All characters in sexual situations are 18 or older. Thanks for reading!
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To my surprise, I felt no shame for what I did with Christopher. My frustration and excitement pushed such civilized thoughts from my mind. I had manipulated my teenage son's hefty penis to completion. The image of his hot stuff spewing out of him returned to me again and again. I woke up in the middle of the night and played that release over in my mind. While my husband snored next to me, I reached down and diddled myself to a small orgasm before falling back asleep.
While taking my morning shower, my son's eruption came back to my mind again. Even though the bathroom door was open, I reached down and rubbed my button. I knew my husband was dressing in the next room, but I couldn't stop myself.
"Everything okay, dear?" My husband poked his head into the bathroom, and I froze. "It sounds like you're breathing kind of funny." His voice was casual and mildly inquisitive.
"I'm... fine..." I was so close to an orgasm. He was really killing my buzz. It should have occurred to me that I could just hop out of the shower, and we could have morning sex like I imagined any healthy wife would do. But even as he stood there, my mind played my son's spasming body on repeat. "Go down to... breakfast, Carl. I'll be there... shortly," I panted.
"Okey doke."
Through the water splattered glass, I could see his silhouette disappear from the doorway. My hand went right back to my box. It was his fault anyway. Since I'd first heard Gwen and Christopher in the basement, I had given Carl plenty of opportunity to scratch my new itch. And whether it was his age, or his tool, he just wasn't up to the task. Having heard Gwen's frenzied cries of pleasure, I suspected that Christopher's eighteen years and nine inches were more than up to the task. As his mother, he would never let me confirm my suspicions. Although he would probably let me finish him with my hands again. The thought of it sent me over the edge. I shuddered out my climax in the shower.
My son barely made eye contact with me that morning. Like I imagined any good mother would do in my shoes, I tried to make him comfortable by pretending everything was quite normal. I think I fooled my husband, but Christopher raced off to school without even eating his croissant. And he usually loves those. The second they were both out of the house, I raced upstairs to my bedroom, closed the blinds, and put a towel on the bed. You can guess what I did for the next couple hours. And I'm pretty sure you know what I thought about while doing it.
I masturbated twice more that day. Once while listening to Christopher and Gwen hump on the other side of the basement wall, and one final time in the shower after I had worked Christopher to completion again that night. A sperm-soaked towel lay in the bathroom hamper just feet from where I was furiously massaging my vagina. That was the first night I brought a towel with me down to his room when I pleasured him. And I did so every night thereafter. That way I didn't have to worry about the mess.
For a couple weeks, that was my routine. My son seemed to look forward to our nightly visits. He had a sparkle in his eye every night when I arrived. And he always said thank you when I finished him off.
I did keep asking him questions about what he and Gwen were up to. Both as a pretense for the handjobs, and also because it spurred my excitement to imagine that I was eighteen again, my son was my boyfriend, and it was my vagina he lost himself in, not Gwen's. I had been hoping that maybe this would satisfy me. That if he splooged enough times in my hands, I maybe wouldn't need to have what Gwen had. But instead, this was winding me up further.
"Christopher, sweetie?" I was on my knees one night, working his thing steadily with my hands.
"Yeah, Mom?" His usually smart, composed face looked a bit dopey as I helped him approach his completion. I was used to that expression by now. But some light returned to his eyes when he heard my voice. He looked down at me like I was the best mother in the world. And who's to say I wasn't? It's not like Candice Johnson was doing this for her son down the block.
