Confessions of a Motherfucker Ch. 06

Literotic asexstories – Confessions of a Motherfucker Ch. 06 by TheGraduate88,TheGraduate88 I waited on the back porch, sipping coffee and thinking. I was wondering what she would be wearing when she came out. I could think of several things she had, of which I would approve. I made a quick bet with myself and decided if she didn’t have one of my top three on when she came out then it would be an extra five stripes later.

I smiled, looking at my tree.

“Who knew?” I asked aloud, lifting my cup in a toast, “How useful you’d be.”

I finished my coffee and indulged in a few minutes of self-evaluation.

“She’s your MOTHER, sadist,” I thought.

“She NEEDS it,” I replied to myself.

“You’re ENJOYING it,” I thought.

I grinned.

“Yeah, I am,” I agreed.

“You fucking pervert,” I thought.

“Guilty,” I replied, “but she’s going to enjoy it.

“You’re rationalizing,” I told myself.

“Probably,” I replied, “but that ain’t gonna stop what’s coming.”

“Well,” she asked, walking out the back door. I watched and thought she had a fresh spring in her step.

She spun, and the short, flowered sundress gave a peek, demonstrating that she had followed my instructions and left her underwear in the drawer.

The sundress was brightly flower patterned, yellow predominated, and it set off her striking salt and pepper hair nicely. Two wide straps left her arms bare and when she struck a pose with one arm up, the stubble in her armpit gave a preview of what she would be like in a couple of months.

I liked it.

A belt made of the same material gave her a bit of a waist and the dress flared nicely giving her a bit of an hourglass look.

She looked good and I made a wolf whistle in appreciation.

She smiled, a happy smile.

“I’m glad you approve,” she said, closing the distance between us and bending to kiss me. I noticed that the top of the dress fell away nicely, showing off her breasts.

“Nice tits, toots,” I said making her giggle and kind of automatically reach up to press the material of the dress against her body, covering up.

I watched as she realized what she had done.

She lowered her hand, letting the material fall free again, smiled, and said, “Forgive me, Man of the House, they’re your tits after all.”

I patted her head and said, “Good girl.”

She smiled up at me and I realized she had managed to wash her face and do her makeup and hair. She looked exactly like what she was, a pretty, mature, mom-next-door.

“All right,” I said, standing and taking her hand, “the Man of the House is taking the Lady of the Manor to breakfast and showing the world how lucky he is.”

She smiled and said, “Thank you for the compliment.”

I kissed her, very lightly, not wanting to smear the carefully applied makeup.

“IHOP okay?” I asked.

“Scrumptious,” she replied.

At the restaurant, I liked very much the way she did that two-hands-on-the-arm thing that some women do to signify her claim on her man. She was bubbly, almost giggly at breakfast, laughing at my silly little jokes. Her smiles reminded me of Annette Funicello in those silly surf movies she made with Frankie Avalon.

I liked it.

But that cold-blooded part of me, down where the Marquis de Sade ruled my thinking, that part of me I kept tightly clamped down, kept bubbling to the surface.

“She’s happy because she knows you’re going to give her what she needs,” I thought.

“What?” she asked, smiling as she chewed a bit of her blueberry pancake.

“What what?” I asked.

“You’re smiling and it feels like you were somewhere else for a while,” she said.

I reached across the table and lightly brushed the top of her hand.

“I was just thinking that I’m glad I can make you smile like you are smiling this morning,” I said, holding her eyes with mine.

She giggled at that.

“So am I,” she said.

I watched her eat as I worked on my omelet and I guess something showed on my face.

“What?” she asked again.

“I’ll tell you later,” I said, giving a little Groucho Marx eyebrow waggle.

She giggled, looked at me speculatively doing the one-eyebrow-raised thing that I am not genetically enabled to do, and forked a piece of sausage into her mouth.

What I had been thinking, well, more like what I had been planning was how to convert our basement into something approximating Christian Grey’s Red Room, or, I admitted to myself, maybe something approximating one of those Vincent Price movies that had captivated me since streaming services made them available. Something, in other words, that would make her lose her bladder control when she realized I was taking her into a medieval torture chamber.

I smiled and said, “Do you know how lucky I feel to be sitting here with the prettiest girl in the place?”

I liked very much that she blushed.

“Flatterer,” she finally said around giggles.

“It ain’t flattery if it’s true,” I said.

That smile, full of pure happiness, made her beautiful for an instant, and my answering smile was based on the image that suddenly formed in my mind, my mother’s wrists bound, her arms straight over her head as I pulled the rope holding her a little tauter until her bare toes barely brushed the floor.

“I love you, Mom,” I said.

She giggled, touched my hand, swallowed the bit of pancake she had been working on, and said, “I love you too, Baby.”

Finally full, both of our plates were in the middle of the table. She sighed, smiled, and asked, “What now, Man of the House?”

“I think we’re going to promenade,” I said.

She giggled.

“Oh, God, ‘promenade?'” she said.

I laughed.

“That’s the problem with being a history major,” I said, “you pick up lots of archaic sayings. We’re going somewhere to see and be seen.”

“And where are you taking me to see and be seen?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, “we’re both too old to do the mall thing but I haven’t been to the zoo in years.”

She giggled.

“The zoo, really?” she asked.

And that is what we did.

Well, we stopped at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science first. I know, I know, it’s silly but I’ve loved dinosaurs since I was a kid and even at 18 it felt good to be holding Mom’s hand as we watched the various displays and, of course, oohed and ahhhhed at the giant skeletons.

We walked across the park to the zoo and held hands again as we started through the cages and exhibits. We laughed at the monkeys, watched the slow turtles, and spent a half hour in the birdhouse. It was fun.

We were two kids on a date except, well, when we were standing in front of the great cats, watching the leopard lounging in his tree, my hand strayed down and I started lightly tickling her ass.

“Daveyyyy,” she kind of squealed.

“Whose ass is it?” I asked.

“It’s yours,” she said, looking up and meeting my eyes, “but God, there are kids here.”

So I just let my finger trace the line of the welt the willow switch had left and went back to watching cats and holding her hand.

I knew I got to her, though. I caught a faint whiff of womanscent, the pheromone-laden marker of her excitement.

“God, Mom,” I whispered, leaning close so only she could hear, “do I need to make you grab your ankles right here?”

Her eyes got so big that white sclera showed clearly all around her irises.

“Please,” she said and I thought, for an instant, that the next word was going to be “yes,” “no.” She giggled, and added, “Not here where kids could see.”

I thought for a second and I could see her holding her breath. I knew that if I told her to she’d do it and the rush of understanding the perfect control I had almost persuaded me to do it.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I asked, “But if there weren’t kids around?”

Her sudden intake of breath told me better than anything that the “sensations” she craved weren’t just physical.

I couldn’t resist pushing.

“In your kinky fantasy,” I asked, my mouth so close to her ear she could feel as well as hear the words, “Is it people you know, or total strangers watching?”

She met my eyes,

“Strangers,” she said, and then she smiled and added, “at first.”

“Oh, you naughty girl you,” I said, knowing the word “naughty” was often a, well, a “trigger” to use the buzzword current around college campuses.

She smiled.

“Is that what I am?” she asked, holding my eyes, “A girl?”

I did the two-fingers-under-the-chin thing, forcing her to meet my eyes.

“A girl who needs discipline sometimes,” I said.

Her lips parted showing that slightly crooked front tooth that kept her from being beautiful rather than just mom-next-door pretty, and found the tiny thread of saliva that connected her lips to be terribly sexy.

She moved close enough to brush her breasts against me, looked up under hooded eyes, and said, very softly, her voice very breathy, and asked, “Promise?”

I brushed an imaginary hair away from her forehead and said, “Yes.”

Her breath caught.

I took her hand and we headed for the butterfly house.

She giggled like a schoolgirl when a swarm of bright yellow butterflies suddenly surrounded us.

“They match your pretty dress,” I said, softly, holding her hand.

She looked about 12 the way she smiled at such a casual little compliment.

“You should have one tattooed,” I said, brushing my fingers up her arm to the roundness of her deltoid muscle, “right here.”

She giggled at that.

“Honey,” she said, “I’m leaning on fifty pretty hard. A bit long in the tooth to start getting tattoos.”

I flashed The Grin then, that predatory grin I had practiced in the mirror for years. I still thought it was kind of intimidating when delivered properly.

“Whose arm is it?” I asked, keeping my voice very soft.

Her breath caught and I got a sudden whiff of her womanscent.

“It’s your arm,” she said, eyes downcast.

“And if I want to have, oh, I don’t know, maybe ‘Please Fuck Me’ tattooed there?” I asked, voice still soft.

Her eyes crept up to meet mine.

“Then my arm would have ‘Please Fuck Me’ tattooed on it,” she said, “It’s your arm, Honey. I’m holding nothing back.”

“But,” I said, trading the grin for my best smile, “I think a butterfly it is.”

Her eyes got big again.

“Now?” she asked, and that womanscent was stronger now.

I took her hand and started walking to the exit.

I had no tattoos and never intended to get one. But, well, I figured this was no time to start making promises, or threats, and not following through.

In the car, I Googled “tattoo artists near me.” I was surprised at how many there were. Several were in the downtown area and I didn’t want to use them. I suppose they’re all pretty much the same, but I figured there’d be less chance of catching some dread disease in a more upscale part of town.

I selected one, Fantasy Fulfilled was the name of the place and it featured a very heavily tattooed, very pretty woman as the featured “artist.”

I touched the little green telephone icon on the screen.

“Fantasy,” the almost musical woman’s voice answered the phone.

“Ummmm,” I said, a bit surprised at how promptly she had answered and needing a few seconds to get my thoughts together.

“How does it work?” I finally managed awkwardly, “Do I need an appointment?”

She laughed, a pleasant, musical sound.

“If you can get here in ten minutes,” she said, “you’re good to go but if it’s longer than that, well, if I’m busy, I’m busy. But I’ll wait ten minutes.”

“See you in nine,” I said, and started the car.

It turned out, that in eight minutes I pulled in front of the place, one of those storefronts you see in strip malls all over any city.

Inside, the place looked more like a barber shop than anything else. Well, there were a couple of padded tables where you might expect barber chairs to be, but the ambiance was the same. Pictures of tattoos and tattooed people hung where you might expect hairstyles in another type of store.

And it was the same woman from the website that greeted us.

“Hello,” she said, holding out a hand, “I’m Valerie.”

I took her hand and said, “David, pleased to meet you.”

“And what did you have in mind?” she asked.

I was distracted, looking at her. She had the kind of garish, brightly colored tattoos I kind of expected up both arms. But it was what showed above the scooped neck of the T-shirt she wore that caught my eye. There must have been fifty shades of yellow, the change in shade so subtle it was hard to follow, and line art so delicate it could have been colored spider silk. The overall impression was that the skin showing was covered in very delicate feathers. The image was so perfect I wanted to touch the feathers to feel how soft they were.

She saw where I was looking and smiled.

“No,” she said, “I don’t do my own work.”

After a few seconds she added, “I’m better than the man who did this.”

I smiled.

“Okay, then,” I said, “you’re the one I want.”

Mom had been standing quietly while this conversation went on.

“Show me butterflies,” I said.

Christ. There were six pages of them.

I selected a Monarch butterfly, about two inches across.

“Come here, Mary,” I said. I figured calling her “Mom” would probably be inappropriate here.

She came. She seemed, well, “bemused” is one of those words you see written down from time to time but never have to use, but in this case, it fit. She seemed bemused by the whole process.

“Show Miss Valerie here your left breast so I can show her what I have in mind,” I said.

Mom didn’t hesitate. She unbuttoned the wide strap of the sundress and lifted out her breast. It was almost a casual motion, something done so shamelessly, or nonchalantly might be a better word, that no man can ever understand it.

Here’s what I mean. It’s almost like being smart. I’ve been told I’m smart often enough, by those whose judgment I trust, that I believe it. But I don’t feel it. I have the same brain and think the same way I always have. Oh, I’m not dumb, but I don’t feel smart. I think women feel the same way about their breasts. They may have tiny titties or big old hooters. Their breasts may stand up, firm and proud, or be sagging pancake boobs. But they see them every day, feel them every time they put on a bra or a blouse or even pajamas.

To me, Mom’s breasts were beautiful and sexy. To her, they were just her tits and to take them out was nothing.

So she lifted out her breast.

“I want the butterfly taking flight off of the flower that is her nipple,” I said.

“Okay,” Valerie said, “you are talking about several hours of work in a very sensitive area.”

She looked up at me.

“And I’m assuming you want the high-end job. Something like this,” she said, gesturing to show that work on her chest.

“Yes,” I said.

Valerie smiled and said, “Let’s try this.”

She went to a rack of books, big binder-type books, pulled one down, and started flipping through the pages.

“Ahhhh,” she said, a satisfied sound, and flipped the book around.

There was a monarch butterfly, wingspan about two inches, in such perfect detail, with such tiny lines and veins, it was almost a photograph except it was much more vivid, the colors more brilliant than anything found in nature.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh yeah,” I said.

“Well,” Valerie said, “let’s see if I have the stencil.”

She went to a rack on the wall that looked, for all the world, like an old-fashioned card catalog. She opened a couple of drawers and then pulled out a little envelope.

“Yep,” she said, “there it is. You buy the book and there’s supposed to be a template for every image, but sometimes, well, you know.”

She held a little little square that had what seemed to be a very fine line drawing on it.

“This will give me the outline. The beauty, though, is up to me,” she said, buffing her fingernails on an imaginary vest.

Then it was back to the central room of the salon where Mom stood, waiting, that breast still out. She looked so casual there, so comfortable in her own skin, I was tempted to tell her to take off her clothes to see if she would. But I didn’t. There is, as they say, a time and a place for everything, and this was neither the time nor the place for that.

“Have you ever had a tattoo before?” Valerie asked Mom.

“No,” Mom said, “this will be my first.”

Valerie looked up at me.

“You have selected a particularly sensitive place,” she said. It seemed to me, the way she talked to me instead of Mom, that she understood who was in charge of our couple.

“I understand,” I said, “but you have to pay for beauty.”

She smiled at that and I wondered if she realized the way her hand sort of unconsciously moved to her own breast.

“You do, at that,” she said and turned back to Mom.

“Okay, Sweety, let’s get started,” she said and guided Mom to a padded table, one of those massage tables with the hole at the end where your face goes when the masseuse is busy on your back.

Valerie reached up and undid the buttons holding the second strap of the sundress up, and folded the top down. “Need to have things even,” she said over her shoulder to me.” She was the Master craftsman, well craftswoman I suppose, busy at her task but willing to talk the observer through the process.

With a pen that appeared from nowhere like a magician’s trick, she quickly sketched a butterfly with the bottoms of its wings barely touching her areola.

I got hard. Christ, I could picture it and was already trying to figure out ways to display it.

“Now, up on the table,” Valerie said, kicking a little stool around for her to use to step up, “on your right side, that boob on top.”

Mom got up as instructed, showing the body control of the gymnast she had once been, and stretched out, looking quite fetching as one of my history books might have put it.

“Or it could go like this,” Valerie said, sketching another butterfly, this time wrapped around the big roll that is her breast when she lays like that. She pulled a tiny camera from somewhere, Christ, the woman should be working with David Copperfied, and snapped several pictures, moving around a little as she did.

“On your other side, now,” she said and Mom dutifully switched sides.

The third butterfly she sketched, lifting Mom’s right breast to get to her artist’s canvas, barely peeked out from under the right breast when Valerie let it fall.

More pictures, the little “click” of the camera silly in what was obviously a digital device.

And I had a thought.

“On your belly,” I said to Mom and she rolled onto her belly, her face in the hole.

I lifted the skirt of her dress, laying it on her back, exposing her bare ass. The pink welt from the switch was still very distinct.

I put my hand, palm flat on the roundness, right where she sits, fingers parted just a bit. Then I moved it to cover the other cheek.

“Can you tattoo my hand there?” I asked.

She smiled, a knowing smile, and said, “Honey, I’ll put your fingerprints on it.”

“Nice ass,” she added, patting it and saying, “Okay, Sweety, up now.”

I held Mom’s hand as she stepped down from the table, interested to see that she made no move to pull the top up or button her straps.

Valerie noticed too.

She pulled a wet wipe from a big tube and in a few swipes the lines of her sketches were gone although Mom’s nipple was standing up, very hard.

“Go ahead and dress, Sweety,” she said and then led us over to a small table that served as her desk.

She opened a laptop computer, waited a few seconds, and then started asking questions. In due course, she had my name, address, email address, and phone number, and had scanned the back of my driver’s license.

“Okay,” she said, leaning back, “Here’s the deal. I’m not some hack who will throw some indelible ink anywhere. I’m an artist. So I’m going to work with these pictures and I’ll send you a proposal later today,” and she glanced at something on the computer screen and went on, “or maybe tomorrow. I have an appointment this afternoon. Then you guys look it over and if you want to go ahead, we’ll make an appointment and start decorating you,” that last said with a nod to Mom.

“Start?” Mom and I asked in unison, making all three of us laugh a little.

Valerie smiled, an interesting smile full of knowledge, took one of Mom’s hands and one of mine, and said, “Before you say ‘yes,’ you need to understand, that tattoos are addictive.”

I guess we both looked like we weren’t understanding because Valerie released our hands, leaned back, put her foot on the table, and pulled up the leg of her loose-fitting pants.

“This,” she said, giggling a little and pointing at a little yellow Tweety bird, all oversized head and small body, on the round knob of her ankle, “was my first. I did it in college. All of the girls in the sorority had one, sort of our ‘rite of passage,’ or maybe our initiation. But I couldn’t stop.

When she pulled her pants leg higher we saw the whole Looney Toons crew was chasing each other up her leg. Each one of them looked as perfectly done as one of those cellulite pictures the old-school animators used.

“So,” she said, smiling and pulling her pants leg down, “just be careful. Now go on. I’ll email you my designs.”

Mom was so excited the womanscent of her came off in waves.

“I think I’m going to take you home now and make love to you, gently, tenderly, and thoroughly,” I said softly.

She smiled, wanly, and said, “I hope I can feel it.”

“Oh, you will,” I said, “I promise.”

She was quiet on the way home, making the trip borderline uncomfortable.

“Now,” I said, walking her into the bedroom, unbuttoning the straps of her sundress and letting it drop and pool at her feet, “stay there and don’t you move or I’ll get the switch.”

She giggled and said, “Promises, promises.”

“I’m serious, Mom,” I said, “Stay put or you’ll be eating standing up for a week.”

She smiled but said, “Yes, Sir.”

I went into the bathroom and gathered up the things I had been thinking of.

Back in the bedroom, I pulled the spread and top sheet off and then laid the big fluffy bath towel I had folded into quarters in the center of the bed.

“Butt right here,” I said, pointing at the towel.

I went back into the bathroom and got the water running. After it was fully hot, I keep the water heater hotter than most. It tests out about 125 degrees, I soaked one of our smaller handtowels and then wrung it out.

In the bedroom I laid the hot, steaming towel on the thatch of her pubic hair, working it until it covered her labia. She hissed at the heat.

Back to the bathroom, then, where I changed the blade on my Harry’s razor, shook up my DR Harris Eucalyptus shave cream, and soaked another small handtowel.

I switched out the towels, soaking her pubic hair in the hot towels like an old-fashioned barber preparing a customer’s face.

“I think getting rid of all of this hair will help your sensitivity,” I said, pulling the hot towel away, shaking up the shaving cream, and working it into the hair of her mons, her labia, and that little tracery down the inside of her thighs.

I pushed her knees apart until she was almost doing the splits, exposed completely to my razor.

Her mons was easy, the skin taut and the round shape easy to follow, kind of like my face. In the same way, that small semicircle of thick hair right at the tops of her thighs was easy.

Her labia took time and concentration though, little strokes as I stretched small sections of skin taut.

The shave took much longer than simply scraping my cheeks and trimming the line of my goatee. I was especially careful with the inside of her labia where a few stray hairs left a light line right where her delicate inner lips peeked out.

Eventually, though, I was done. She was smooth and clean as I wiped the final shaving cream residue away.

And she was beautiful.

I said, “Hold still, now,” as I gathered up the towels, shave cream, and razor and made a little bundle to take back to the bathroom and place on the vanity.

In the bathroom, I reached into the shower and grabbed Mom’s loofah sponge.

“Now,” I said, moving to kneel beside her, “let’s work on your sensitivity.”

“What?” she started but stopped, her eyes getting big, looking at the loofah.

I felt myself grinning as I used my left hand to gently lift her clitoral hood and then began brushing that little pink button lightly.

“Ohhhh,” she moaned.

I lightly brushed her inner lips, smiling at the way her love nectar lubricated the sponge, and enjoying the way her lips turned from bright pink to red as I abraded away all but the final cell thickness of skin.

“Oh, Jesus,” she moaned as I started on that delicate pink area, the inside of her thick outer lips, where she was sensitive anyway. I lightly brushed with the loofah until I saw tiny drops of blood start to form.

I released her lips then, allowing them to close up as they did, and went to work with the loofah.

“Davidddddddd,” she whispered as I brushed, lightly, watching the skin turn from the very pale pink of her Caucasian heritage to darker pink and then to red. I kept going until I was sure that two more strokes of the sponge would draw blood.

When I went down on her then, my lips kissing and sucking gently, and my tongue licking and caressing, there was no doubt that she was feeling it.

“Oh, JESUSSSSSSSSSSsssssssssssssssssss,” she said softly, her hips rocking against my mouth.

She came then, suddenly and powerfully, that love honey hot and watery in my mouth, salty, tangy, as she cried out, “JESUSSSSSSSSSSSSSSsssssssssss” again.

I held still like that, soft tissue in my mouth as I felt her slowly relax.

She cried out, a weak, high pitched, “eeeeee,” when I pulled away, stretching tender tissue before releasing her.

I kissed my way up her body, nipping the soft fat circle around her belly button, nuzzling and sucking each nipple, and then capturing her hands, lacing our fingers together, and holding her eyes as I moved forward and slipped inside of her with an erection so hard it ached.

Her eyes got big, white showing around her dark irises, and her mouth opened in a silent cry as I slipped past tender skin until my full length was inside of her.

I smiled and kissed her.

“Do you like your new sensations?” I asked.

“Oh Jesus, fuck, God, Christ, yes,” she babbled.

“Good,” I said, smiling and kissing her, “because I’ve just got started.”

I moved around a little, adjusting her arms until her wrists were crossed over he head, remaining inside of her as I did. I caught her wrists in my left hand, holding her in that wonderfully exposed position.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I had her wrists captured in my weak hand and Mom’s not a weak woman. She could have escaped if she wanted to. But I think she was a little cockdrunk right then and was getting sensations she hadn’t received in months, maybe years. She didn’t struggle as I held her in that terribly exposed position.

With my right hand, I picked up the loofah sponge and began dragging it down that tender skin on the inside of her upper arms where the skin was soft and white.

I held very still, inside of her, and she held still, the only sign she was feeling anything was a sharp intake of breath as I brushed across the hollow of her armpit and then down to the top of her ribs.

I kept that up, very light strokes, more caresses than rubs.

She moaned a very soft, “Oh God,” and I felt her squeeze where I was inside of her.

I kissed her, soft kisses, loving kisses, and kept doing what I was doing.

When the skin where I was abrading her was bright pink, almost red, and a tiny drop of blood showed in the middle of the cup of her armpit, I laid the loofah aside and began caressing where I had “prepared” her with my lips and tongue.

She gasped at the first touch of my lips and I felt her squeeze where I was inside of her, a sudden spasm that was almost painful.

When my tongue touched that drop of blood she came.

No, that is far too gentle a way to put it.

When my tongue touched that drop of blood her body went rigid with an orgasm that took her breath and left every muscle clenched.

I remembered a snippet of shower talk one time from the locker room – – the only things touching the bed were her heels and the back of her head – – one of the guys had finished his story of sexual conquest with.

That’s how my mother felt right then. Her body was carved from a single block of wood, Kawliga the wooden Indian’s mate. She wasn’t breathing.

As I slowly tickled up her arm where the skin was thin she hissed sort of a long sibilant “sssssssssssssss.”

And then she came, explosively.

Her hips suddenly pulled away and I felt her spraying my cock and belly. It was hot and wet and I thought, at first, she had lost bladder control. But the scent was pure womanneed.

She drew a deep breath and came again, just as hard, her face scrunching into a bright red prune as she strained for her perfect release.

I held still, inside of her, watching almost clinically.

She took a third breath, a deep gasping breath, and exploded again. Her face got so red with the way she was straining I started thinking about strokes or aneurysms when she suddenly collapsed.

From almost perfect tension she went to almost perfect relaxation, laying back, slack, boneless, and whispering so softly I could barely hear, “Fill me up, David, fill me up, please, fill me up.”

I held still, listening to her chant, fascinated with her face, smooth in her perfect tranquility, as she kept repeating, “Fill me up.”

My own need was building and I finally, after some portion of forever, did as she asked. My ejaculation was powerful and I felt those hard muscular contractions pump seed deep into my mate. I lasted too, much longer than my normal two pumps and done, while she breathed out a soft “yesssssssssssssssssssssssssss,” making her thanks last as I poured into her.

She didn’t move though. All of her energy had been spent.

By the time I softened and slipped out she was snoring softly.

I smiled and whispered, “I think you felt that one, Mom.”