“Mom,” I said, no thought of calling her “Harriet,” “I am yours, I told you.”
She giggled again, gave those enormous tits a shake to get them swinging, “Then finish what you started.”
So I turned her and dropped to my knees, pausing to give each nipple a little kiss.
On my knees, before my mother, I started working on the little keyhole-shaped wire hooks that held her nylons on. This was my first time with such things and it took a few tries before I worked out the drill but once I did I got the hooks undone and started rolling the nylons down.
Her legs, like the rest of her, were soft and bulged above the band of the nylons as I rolled them down. They were so white I wondered if she ever wore shorts, and the cellulite dimples were deep. And yes, I thought they were sexy.
Proving that miracles do happen, I got the nylons off without running them. After that, the garter belt and panties were a snap.
On my knees, with her so close, I stopped and looked.
Mom has a FUPA. If you’re not up on your sex slang, that’s a Fat Upper Pussy Area. In Mom’s case, it’s a double plus FUPA. The crease of her pussy hung below that soft, apron of a fat woman’s natural modesty.
The inside of her thighs, from that lovely, sexy FUPA almost down to her knees was a slightly darker tan color, the skin, when I touched it, was an odd combination of thick and soft. The phrase “butter soft leather” from a description of some upscale car or other that I read in Car and Driver once came to mind. That same odd texture covered the outside of her FUPA where it met her thighs. I later learned that what I was looking at and touching is called a “chub rub.”
She was perfectly smooth, but I didn’t think it was from shaving. Hell, I couldn’t see how she could shave. Rather, I was pretty sure it was from the constant rubbing.
When I touched, she shuddered.
When I leaned forward and kissed, her fingers were suddenly in my hair, pulling me to her.
Her womanscent filled my lungs.
No, that’s not quite right.
Her womanscent filled my brain, leaving room for nothing else.
And I buried my face in the soft, warm FUPA, feeling how big she was down there.
She groaned softly, a sound somewhere between pain and pleasure, or maybe bouncing back and forth, but the demand in her fingers as they twisted, not quite pulling and hurting but controlling, was irresistible.
I rotated my head right and left slowly, burying my face deeper and deeper into her until my mouth found the delicate inner lips of her labia minora. As I probed with my tongue and then sucked gently with my lips she started trembling. Something deep inside of me was desperate to give her what I was pretty sure she needed. I hadn’t been lying when I told her I loved her.
And when she told me how long it had been, well, I always knew my parents were sexual beings.
I wanted to help her make up for missed time.
These were the thoughts in my mind as she came and I damn near drowned.
Christ. She came suddenly and hard. That sweet nectar of a woman’s release was hot and thick and filled my mouth so quickly I couldn’t swallow. It was hot and thick and salty and and when she came in a second wave her fingers twisted in my hair holding me, hell, sealing me against her, the pressure of that second orgasm, even more powerful than the first, forced her hot elixir into my sinuses and out my nose.
I was drowning when panic gave me strength to pull away enough to cough, spraying her FUPA and the bottom of her belly apron with her hot thick liquor before drawing a breath and burying my face in her again.
The first level of desperation had passed, and I settled down to give her the best blow job of her life. Her body was trembling and her fingers in my hair kept twisting and relaxing.
And, honestly, I was relishing the feel, the taste, the scent of her. I wasn’t a virgin, that first time with Mom, but she was the, well, the wettest woman I had ever been with. And the thing is, I was, to use the archaic term, mesmerized by what was happening. I wanted to feel her pleasure, thick and hot and sticky, soaking my hair, and running down my face. I welcomed the burning in my eyes from her salty brew. I liked the tears it drew.
And I loved that it was mutual.
The sounds she was making went from soft moans, almost whimpers, to a sharp “UNHH” when her body would clench and I would be rewarded with another cascade of that gorgeous honey. I understood why those Hindus called what I was tasting Amrita, the literal translation “no death.” More freely translated it’s the “Nectar of Eternal Life” or the “Nectar of the Gods.” I learned all of that only later.
For now, I just knew I wanted more.
So I took more.
Or maybe I just accepted what she wanted to give.
Hell, it’s all a little confusing, you know?
For, well, who knows how long?
For some timeless time, I stayed on my knees before my mother, my face buried between her legs as she came, over and over. My hands on her ass held her to me and gave her some support. At the same time, her fingers entwined in my hair and held me to her. When my hair was so slick with her honey she took another twist.
I licked and sucked and with each little shudder, with each sudden release, I drank her pleasure greedily and couldn’t stop even when I felt my stomach getting full.
Mom, it seemed, couldn’t stop either. I could feel the heat of her overexcited body, and the sweat on her lower back and ass. I could hear her labored breathing, and the soft moans punctuated by sharp little screams as she soaked me more.
Finally, she shuddered and went still.
When I pulled away, leaned back, and looked up, I could see that she was nearly as much a mess as I was. Her nose was running in her excitement, sweat poured off of her, her mouth was open and she was actually drooling a little in her excitement. Her breasts were shiny with a mixture of drool, mucus, and sweat.
She looked wanton, like some fertility goddess appearing on earth, big and beautiful, with breasts to feed the world, and hips to populate a world.
She breathed a soft, “Oh, Jesus.”
She took two steps and collapsed onto the bed.
I crawled up with her, expecting to take my own pleasure.
But that would have been a little too necrophilic, or, I suppose, somnophilic.
She was already snoring.
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