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MORNING sucked him how laughed when



Copyright 2000 Anais Ninja


The sound of the headboard hitting the wall was unmistakable. My son
was masturbating again. I rolled over in bed and glanced at the clock,
noting that there was still fifteen minutes left before the alarm was
due to sound. I switched it off and lay back in the big double bed.
It seemed especially big and empty since my husband passed away. Pete's
bed continued to bang against the wall rhythmically.

I yawned and stretched, wishing for that last quarter-hour of sleep, not
quite ready to begin the day. I listened to my son jerking off,
wondering what mental image was fixed in his mind's eye while he stroked
himself. He had just turned twelve two weeks ago, and I tried to
catalog the women in his life. There was, he couldn't. He was
probably imagining that teenage singer, the one with the implants. Or
maybe one of the girls in his class. Could it be that lady wrestler?

My thoughts drifted as I tried to remember the wrestler's name and I
began to fantasize about walking into my son's room and just flat out
asking him. I let my hands roam over my breasts and belly while I
pictured Peter stroking himself, his boxer shorts gathered around his
ankles. I parted my vulva, suprised at how wet I was, and dipped a
finger inside my vagina, pressing against that sensitive spot.

My nipples were very sensitive that morning, something that usually
presaged my period. I lifted a breast, bringing it to my lips.
A fleeting memory of Peter as a newborn, suckling at this very nipple,
sent a shiver down my spine. Nursing him hadn't been very pleasant,
so I was suprised at the sexual charge the memory now had. I teased
my clitoris from its hood, lightly circling it with a fingertip.

I reminisced about my own adolescence, giggling with my friends over
the chapter on masturbation in _Our Bodies, Ourselves_, trying to
conceal my self-explorations from my sisters and our parents. That
one day when I found out what the shower massage was good for; I must
have spent three hours a day in that bathroom, the family banging on
the door every five minutes.

My favorite shower fantasy came back to me, the one involving that
lifeguard from sleepaway camp, his curly blond hair, the rescue on
the beach, the night in his bunk. My hands worked faster, one on
my clitoris, the other on that spot in my vagina, the muscles in my
thighs tensing and relaxing as I recalled the fantasy that kept me
company during my long adolescent showers. But there was something
juvenile about it, like reading a diary after twenty years.

My thoughts turned back to the lady wrestler, imagining my son between
her legs, her powerful thighs wrapped around him, his face buried
between her ample breasts. But maternal instinct butted in, and the
image of her thighs snapping Peter's spine like a matchstick made my
heart flutter for a brief second before I could usher away that
disturbing image. My hands slowed briefly while I tried to conjure
another fantasy.

That singer, what was her name? I pictured her in my son's room, her
plaid dress hiked up around her waist, panties pulled down around her
thighs, lying on my son's bed as he explored her sex. My hands moved
faster as I imagined him fumbling with the clasp of her bra, just like
the boys I knew during my teen years. I couldn't help but chuckle
thinking about that one boy who fumbled all night in the back seat of
his parent's car, unaware that the bra I was wearing opened in the
front, not the back.

My thoughts drifted back to my son and the teen singer, imagining him
on top of her, nuzzling her neck, his firm, little butt twitching as
he speared her repeatedly with his penis. My hips rocked to their
rhythm, my hands dancing over and inside my sex. The need to urinate
increased my sensitivity, making my clitoris too raw to touch directly,
so I pinched the fleshy hood between two fingers, rolling it around.

I tried to imagine what my son's penis looked like. I hadn't seen him
naked since giving him a spongebath two years ago, during a bout of
chicken pox. I wondered if he had started to grow pubic hair, trying
to remember the few wispy hairs I had at that age. I pictured my late
husband's penis, as it was when we first met in high-school, on that
date when he first convinced me to go down on him. The look on his
face when my lips first made contact, the way his hips moved when I
sucked him, how he laughed when I spit out his semen.

Except it was my son's laugh and my son's face I saw. My hands worked
faster as I tried to return to my son and the singer, trying to picture her hands gripping his bottom, urging him to take her deeper, harder.
I could feel my breasts jiggling beneath the sheets, the delicious
friction of my nipples against the linen. My thighs began to quiver as
I imagined the girl in my son's bed begin to cry out as her pleasure
began to mount with each energetic thrust. I began to feel myself
in her place, the two fingers of my left hand thrusting like my son's
penis, my right hand circling my clitoris where I imagined his pubic
bone was pressing against me with each stroke.

In my mind's eye, she was coming, her face obscured by my son's head,
his smooth, young bottom pushing into her with a corkscrew motion.
Her fingernails were digging into his back, leaving faint red marks
against his skin. He ducked his head to take a nipple into his mouth
and for brief moment, I saw her face. My face.

It was too late for me to dismiss this image. My climax welled up
from deep within my womb, spreading outward until my toes were
curled and my face felt flushed, fevered. I went with it, feeling
my son's penis within me, his young body pressed against me, that
boy smell on my nostrils, his taste on my lips. I found myself
crying out "Yes! Oh yes I said yes!" as my fingers urged me to a
second, more intense orgasm.

My hands slowed down as I imagined him on top of me, kissing me, my
hands running along his smooth back. The spreading wet spot under
my bottom brought me back to reality. It was just then that I realized
that my headboard had been banging against the wall between our rooms.
His, however, was silent.

I felt my face flush with embarassment as I thought of my son in his
room, listening to his mother pleasure herself. I felt like hiding
in bed for the rest of the day, but the need to urinate forced me to
get up. I threw on a robe and ducked into the bathroom. Fortunately,
my son was still in his bedroom. I took a quick shower and composed
myself before going to the kitchen to start breakfast.

"Morning, Mom," he said, looking up from his cereal.

"Good morning, sweetie. How did you sleep?"

"Okay, I guess."

I wasn't sure whether he gave me a funny look or whether it was just my
imagination. But nothing was said during breakfast. He gave me a quick
peck on the cheek before taking a shower. I made a mental note to have
that talk his father would have had with him. One of these days.


16 June 2000
Happy Bloomsday!

Copyright 2000 Anais Ninja


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