It was some weeks before I would return to the Place Royale, which was chronologically apt as mom and I were no longer talking. She was as cautious as Aramis, and my cock was the flash of D'Artagnan's pistols. There was a physical partition of silence whenever we were near each other. Hers one of shame, and mine one of awkward longing.
She no longer lotioned her legs and feet in the living room, preferring to do it in her room instead. At first, I was overjoyed, thinking she was ready to move it upstairs, but soon found out the truth with the click of a door. Any excuse I could find I would walk past her partially opened door just hoping for a glance of shining calves and painted toes. When she finally noticed me, she simply closed the door in my face.
Pain, loneliness, anger, longing... I remember the tumult of emotions like the sporadic twist of a kaleidoscope. We grew more distant, and soon we just ceased talking. I was in pain, emotional as well as physical as my ravenous cock cried out for the one thing it wanted. I became a deviant, scouring sites for anything close to what I wanted. Flowers, Afton, and Elke were poor substitutes for what I truly desired and Xev would not be on the scene for some time. She looks the most like my mom.
When she was at work, under the influence of Jamison, I ransacked her room. At first, I just wanted to lounge upon her bed, cloaked in the scent of her lotion, but that only made my cock harder. Drawer after drawer I rifled through until I found my momento, the black panties she had worn that night.
I threaded the fabric through my fingers relishing in the thin rough seams, my cock stiffening. I pressed the panties to my mouth, coarse fabric itching across my sensitive lips. In that moment I was back, head stuffed between her legs while she clamped onto my scalp, cock dug into the ottoman. Her musk and sweat filling my nose, the salt and metallic tang of her juices on my tongue. I rubbed my cock so hard in my pants it felt more like rug burn than pleasure; I needed more!
Soon, her panties were in my mouth, my cock was out in my hand, and I was sifying through everything. Bras? No, too silky and inviting. Socks? Yeah, that will work. I stretched one of her ankle socks over my cock, fabric rough and refreshing. I groaned, tightening my grip, teeth clenched firmly on her panties, sucking away as the metallic taste flooded my palate. My cock burned with arousal and fabric, my jaw hurt, and still I needed more.
I tossed her closet, stopping to grab a strappy black heel and taking a deep whiff, but no, not that. I smelled her dresses and blouses hanging there, frantically flipping through each one, cock crying against the sock's abuse. I went through her vanity station, intoxicated with the chemical smells of soft powder and acrylic polish. Her bedside table produced nothing, but still I persisted with my search, hand ever pumping on my cock.
Almost giving up, the arousal not enough to make the abuse my dick was receiving worth it, I found it. Tucked between her mattresses and boxspring, an eight inch dildo, still covered in trails of white crust. I groaned, cock throbbing, okay with the abuse now. I grabbed the dildo eagerly and lifted it to my nose, the scent of sweat and copper with an acidic musk. I sucked harder on her panties, sniffed deeper on her dildo, and pumped her sock on my cock more furiously, as I imagined her shoving the dildo deep inside of her while she moaned.
I pulled the panties out of my mouth and licked the dildo, the image of her, knees spread, painted toes curled, moaning, drove my actions. The burning on my cock spread, my knees grew shaky, and I continued licking and pumping. Soon, the dildo was sliding between my lips and onto my tongue, salt and plastic. I stood there, dildo a few inches in my mouth, sock furiously scraping around my cock, moaning, on the edge of bursting when...
"Son!" My mom's voice blasted through my fantasy. "What are you-"
My eyes shot open, I shoved too hard on the dildo, and gagged as I came. My mother looked at me with a mixture of horror and disgust as my entire body shuttered. The orgasm went from my throat to my balls and back again as I spasmed twofold, with my ejaculation and my gagging. The dildo dropped limply from my mouth, but the panties stayed in my hand. "Mom?" I choked out.
Her eyes widened and then narrowed, "Go to your room!"
"But mo-"
"Go. To. Your. Room!" She commanded pointing out the door. "I can't look at you right now." Curled in shame like a question mark I left, taking the cum-filled sock and panties with me. No matter how old you are, your mom can tell you to go to your room. Especially if you're caught doing something like I had, but really, anything classified as "wrong" would have worked.
I had enough wherewithal to hide the panties for later and stuff the sock to trash. After that I sat like some beleaguered sycophant of Descartes, and did not think. I just existed in that moment without thought. The pale tendrils of emotions within me muted. It took some time before I realized I had really fucked up. There wasn't enough Jamison left to cure my mistake, and all I wanted was to disappear. I even pissed in the empty bottle, too afraid to go out to the bathroom. I didn't fall asleep until the next morning, and my dreams were of running in thick molasses.
I woke with an acrid groan of pure heat and, for a moment, the splitting headache and haggard muscles were a welcome relief. That is, until memory reared its filthy fucking face. Horror, dread, shame, guilt, just to name a few, flashed through my mind. "Fuck!"
The cure to any hangover is fifteen minutes of cardio induced sweating, four raw eggs in a glass of milk, a hot shower, and a nap. Just enough to get rid of all the physical pain so I could fully concentrate on the emotional. I woke up with another, "Fuck," but without the heat this time. The heat was gone but the icky dry mouth was ever present and I went to brush my teeth. Stopping with a mumbled, "fuck," as the last humid vestiges of steam hit me. My mom had gotten home and already taken her shower. What do I do?
I looked at myself in the mirror, recovered from the hangover but still waxxed with anxiety. "Just tell her it was a mistake. It was all a mistake." I knew it was a lie, I didn't regret it at all. I only regretted her being upset about it. "Just apologize and say it will never happen again," another lie. I yearned for it to happen again. "Just talk to her." Yeah, because we had been having such fragrant conversations lately.
I worked up the courage while vigorously brushing my teeth, gagging once. My mind flashed back to her dildo, and I felt my cock jump. "No," I spit out the toothpaste, "No. Not... yet." I had decided to confront my mother by basically groveling at her feet. Her gorgeous candy coated- "No!" I reminded myself and took a deep breath of resolve. Full of bravery I turned to descend the stairs, turned back to grab my smokes in the likely event I chickened out, and descended the stairs.
I could already see my mom, curled up on the couch, ankles and feet on the ottoman. Dark blue bathrobe embracing creamy white skin. A glass of wine in her hand, an empty bottle of merlot on the end table. And in that moment, in the curves of her breast and hips, the angle of her toes, the wrinkle of her soles, I knew I was a chicken. I darted straight to the front door averting my gaze.
My mom's voice halted me in my tracks, "And where do you think you're going?"
Hand on the knob my heart throbbed with heat, "Uh, to smoke?"
