When I woke up on Saturday morning the house was silent and mom was nowhere to be found.
It was a week since she had called me into her room and asked me for a little favor. I was heading to college imminently and mom was scared. For eighteen years I had been her closest and, as far as I knew, her only friend. Now I would be leaving. There would be a son-shaped hole in her life, one she intended to fill by having a second child.
The flaw in mom's plan was that it was a minor miracle that any man had gotten close enough to get her pregnant the first time, a second miracle seemed unlikely. Below clothes that the Founding Fathers would have called frumpy was the body of an angel. But mom's face, the only part of her that she ever showed the outside world, was, well, not so angelic. Although you might see something like it if you went to church, most likely on those gargoyles they have up near the roof.
Given that, it was no surprise to me that mom's online pleas for a man to impregnate her went unanswered. And so she turned to me. My mom had asked me to be involved in the process, if you catch my drift. She wanted me to help her get pregnant, if you see what I mean. She wanted to fill that son-shaped hole in her life by having her son fill her hole, if you grasp my meaning.
I had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to donate my sperm to mom twice a day for the two weeks before I left for college. Obviously we couldn't have sex. That would be incest, which is just plain terrible. Instead, mom wanted me to masturbate to the point of no return, guide my cock inside of her with the precision of a bored gynecologist, wait a few seconds to finish, then withdraw and go back to whatever it was I was doing before the minor inconvenience of cumming inside my mother. That would totally not be incest. Everyone's a winner.
Problems had arisen almost from the start. One of the cardinal rules of our arrangement was There Shalt Be No Thrusting. Thrusting was tantamount to sex in mom's eyes, and like I said, we totally weren't having sex. Now, mom's pussy was the first that my cock ever had the pleasure of being inside. It was warm, it was tight, it was oh so very wet. But simply chilling out inside it wasn't quite enough to cause my orgasm to spontaneously burst forth, no matter how close I was when I entered. We came up with various work-arounds to this: jerking into my hand with just the head inside mom, thrusting myself against mom's heavenly ass or over her pussy, or even using her panties as a barrier to stop my cock going more than a few inches inside her. As the saying goes: if it's only a few inches, then you can't call it incest! At least, I think that's a saying.
The previous morning mom had decided that thrusting your penis inside a woman's vagina really isn't the same as sex, when you get right down to it. At least, not if you only thrust a few times. In the interests of maximizing her chance of conception she had decided to allow just a handful of thrusts inside her when I was about to cum. How many thrusts constitute a handful was a question we had strived to answer the previous night inside the stall of a gas station's public bathroom. Then outside the stall. Then in the back of my car. We didn't seem to have a definitive answer yet, and I was looking forward to studying the problem in greater detail today. Except, as I said way up there, mom was nowhere to be found.
Our house was comfortable but not exactly huge. There were two bedrooms upstairs; mom's had an attached bathroom and there was a separate bathroom that I used. Downstairs there was a large kitchen, a medium lounge, and a small laundry room with a door leading to our modest back yard. With so few rooms to search it didn't take me long to check them all and confirm that I was indeed alone in the house.
It wasn't even eight o'clock yet, so I couldn't fathom where mom would be. I returned to my room to don a t-shirt and some shorts that were more respectable than the boxers I had been wandering the house in, then went back downstairs and headed out of the front door. Mom wasn't in our front yard, but her car was. I wandered over to the road and looked up and down it. Still there was no sight of mom, though I did see our neighbor Mr Brownling mowing his lawn across the way. I raised my hand in greeting but he ignored me. The houses down our road were carefully spaced so no two were directly opposite each other, as if they were all embarrassed about the prospect of making eye contact with another house.
I hung around in the yard for another minute, but there was a chill in the air at this time in the morning in early fall, so I soon headed back inside and sat myself down at the kitchen table. To be honest I didn't know whether to be worried or not. I'd never known mom to go on early morning walks, but then I wasn't exactly an early morning person. Maybe this was normal for her and I'd just managed to miss it until now. But part of me worried that it was something more serious. Our session the previous night had been intense. Far more intense than earlier ones, in fact. I felt like we had started to cross some line. This wasn't just a son harmlessly jerking off to cum inside his mom anymore, it was in danger of getting weird.
What if mom thought we'd gone too far and hated me for it? What if she hated herself for it? What if she'd woken up and fled the house never to return? What if she hated herself so much she was going to take her own life? What if she hated
me
so much that she was just out there finding some sharp implement in order to come back and take
my
life? What if-
"Steven! You up yet, honey? I'm home!"
I heard the front door click shut then mom walked into the kitchen, acting as if nothing at all was the matter.
"Mom!" I said, my emotions feeling like someone had taken all the characters from
Inside Out
and thrown them in a blender. "What's the matter?"
Mom just frowned at me. "Nothing at all," she said. "We were out of milk. I just walked over to the store to get some." She held up her hand to show me the half gallon jug of milk she was holding. I felt tension ebb from my body and rubbed my face to restore some sanity to the brain behind it. Mom was busy getting out breakfast supplies and didn't seem to notice my reaction as she continued talking. "I saw Mr Brownling on my way home, mowing his lawn. I stopped to have a chat but he didn't seem interested."
Given how introverted mom normally was I was impressed that she'd tried to talk to our curmudgeonly neighbor. "Isn't there some law against using a lawnmower at this time in the morning at the weekend?" I asked. Mr Brownling's house was far enough away to make the sound of his mowing too quiet to be really annoying, but also too loud to ignore completely.
Mom turned to face me and tapped her chin as if pondering this deeply. "No," she said at last, "not quite. I think the closest thing in this state is one of those weird old laws that's never been replaced. You know, you can mow your lawn first thing in the morning as long as you're not riding on the back of a bear."
