same rhythm she was using to stroke my cock.
This was, it seemed to me, a new development in the research that bore further
examination. I watched, with a strangely detached fascination, as her hands
worked on both me and herself. And strained for all I was worth not to come
too soon. I was on sensory overload.
Then Mom gave me the shock of my life. In one swift motion, and without losing
either her grasp or her motion, she stood, turned sideways, and sat down on
the bed near my knees. She opened her eyes and focused her attention on my
cock, her face seeming to reflect little short of rapt wonder. And then, again
without warning, she bent forward and put her lips around my glans and then
quickly withdrew, as if she were taking one tentative taste of a lollipop to
see if the flavor were right. Apparently being satisfied with what she found,
she put her whole mouth over my cock, down to where her lips met her stroking
fist. Then she murmured, “Mmmmmmm,” deep in her throat.
That was all it took. I’d missed my usual morning jack-off, Mom’s mouth was
so warm and so wet, and the vibration of her throat was so exquisite, that,
without even being able to warn Mom, I shot. I exploded. I came so suddenly
and violently that the semen burned on its way out. Mom didn’t move her head,
except up and down with her fist. And she swallowed and kept sucking. No sooner
had I spurted my last spurt than Mom uttered a muffled “Mhn!” through her nose.
Her grasp on my cock and her breast tightened, and her whole body went rigid
for perhaps five seconds. After she relaxed again, she swirled her tongue around
my cock a couple more times, then sat up, gazing at the wall behind me with
an unfocused look. She suddenly looked different to me. The angles and planes
of her face had changed, become softer, in a way, as if tension she’d been carrying
all her life had been relieved so that she was more fully herself.
“Mom?” I said. “Mom? Are you all right?”
Still holding my cock loosely, she continued to gaze at the wall.
“Mom?” I asked again, louder this time.
She started, shook her head slightly, and looked into my face. “Yes,” she
said. “Yes, Soren, I’m here.” And then she smiled, a warm smile that seemed
to reflect contentment more than just happiness.
“Are you okay? Did you learn what you wanted to learn from this experiment?”
“Half,” she said. “I learned half of what I wanted to learn.”
“Um, which half was that?” I asked.
“Pardon me, Soren, I said that imprecisely. I did not in fact learn
half of what I wanted to learn. It would be foolish of me to try to persuade
you that I had made the observations I’d hoped to make. It would be patently
obvious to the most casual bystander that I couldn’t be visually aware
of your ejaculation while your penis was in my mouthwhich is not
to say that I didn’t experience it at all, of course. I had at first
thought that I had learned what caused my attention to wander during our
previous experiment, but, if I am to be intellectually honest with myself
as well as with you, I must admit that I didn’t learn any of what I’d
intended to learn. It is with considerable distress that I must report
to you that, at some point, my intellectual faculties were distracted
in the extreme. No, that’s not quite right. My intellectual faculties
faltered. Faded. Oh, hell, my intellectual faculties vanished. Left.
Departed, decamped, fled, absquatulated absolutely! My subjective
experience was that I felt a compelling desire to take your penis into
my mouth for no scientific or logical reason whatsoever. I need to think
about this some more.”
Having said that, mom dropped my penis, stood, turned, and walked out the door
on slightly unsteady legs. There was a wet spot on the seat of her running
Truth to tell, I needed to think about this some more, too. It had all happened
so fast that I didn’t have time to think, and then Mom pre-empted all thought-space.
One simple fact of the matter was that my mother had just given me a blowjob.
A second simple fact of the matter was that it felt wonderful. More than wonderful.
It was a new sensation for which I had no comparison. A third fact of the matter
was that I wanted to do it again. Period. The tightrope had disappeared.
Another fact of Saturday was that I had the weekend’s homework to get out of
the way, no matter what I’d rather have thought about. I got up, took a quick
shower, then buckled down with the books. By 12:30, I didn’t have to worry
about calculus or AP physics any more until Monday.
I went to the kitchen and made myself a hummus sandwich on twelve-grain bread,
and let my mind wander while I chewed. The whole situation with Mom seemed
to me to be getting awfully complicated. What had started out as a request
for a one-time observation on her part had now become three escalating episodes
that went from my jacking off for Mom to her jacking me off to her giving me
a blowjob. I could see a pattern, almost calculate the slope of the line with
respect to time, and extrapolate to .... I had a hard-on again. A hard-on
that needed something warm and wet around it .... The conclusion I came to
was that it was time for some basketball.
I hopped on my bicycle and rolled downhill to campus. I was relieved to find
plenty of the other guys there, too, and it was easy to get a game going. I
played hard, fast, and furious, and didn’t think at all for the better part
of three hours. The bike ride back up the hill at the end of the afternoon
used up what was left of my legs, and by the time I got to the house, I was
exhausted. I took a long, hot shower, slipped into a pair of jogging shorts
and a tee-shirt, and collapsed on my bed.
The next thing I knew, Mom was knocking on my door, calling to me that dinner
was ready. We dined quietly and conservatively, enjoying our vegetarian three-grain
casserole. Conversation over dinner was the usual sort of thing about Mom’s
work, my classes, my afternoon on the basketball court, Mom’s praise for the
job I’d done with the yard. Mom said nothing more about a desire for further
investigation into her research on male human sexuality.
After dinner, I was still tired from the week of tension, the work in the yard,
and the afternoon on the basketball court. My homework for the weekend was
done, so I just fiddled around with my computer a little and watched some television.
Around 9:30, I was about out of steam and I’d started thinking about the blowjob
Mom had given me that morning again, so I decided to call it a day, hit the
sack, and jack off slowly to ensure a good night’s sleep.
I went to Mom’s room to say good-night to her and found her lying on her bed
in an ankle-length robe, reading a book in the soft light of a single lamp on
the nightstand. When I walked into the room, she put the book down and laid
her glasses aside. Before I could speak, she said, “Soren, I’d like to thank
you very much for your participation in my desire to assure myself that your
sexual function was developing normally, as well as, of course, my further desire
to learn more about adolescent male sexual needs, and the male anatomy in general,
particularly in consideration of your initial reticence in the matter. I believe
that, all told, I did in fact learn all I wanted to learn, and more besidesas
so often happens when we begin research on a topic. That was very generous
of you, and I’m deeply appreciative of your willingness to help me.”
My heart sank. By now, I was really hoping that Mom hadn’t wrung the
topic dry. Considering how our experiments had progressed from one thing
to another, I had hoped that there might be something more. “Well,
um, I’m glad I was able to help,” I said.
“However,” Mom continued, “a further thought occurred to me. A recollection,
actually. Perhaps you’ll recall as well, when I first put the question
to you whether you’d be willing to demonstrate your tumescence and ejaculation
for me, my speculation about whether I should speak with you about my
own sexual experience; whether turnabout was fair play, as it were. After
due consideration, I’ve decided that it’s only fair and reasonable that
I should, indeed, offer you something in return.
“Unfortunately, I have no comparable experience with female masturbation and
orgasm that I can demonstrate. Nonetheless, I also recollected your telling
me that you had never seen a girl your age or a woman in the nude, and it occurred
to me that I could give you the opportunity to observe and examine female genitalia.
Eventually, you will meet a young woman and begin sexual exploration with herwell,
no, that’s not quite right.” Mom paused, and sighed.
“Perhaps you’ll also recall my mentioning that I had had no sexual experience
prior to marriage, and that, in fact, my sexual experience during marriage,
washow can I put thislacking. I’m afraid that I know little more about
sex now than I did when I was in high school, but my hope is that, when you
do enter into a relationship with a young woman, the nature of which is that
sexual exploration is a desired consequence, you will, at the very least, not
be entirely ignorant of the female genital anatomy.”
That was Mom’s usual long, slow warm-up. For the fast pitch, she undid the
belt on her robe and opened it wide. Under the robe, she was nude.
“You are welcome to examine me in any way you wish. I might add that I understand
better now,” Mom said in a small voice, blushing brightly from her forehead
to her knees, “your initial discomfort with, er, exposing yourself to me.”
I don’t think my jaw actually hit the floor, but my mouth did go dry, my cock
expanded uncomfortably down my leg, and I suddenly felt very, very nervous.
“T-thank you, Mom,” I croaked. “I, er, …. I mean, I, um, ….” Mom just smiled
at me and motioned down her body with a wave of her arm.
I let my eyes sweep the length of Mom’s supine form slowly, taking in her lean,
lithe, muscled runner’s form, her small, high breasts with their demure, slightly
brownish nipples, her flat stomach with a dimple of a navel, her amber-blond
bush, not wide, but a narrow strip extending up from the top of her labial cleft
about a third of the way to her navel. Then it hit me: Mom looked just the
way I’d imagined Marianne would look nude. My face burned and my cock swelled
“In any way I wish?”
“Yes, Soren,” Mom said. “In any way. I asked you to permit me to examine
you in ways that extended the terms of our initial agreement, so it seems only
reasonable to me that you should be able to examine me in any way you wish.
The locus of your attention at the moment indicates to me that you do have some
particular interest or curiosity.”
I snapped my eyes from Mom’s crotch back to her face. “Can I, um, you know,
er, touch you, too?”
“For Heaven’s sake, Soren, logic dictates that if you’re going to examine my
genitalia to the same degree of detail with which I examined yours, touching
is inevitable, don’t you think?”
Inevitable. Yes, of course. I ran my eyes over Mom’s body again, remembering
another of her maxims: “Knowledge gained is never wasted.” No, Mom wasn’t
Marianne, but she was absolutely right. I could learn from examining her body
information that would be valuable to me in the future.
Mom took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and seemed to relax all over. Her
arms lay loosely by her sides, palms up; her legs were slightly parted, and
her labia, separated slightly, appeared dry. I sat down on the edge of the
bed, and my right hand went on autopilot.
I reached out, and, with my index finger, traced across Mom’s forehead, then
over and behind her ear. From her ear, that single finger followed the line
of her jaw to her neck, and then down to her chest. On her chest, my fingertip
traced a lazy figure eight around and between her breasts, then slowly spiraled
inward around a nipple. As my finger moved, her aureoles crinkled tight, and
her nipples stood up hard. When I touched the top of her nipple, Mom hissed
breath in through her teeth. I spread my palm over her breast and squeezed
gently. Her breast, which had been lying flat against her chest, firmed and
rose slightly. Mom made a low hum deep in her throat.
From her breast, four fingertips followed a line of fine, light down that led
to her navel, where my index finger again looped a circle, then dipped in.
Mom’s stomach quivered. Four fingertips continued their slow journey downward
as the line of down became darker as it neared her pubic hair. At the top of
her bush, my fingers traversed the curly boundary down one side, then back to
the top and down the other. A shiver ran through Mom’s body.
I shifted my weight and scooted down a bit so that I was sitting near her feet
and could bring my left hand into play. I took her left foot into both my hands
and squeezed it firmly, then pulled so that I stretched her foot as my grip
slid off the ends of her toes. Taking her foot again, I massaged her instep
and arch, then pulled each toe slightly. When I finished with her left foot,
I repeated the squeeze and massage on the right. Mom raised her arms above
her head, and stretched, the muscles in her legs standing out, then relaxing.
I ran my hands up her calves, kneading the muscles as I went, then continued
up her thighs, kneading and massaging until my fingertips felt the tickle of
her auburn bush.
“Mom,” I whispered, “would you spread your legs a bit more, please?”
Wordlessly, she did as I asked, sliding her ankles a foot farther apart. Mom’s
vaginal lips were more open now, the labia minora beginning to appear, pink
and shiny, at the edges of their enclosing sheath. I leaned in and put my elbow
between her knees, then reached forward, and, using my thumbs, gently pulled
her vagina open.
Then I literally examined the part of a woman I was most curious about, with
a strange combination of clinical detachment and sexual heat. Yes, I was curious.
I wanted to know what a pussy looked like, right up close, how the reality matched
up to verbal descriptions and the pictures I’d seen on the web. But at the
same time, I felt like I was about to come in my pants. My cock, impossibly
rigid and trapped between my abdomen and the waistband of my shorts, pressed
hotly against me. My breath was so shallow it was almost as if I weren’t breathing
at all. Mom’s right knee raised from the bed and fell lazily to the side.
My eyes looked and my brain recognized and rattled off the words from textbooks:
labia majora, labia minora, clitoral hood, clitoris (I wasn’t really sure whether
I was seeing Mom’s clitoris or not), urethra, vagina, perineum, anus. In truth,
the Latin words didn’t have much meaning. What I was looking at were Mom’s
pussy and asshole. Mom’s pussy, open and wet, collected moisture now plainly
visible in the fascinating turns and folds of that special flesh, pink fading
to mysterious and alluring darkness. Mom’s asshole, dusky and suddenly attractive
twisting striations where the flesh of her buttocks folded inward and disappeared.
I relaxed the pressure of my thumbs, but Mom’s pussy remained mostly open.
I tentatively touched the collection of fluid that was now beginning to seep
downward toward her asshole. Mom shuddered. I rubbed my thumb against my index
finger. Slippery. My fingertip traced lightly up and down Mom’s slippery pussy,
up almost to her clitoris and back again; then down. When the tip of my finger
touched the crinkly flesh below, Mom’s asshole clenched slightly. Then I wondered:
could I find Mom’s G-spot? Did examining in any way and touching include touching
on the inside?
“Mom,” I whispered, my throat so dry and constricted that my voice was barely
audible. “Can I touch you … inside?”
Seconds passed before Mom replied. “Oh,” she said, in a breathy, distant voice
I’d never heard her use before. “I hadn’t thought about that.” There was another
lengthy pause. “I did say examine in any way, and it’s only logical that, with
female genitalia, the internal portion would have to be included. Yes,” she
breathed, “you can touch me inside.”
I extended my middle finger, and ran it up and down Mom’s slippery cleft
several times to be sure that it was well lubricated, then began sliding
it into her vaginain a bit, then out a bit, going deeper with each
stroke until my finger was as far into her as it would go. Mom drew in
a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Her vagina, hot and wet, clenched around
my finger, and I tried to imagine what it would feel like against my cock.
Then I curled my finger back toward my palm, stroking the upper wall of
her vagina … and … yes! I felt a soft, rounded lump beneath the surface.
When I stroked her G-spot, Mom’s eyes opened wide, and she said, “Soren!
What are you doing to me?”
“That’s your G-spot, Mom,” I whispered, continuing to stroke it. Mom’s eyes
closed again. Each time my fingertip slipped over that lump, Mom rocked her
hips slightly. “How does it feel?”
“It feels good,” Mom breathed, “but just good isn’t the right word, and
I don’t have a word for it. I don’t just feel it in my vagina. I feel
it everywhere, and I feel kind of … hungry … no … not hungry, but
as if something were missing. I feel a need I can’t describe.”
For several more minutes, I continued to stroke Mom’s G-spot. But just stroking
her G-spot wasn’t enough for me, either. I bent my head forward and began to
kiss and nibble around the edges of her bush, trying to take in more of her.
The scent of her arousal all around me was a perfume and a potion that was threatening
to make me lose my senses.
Then I knew what to do next. I’d read about cunnilingus, and I had to examine
further. Mom hadn’t said that I could touch only with my fingertips. I needed
to touch her with my tongue, as well. I slowly withdrew my finger from Mom’s
“Are. You. Through?” Mom asked, in the voice of a little girl who was afraid
all the ice cream was gone.
“No, Mom,” I whispered, kissing her stomach just above her bush. “Closer examination
I hauled myself all the way onto the bed and kneeled between Mom’s legs. Feeling
the bed move, Mom opened her eyes and watched me with a wary fascination, apparently
unable to move, like the hen with an eye on the fox. I leaned forward, cupped
my hands under Mom’s ass, and nibbled along her thighs. Then I ran my tongue
up her pussy, from perineum to clitoral hood.
“OhSor ... Whatareyou ... Don’t ... Stop! ... Youcan’t ...,” Mom said.
Then the tip of my tongue insinuated itself beneath Mom’s clitoral hood and
found her clitoris.
“Eeeee!” Mom said, bucking her hips against my mouth.
My mind bifurcated as I buried my face in Mom’s crotch. Part of me was logging
the experience, noting thatconsiderably to my surpriseMom’s lubricating
fluid was virtually flavorless, but that the combination of its smell, a slight
hint and acid tang of urine, and the scent of her clean flesh combined to make
an overall aroma that was heady and compelling. The other part of me followed
the compulsion to lick and taste and tease with my tongue, feeling a direct
connection between my tongue and my cock, and a growing imperative to seek release.
Then I quit thinking entirely and became lost in a world of sensation I hadn’t
expected to encounter. The world consisted of nothing but Mom’s body and its
tastes and aromas and the increasing tingle in my balls. My tongue took on
a life of its own. I plunged it into Mom’s vagina as deeply as I could, then
withdrew and moved down to tickle around her asshole.
“Oh!” Mom said. “Oooooooh.”
Back and forth, in and out, and up and down my tongue danced, gradually focusing
its attention more and more on Mom’s clitoris. Mom’s fluids and my saliva ran
down her ass, making my hold on her buttocks tenuous and causing the tip of
my middle finger to come to rest on her asshole. Mom pressed downward against
that fingertip, and it slid in.
As I ran the tip of my tongue over and around Mom’s clitoris, she began to
breathe harder and move her hips erratically. I hung on as best I could and
followed wherever she went.
“Oof!” Mom was saying. “Uff!”
Then Mom’s hips started rocking up and down, faster and faster, so that I could
barely hang onto her and keep up with her. All of a sudden, she raised her
hips violently, slamming her crotch into my face. Then again. And again.
Bang! Then bang! And bang!
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!” Mom growled, low and feral.
Her muscular runner’s thighs clamped against my ears almost painfully, and
held me there, motionless. Her hips continued to buck.
“Oof!” Mom said. “Uh! Uh! Uh!”
Then she relaxed, completely.
I couldn’t ignore the tingle in my balls any longer. I raised up on
my knees. Mom’s eyes opened, wide, hot, and wild, and followed my motion.
I pulled down the front of my shorts, gave my cock two strokes, and cameexplosively.
The first pulse of come landed just above Mom’s chin and splashed between
her parted lips. The next hit her neck, and what followed trailed down
her abdomen until the final few drops decorated the top of her bush.
My pulse was pounding in my temples and I was panting as if I’d just run
a race. I fell forward, catching myself when my hands hit the bed on
either side of Mom’s chest.
We said nothing, either of us, remaining just as we were until we’d caught
our breaths. I thought that perhaps I should say something, but I was without
words, spent and insensate. After a few minutes, I straightened up and tucked
my still oozing cock into my shorts. Mom licked my come off her bottom lip,
then, with a dreamy expression on her face, traced her fingers through the puddles
on her chest and stomach.
I got up, went to Mom’s bathroom, and dampened a washcloth with warm
water, then returned to the side of her bed and gently cleaned her up.
When I got back from rinsing the washcloth, Mom was asleep. I closed
her robe loosely, then turned the blankets back underneath her, and covered
her up. I kissed her softly, turned out her light, and made my way back
to my room.
Still in a daze myself, too overloaded with sensation to be able even to think
about what had just happened between Mom and me, I cleaned myself up a bit,
pulled off my tee-shirt and shorts, and climbed into bed. I was asleep in minutes.
I was jolted awake by the sound of Mom virtually crashing into my room. My
eyes flew open. It was light. Morning. Mom, wearing her long robe, was standing
by the side of my bed, looking almost frantic.
“Mom! What is it?” I said, lifting myself up on my elbows, suddenly frightened
as memories of the night before flooded back into my mind.
“Cock,” Mom announced, shrugging her robe to the floor to reveal her
nude body beneath. “Soren, I want your cock. Now!”
My heart rate slowed, and I smiled up at Mom. “Mom,” I said, “if you do that,
you’re not just getting onto the courtyou’re becoming the game.”
“Give a shit,” Mom said, pulling back my covers. “I’m up for the toss.”
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