I felt my stomach tighten as I imagined the first rope flying past her tongue and hitting the back of her throat. I raised my hips slightly and watched as my first blast took off into the air and land partially on my stomach and partially onto the bed. Again and again the same scene played out as I imagined her mouth filling with my salty cream. I was nearly out of breath after the intensity of the orgasm wore off.
The shirt I had on the night before was a suitable rag to clean myself off before I leapt out of bed. I wandered out to the kitchen where Mom was making a light breakfast for Dad before he went to work. I was very curious what was going to be said or done after he left. It would just be me and her in the house for the rest of the day.
I made cereal for myself and waited for Dad to take his breakfast to go. He was constantly running late, so she learned to pack up something for him on Saturday mornings. I was about halfway through my cereal when Dad rushed through and kissed Mom as she handed him his breakfast. Mom took whatever was left from making his meal and put it on a plate for herself. She sat at the table across from me and began to speak before Dad was even out of the house.
I panicked, thinking she may still be drunk and would say something regrettable, but I was wrong.
“What time did you get in last night?” she asked, looking up at me briefly and with inquisitive eyebrows.
I was dead wrong. I stopped eating and stared at Mom for a while in disbelief. I didn’t know anything about drinking until you blacked out and not remembering anything the following morning. I thought she was kidding. I was sure she would have remembered something about the previous night’s activities.
“What?” she asked, confirming she had no memory of anything that took place. I wondered if she woke up and wondered how she got into her own bed.
“What? Oh, sorry, I was drifting off into space. I didn’t sleep much last night for some reason, so I guess I’m just tired,” I lied.
“Well, you don’t have to do anything today so go grab a nap after this,” she said with a warm smile.
“I think I might. I should be good to go after a couple hours. I don’t remember having any disturbing dreams.”
After we ate, I helped mom do the dishes and figured everything that happened between us would be lost in time. What continued to bug me was that she used my name. I would have been able to easily dismiss it all if she called me Dad’s name. The scene would forever be burned into memory, though. That much was certain.
I went to my room and showered. I pondered the situation as it was. The concept of her not remembering what we did still blew my mind. I almost chuckled a few times trying to grasp the state of mind someone would have to be in to forget an event like that. I laid down, intending to continue reading into the situation instead of letting it go. I was easily distracted by my phone and put the previous thoughts on the back burner. About an hour into my rest, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I said, not thinking twice about why Mom would be at my door.
Mom opened the door and asked if she could come in. I nodded and she walked in, closing the door behind her. My eyes never left the screen of my phone as I was playing a game when she sat down on the bed next to me, facing the wall. There was a long silence before she spoke.
“I was cleaning my room and came across something that gave me cause for concern,” she said without looking at me.
Her hands were in her lap, and she stared into them without budging.
“Yeah?” I said.
I was almost certain what she was talking about but didn’t know where she was going to go with it. I wasn’t prepared for her to question me about it. I assumed she would think Dad did it or something. After all, she didn’t even recall me getting home.
“Yeah,” she said in an odd tone of regret, “I need to ask you about last night,” she added.
“What about it?” I asked looking at her, waiting for her to look at me.
“I feel like I did something that I should not have,” she said cautiously, “Can you tell me what happened last night?”
I almost changed where the conversation was headed by asking her what she found and denying everything. I had only seconds to think about the ramifications that path held. The first thing that came to mind was that she would confront my father about it. I couldn’t immediately think of any good coming from that so, I obliged her question.
“Well, I came home, and you were watching TV while having some drinks,” I started. I told her the story up to the point when she acknowledged that I was hard.
“How did I feel that?” she said timidly.
“You had your head in my lap,” I informed her. “Anyway, I didn’t respond before you unzipped my pants and pulled… it out,” I said, intending for that to be the end of my confession.
“What did I do with it?” she asked in a broken voice. She was getting upset.
“You put it in your mouth,” I admitted as I put my phone down next to me.
This was going where I initially wanted it to go but her being upset wasn’t part of the plan. Part of me couldn’t blame her for being that way. The other part of me absolutely could have by putting us both in a compromising position as a result of her alcohol consumption.
“Then what?”
“What do you mean?” I said, looking at the back of her head. I was genuinely wondering what she wanted me to say.
She exhaled loudly.
“Did you… finish?” she asked, clearly uncomfortable with the situation and becoming more audibly upset with each passing word.
I pulled at her shoulder so she would look at me.
“You don’t remember, Mom?” I asked, genuinely curious.
Mom turned and looked at me with tears in her eyes and shook her head. She was so upset, and I became worried.
“Can I just say it without beating around the bush?” I asked. The look on her face was making me upset as well.
She nodded and I sighed before letting it all out.
“I told you I was about to cum, and you told me to do it in your mouth. I was horny, Mom. I wasn’t thinking of you as my mom, but as an attractive woman. I did as you asked me to,” I admitted.
“Why did you let me do that?” she asked as her voice cracked. She was becoming more upset with each question. Tears were flowing down her cheeks.
“I don’t know,” I responded honestly, “I knew you were drunk,” I added. She was crying hard enough that she was shaking the bed. “But I honestly didn’t mind,” I admitted.
That wasn’t the response she deserved. She deserved me to tell her that none of it would have happened if she wasn’t drunk. It would not have made any of what was transpiring easier.
She sniffled, “What do you mean you didn’t mind? How could you be okay doing that with me?”
I read her face quickly to see if I had made a mistake in admitting that. When I determined I wasn’t in imminent danger, I proceeded.
“I meant that I feel there’s different levels of love and lust that people can experience, including combinations of them in differing levels. The love of a family member, of a girlfriend and of a friend are all different. Throw the concept of lust into each one at an appropriate level and it don’t see how it can be harmful to engage in sexual acts with them?” I ended as a question, sure to get a response from Mom.
Mom stared at me with her mouth partly open. Her eyes shifted around slightly left and right. She was trying to process what she just heard. I tried to help her come to the conclusion I wanted her to be at.
“What I mean is, while I wouldn’t naturally go after such an activity with you as my mother, when love exists and a feeling of lust develops, you’re already in good company so, why not?”
“You’re not making sense, Jeremy,” she said. She was trembling still.
I sighed, trying to think of another way to express my thought.
“When you did what you did to me,” I started. I intentionally used those words to ensure she knew that the blame was on her. “I didn’t think of it as anything else but love for me and a need we both somehow had to fulfill a degree of lust we felt because of the movie that was on.”
“Fine, I understand what you mean,” she immediately said, “but I don’t feel that way and none of that will be happening again. I cannot allow it. I’m ashamed that it happened, and it will take a long time before it stops being an invasive thought in my head. I’m so ashamed of myself for doing it. You should be ashamed of yourself for not stopping it.”
“Mom,” I said, sitting up and putting a hand on her shoulder. She lowered her shoulder quickly and I removed my hand just as fast, sensing her discomfort. I knew then that what took place created a rift that would not quickly be repaired. “Never mind, Mom. I’m sorry all of this happened.”
Mom began to cry again. She turned to face me and looked me over before shoving me to the far side of the bed. She laid next to me and buried her face in my chest as she cried. I wasn’t by any means wise in the ways of women, but I did know that I needed to suppress the evidence of my growing hardness. If Mom discovered it, I would not be able to fault her for the anger that she would have.
It was, however, proof of what I was trying to tell her. In that moment, despite my own feelings at her reaction to my admission of what transpired between us, I could have taken her clothes off, wrapped us up in the bed and took her without regret. I took a chance, regardless. I put my hand on the back of her head and comforted her. I decided to take it to the next level, risking her wrath if she got upset.
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