It was July and it was hot, even at 10:30 at night, and even with the window fan blowing at full blast. It was too hot for pajamas and too hot to be under sheets, so he was lying naked on the bed.
He was stroking himself slowly and deliberately, in no hurry to cum. His bottle of lube was convenient, on the nightstand, so he could refresh himself as often as needed. Nearby on the bed was the little towel he could drape over his stomach when the time came, and the box of tissues necessary for cleaning his cock and his hand and for picking bits of jizz out of his pubic hair. The towel was adorned with the dried remains of a number of loads, most recently this morning, so he needed to remember to throw it into the laundry, for Mom to wash.
Mom was in the bathroom, and he could hear her humming. Then, he heard the toilet flush and the sink faucet turn on then off. He could have cum now, if he wanted, while she was still in the bathroom, but there was no reason to do that. He was enjoying himself.
Soon he heard her at the bedroom door. The door was open and the hall light was on, and he saw her back-lit, in silhouette.
"Are you done?" she asked. She knew he wouldn't be embarrassed for her to see him jacking, but it was polite to ask. Sometimes, he'd say simply "Not yet," which meant she should come back in a few minutes. Or sometimes, he'd say "I'm done," which meant she should come in, sit on the bed, and visit for a few minutes before she left the room and they went to sleep. Or sometimes he'd say "Almost," which meant that she should come in and sit on the bed and be with him when he climaxed.
Lately, he'd been saying "almost," more often, nearly every night, and she wondered if he was deliberately seeking her company in that moment of intimacy. If so, she understood, and she appreciated it. She felt the same way.
Those were the best times, being with him when he climaxed. She liked to watch him stroke himself. She'd watch his fist as he moved the foreskin up and down, and she paid attention to how far he'd move his hand up the shaft and how far he'd move it down, on each stroke. She could tell when he was nearly ready to cum because the strokes would get shorter, concentrated on the edge of the cock head.
Sometimes she'd hold his free hand, and he'd squeeze it tightly when he was at the edge, at the point of no return. He'd usually close his eyes at the moment of truth, scrunching up his face and buckling his knees and opening his mouth in a wide gasp as if dying. Maybe that's why the French refer to an orgasm as the little death.
When he climaxed, his squirts of jizz were strong and powerful, as only a young man could do. Sometimes she would focus her gaze on the pee-hole as he squirted, watching the stream shoot like a cannon. She could tell how long it had been since he'd last masturbated by how big the load was, how many squirts, how long was the trail of jizz landing on the towel. If he hadn't cum since yesterday, there would be a long, thick stream. If he had masturbated that afternoon, while she was at work, there would be only a thin, short trail to see.
Often, when he told her "Almost" and she came in to sit with him, she'd tell him to slow down, to take his time. There was no need to hurry just because she was there. Sometimes, she'd give him gentle, caressing touches on his chest or maybe on his neck or nipples. Sometimes, when she knew he was ready, she'd lay out the towel on his chest. Sometimes, when he was done, she'd hand him tissues and help him clean up.
When she went to his room to say goodnight, she usually wore a thin nightgown, thin enough that her nipples could easily poke through the fabric. When she bent over to fetch tissues or to touch him, he could easily look down, into the clothing, and see her small breasts. She could follow his eyes as she offered the view and knew that he took advantage of the opportunity.
That was a bit surprising, since he had no lack of chances to see her body. They sometimes dressed together. They never closed the bathroom door and he was often there when she came out of the shower to dry off. Earlier in the summer, when there had been a drought and water shortage, he'd read a recommendation that showering with a friend would save water, so they had been good citizens and done that, for weeks. So he could see whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. All he had to do was ask. But when she offered the clandestine view of her boobs, in his bed, at nighttime, he would look.
Those times in the bathroom were different, though, weren't they? Just casual nudity, unembarrassed but no big deal, just part of life. But when he looked down her nightgown, to see her breasts as she bent over in his bedroom, that was different. Intimate. Personal.
A few weeks ago, while he was stroking, he seemed to be having trouble finishing. She decided to help, so she took down the straps of her nightgown, exposing her breast, and moved his free hand to it, his finger on her nipple. He didn't object, and instinctively began to touch and caress it. It helped his stroking, and it wasn't long till he climaxed. The simple kindness had helped him, and was an unexpected pleasure for her, too. Neither of them spoke about it, and it had seemed so natural, almost maternal, at the time. She hadn't done that since then, but decided she should.
She had told him that he should take his time and not rush when jacking off because that's what a girl would want during sex. He hadn't had sex yet, but he would soon. There would be willing coeds at college, just a month away, and they'd want long-lasting penetration. He shouldn't get his body accustomed to quick climaxes.
That's what she told him, but she also had her own reasons for wanting him to go slow, though she wasn't really aware of them. Watching him was her only sexual connection to anybody other than herself. That wasn't normal, was it? But that's what it was. There was nobody else in her life. A month from now, he'd be away in a dorm and even this one connection would be lost. She often worried. She'd need to fix her life. But how?
This evening, when she was standing at the open bedroom door and asked if he was done, he didn't say "Not yet," and he didn't say "I'm done." He said, "Almost." So she came into the room and sat down on the bed next to him, and sat quietly while he stroked himself.
Soon, he was ready to cum, so she placed the towel into position on his abdomen. He began to stroke faster and with purpose, and it was only a minute or two before he arched his back, bent his knees and shot his load, gasping for breath, and shot four good squirts of jizz onto his towel. The second squirt over-shot the towel, just a bit, and landed on his chest. Then his cock dribbled, with drops falling into his hairs. They both waited for him to calm and to breathe normally, and, as he did, he let his knees fall down to the mattress.
"That was a good one," she said.
He nodded. "Yeh," he said, quietly. He folded the towel and she handed him the box of tissues. He pulled two out of the box and cleaned his hand, then wiped his now-softening cock, still wet in crevices in the folds of the foreskin. She handed him another tissue.
She saw how crusty the towel was. It had been well used during the week or so, since she'd last washed it. "We should put this in the laundry," she said.
He nodded. "Yeh," he said. He took the towel from her, wadded it up into a ball, and carefully aimed, throwing it into the laundry basket. Nothing but net. A perfect shot.
She took his wet tissues from the bed and dropped them into the wastebasket, unconsciously appreciating the special smell of fresh jizz mixed with lube. She noticed there was still more cleaning to be done, in the hair, around the base of his nearly-soft cock. She might help him clean other places, if there were jizz on his chest or his hand, but he had to clean his cock himself. That seemed most proper, though she really didn't know why it mattered. But this little mess wasn't actually on his cock, it was in the hair at the base. So she took another tissue and picked the jizz out of the hair, absent-mindedly bumping his cock out of the way of her fingers.
Then they were quiet. Mom rested her hand on his chest and watched his cock as it completed its shrivel into complete softness. It was lying against his thigh, so he picked it up with his fingers and rearranged it into its proper home.
Then he spoke. "How am I going to do this at school?" he asked.
She didn't understand the question, so he asked again. "I'll be in a room with another guy. When am I going to be able to jack off?"
Not many boys ask their mother that question, do they? And even fewer use the words "jack off" rather than "masturbate." But she believed in using real words, not those artificial formal ones that nobody wanted to hear. She said "cock," not "penis,", and "pussy," not "vagina," nor, worse yet, "vulva." It was "jizz," not "semen," and "cumming," not "ejaculating."
He was without a father, so it was her job to help him learn to be in an adult world. She remembered her own humiliation, the first week of her freshman year of college, when one of her friends told her she had "blown" a boy. Her humiliation was that she had no idea what the girl was talking about. She had never heard of the concept of doing such a thing, much less known the word. She'd been naïve. She wouldn't let her son be humiliated like that.
