Mom's Tits, Summer Camp, and Me

1.

The more the years pile on, the more quickly they pass. My childhood lasted a lifetime. My adolescence lasted at least half that. By age 18, I was plagued by physical changes and a long, endless horniness. I was fully involved with my cock, having learned what to do with it, aside from peeing.

I had noticed girls in my class growing and developing in mysterious ways. For ages, most of them, with their flat chests and tiny butts, might as well have been boys. Now, along with the growing wonders of my cock, came the desire to be more involved with the wondrous, curvy creatures my friends and I used to call "worthless sissies". I spent more and more time thinking about girls and pulling my pud.

Mom didn't help matters any. She might as well have been one of those girls. One day, it dawned on me that my mother had already become what the girls at school were only starting to be; a fully grown, fully developed woman.

Looking back, with the benefit of hindsight and the experiences of adulthood, mom was no beauty queen, but she had what it took to enflame my embryonic libido. At the time, she was nearing age forty, and was starting to gain the extra pounds and gray hairs that most women do when leaving their youth, but at 5 feet, 7 inches, she still had an enticing, voluptuous figure.

That is, for a mother.

Mom had beautiful, auburn hair, cut to above shoulder length, and in the style of the day, which was the late 1970's. Until then, she had managed to color out or ignore the long strands of gray that made their presence more and more noticeable as time went on.

Never did I think of her as unattractive, and she was not. I had always thought of her as my darling mother, and nothing more. One beaming smile from her full, expressive lips melted me with loving warmth. Her maternal body was always there for me to hug, a safe harbor love and shelter. Now, I started to see her through the eyes of a sexually awakening young man.

During those years, my mother would never expose herself intentionally. While she was not shy, or a prude, she always wore something demure, but nice, to bed, or she would have a luxurious bathrobe or dressing gown to cover herself in the presence of her son. Once in awhile, though, I would catch a glimpse of a bare butt or a quivering breast, usually in the bathroom or bedroom. I would always look, curious to discover the mysteries of her body. The thought of sex, or sexual exploration with my mother, never crossed my mind.

Now, I began to find myself trying, mostly in vain, to see my mother's nude body. Like a little opportunist, I began to lurk around the bathroom door whenever I heard the shower, knowing dad had already left for work, hoping the door would open before mom had fully concealed her body.

Unfortunately, our house was too modern to have old-fashioned keyholes (so perfect for spying), so whenever mom and dad's bedroom door was shut, I would press my face against the carpet at the bottom of the door, silently peering through the tiny crack underneath, trying to see what activities were taking place.

Luck came rarely. Mostly, I would see my mother drop her robe, and her bare legs pacing back and forth as she dressed. Once or twice, she dropped an article of clothing. Then I would get a quick look at her breasts dangling as she bent over to pick it up.

This would be enough, though, to make my cock swell and tingle. Many sweet mornings would be spent with my face crammed against the bottom of the door, squeezing up a mess in my underwear. One morning, my secret pastime was almost discovered.

"Neil, honey," my mother pulled me close, looking at the side of my face askance, "what happened to your face?"

That morning, I had spent an entire half-hour, face pressed against the carpet, watching mom rub lotion all over her legs and feet. My underwear still contained ample, sticky evidence of my excitement. Unfortunately, my left cheek also bore the deep imprint of the peach shag carpet in the hallway outside her bedroom door.

She furrowed her brow, rubbing the indentations on my cheek.

"Were you lying on the carpet?" she asked.

I had no cute reply and could not think of a story fast enough. I told her the truth.

"Y-y-yes," I stammered, fearful of discovery.

Mom said nothing, but rubbed my cheek gently, a quizzical expression on her face. To my relief, she did not make the connection, or so I hoped.

Several weeks passed before I could gather the courage to peek under her bedroom door again. Hearing her door shut, I waited a moment, then crept into the hallway. Silently, I pressed my face against the door crack. This time, I had ripped the cardboard backing from one of my spiral notebooks to slip between my cheek and the thick, nylon carpet. No more tell-tale imprints!

In my excitement, I tried to control my heavy breathing as I eyed mom's smooth, shapely legs and bare feet as they paced from the bed, to the closet, then to the vanity. Clothes were laid out on the bed. Then, as I had settled into a comfortable position, my hand caressing my stiff cock, something unusual happened.

Mom spread a large, candy-striped towel on the floor, the one we always took to the beach to lie on. The sight of her lovely breasts jiggling as she bent over exited me enough, but then, she went further. My mother proceeded to lie flat on the towel, right on the floor!

I almost gasped in surprise, but kept quiet, delirious with my incredible stroke of luck. The fresh information flooding my brain made me dizzy. My eyes opened as wide as possible, straining, as if I could see more by doing this.

Fearing discovery (my mother and I were now at the same eye level), I drew back from the door a fraction of an inch, but could still get a full view of my nude mother. My hand busied itself, squeezing my hardness, mystified as to what she would do next.

This was the first time I had seen and appreciated fully the magnificent entirety of her nakedness. Of course, I zeroed in on her breasts. In this position, they rested in pleasant mounds atop her chest. Her nipples were large and succulent, and her areolas glowed a reddish-pink.

My eyes slid lovingly down the length of her body. I had never seen her pussy, and still could not. She had a thick, auburn triangle of silky fur between her navel and the tops of her thighs, much thicker than the fuzz developing in my underwear. With the exception of my lovely mother, and the throbbing in my cock, I was oblivious to everything around me.

As I watched, mom began to pass her hands over her body; starting at her shoulders, passing over her breasts, which had hard tips by now, then down her stomach, past her bush, to her thighs. She repeated this motion several times, in both directions, occasionally stopping to linger on a particular spot on her body. My face glowed hotly as I began pumping my shaft, mad with curiosity as to what she would do next.

Staring toward the ceiling, with no emotion on her face, she cupped her breasts and began massaging them with a slow, deliberate motion. The soft, cushiony globes responded to her hands like two mounds of firm dough, shifting heavily with her touch. I noticed her breathing had become deep and steady, watching her chest rise and fall with a wavelike rhythm.

Slowly, mom began to concentrate on her beautiful nipples, pulling on the hard tips with each stroke of her hand. My hand squeezed harder on my cock. Soon, she began to roll each nipple in the balls of her fingers, squirming slightly, as if she was becoming uncomfortable. Her face softened, and I could sense her breaths increasing with intensity.

At first, I thought my mother had an itch in her pubic hair. Fondling a breast with one hand, she traced her fingertips down to the dark triangle. Gently, she began to rub her fingers in the soft, springy bush, up and down. As I watched, she kept rubbing and rubbing. One of her fingertips delved deep into her pubes, and I knew mom must have put it inside her pussy.

Her hand began to move in small circles, her finger still deeply embedded. Mom reacted, gasping softly through wet, parted lips, arching her back slightly. Her other hand never stopped teasing her reddened nipples. What was she doing?

As I masturbated blissfully, my young, ignorant brain suddenly lit up with revelation. THAT'S what my mother was doing! Although she didn't have a cock to play with, like me, she must have found a spot inside her pussy that felt just as good, and she was working it with a passion. With this newfound knowledge, I began jacking my way towards orgasm.

Now, every movement of my mother's body, every nuance of her face, became the most important thing in the world. I studied her activity as if my life depended on it. Biting her lip, mom masturbated more and more aggressively, grunting and moving her body like an animal.

Then, it happened. Starting with a cry, mom stifled herself by biting her forearm. Her now-wet hand blurred against her pussy as her hips bucked and writhed. Mom appeared to be having convulsions, each wave wracking her body violently, one after the other, until they finally subsided.

By now, I had to close my eyes, because my own orgasm hit like a hurricane. Forcing my face into the carpet, I fought to remain silent as my body shuddered out a sticky load into my hand. My face burned hot with passion as I nursed the final spurts of come from my surrendering cock. After a few moments, I opened my eyes only to see mom's feet scurrying away to the bathroom. Fumbling down the hallway in shock, I sequestered myself in my bedroom to wank yet again.

For a long period of time, that was the only display I had the fortune to witness. Mom didn't change her demeanor, and I assumed her little masturbatory interlude was not for my benefit. Questions remained, though. Why had she lain on the floor and not on the bed? Why did she need to masturbate anyway, when dad, by all appearances, gave her all the affection and attention he could? I would ponder these mysteries in my young mind, in the darkness of my bedroom, as I pistoned away at my tender pud.

2.

Summer, 1978 brought my birthday, a trip to summer camp, and a slight scare for the family. Mom had gone to Dr. Heywood for her periodic checkup. During her examination, the doctor found a tiny lump in one of her breasts. It was nothing, almost nothing; a "mass" Dr. Heywood called it after the tests returned, but he recommended removing it anyway. The removal, quick and sanitary, required only an overnight stay at the clinic. Today, with HMO's and crowded hospitals, the surgery would have been an outpatient procedure, easily.

In spite of the quick surgery and positive prognosis, the entire ordeal had frightened my mother, and rightfully so. Cancer ran in her family, so, in her parental wisdom, dad and I got a course on breast cancer and its early detection. Mom brought home a big, hardbound book from the library and, in the following days, I saw so many photos and diagrams of tits that I knew them better than the reddened underside of my cock. Gaping in amazement, I marveled at all of the different shapes and sizes, all of them beautiful. The moment mom disappeared, I sneaked away with the book to wank to all the black-and-white photos of bare-breasted women. To me, I might as well have found an adult magazine; an education, indeed.

During and after her recovery, mom informed me of what was going on with her body, often in detail.

"You're a man, now," she said, forthrightly, "and you should know these things."

That phrase, "you're a man", would first pop up at my birthday party, and it occurred to me that mom may have said it one time too many, with an unusual gleam in her eyes, enough to arouse my suspicion. More and more often, she would make comments about me becoming a man, growing up, and maturing. Also, I noticed mom was more relaxed in regard to covering her body. Perhaps it was due to her openness in connection to her breast surgery, and I never complained. According to her, I was practically a man. Had I arrived at the magic age of maturity?

Summer camp that year was, of course, fun and, for the first time, not incredibly forgettable. I roamed the grounds with a new-found curiosity. The fresh crop of nubile, young girls intrigued me with their developing bodies and different smells. Pathetically, for the most part, I pursued them. My rewards were few. Most of the time, I had to retreat in a spray of derisive snarls and laughter, but by the final weeks, I managed to cop a few feels of moist, virgin pussy. With the fresh musk of camp poontang on my fingers, I sniffed them vigorously like a bloodhound on speed, beaming with pride at my non-existent seduction skills. During the final week of camp, I had a face-to-face bout with the elusive Wild Pussy.

Susan, a year older than me, could have been called a slut. She could be found with a different boy every day, each one following her around camp like a docile slave. She even had an interesting relationship with one or two of the older counselors. Her father, she told me, was a trucker and drug dealer who taught her how to fuck, how to smoke, and how to cuss. She went into intimate detail about how he took her cherry on her eighteenth birthday and, afterward, they smoked marijuana. I believed her.

One night, we snuck away into the darkness to "smoke a doobie", as she called it. Under a huge oak tree, she produced what looked like a fat cigarette, rolled on both ends. Susan pulled out a stainless-steel Zippo, flicked it open, and lit the end of the doob. After drawing a noisy, searing toke, she held her breath dramatically and, looking into the darkness, passed the doob to me. Pursing my lips, both eyes on the burning cherry, I drew a mouthful of smoke. Fighting back the choking sensation, I blew the smoke out, tears running from my stinging eyes. Big fucking deal, I thought. Only later in life, after hooking up with a real doobie, did I realize we were smoking a doctored-up Winston, but, that night, it was enough to inspire romance.

She looked at me through slitty eyes and asked, "Do ya wanna fuck?"

Within moments, she had reclined against the trunk of the tree, lifting her plaid skirt up to reveal a sweet little pair of pale-blue panties with yellow Tweety-birds on them. Kneeling between her legs, I barely knew what to do, but managed to pull her panties down to her flowered socks in one smooth motion as she lifted her ass. She watched, attentively.

There before me lay a cute little patch of brown fur. Nice and thick, like mom's, I thought to myself. Immediately, I began to rub my hand over her bush. As I fondled her, Susan looked into my eyes. I could see her eyes had not softened with arousal, like the other girls, but had the sterile appearance of someone trying not to show emotion. I rubbed more aggressively. Soon, she pushed my hand away.

"C'mon," she said, impatiently, "I thought we were going to fuck."

"Sure," I replied, scared stiff. My cock was stiff, too, when I lowered my jeans to my knees.

"Mmmm," she purred, reaching out to grab my erection, "that's better."

Susan almost pulled me inside her, which was fine. I didn't exactly know the best position to enter her, but she took care of that, and I rested on top of her, our bodies pressing together. Once inside, she began thrusting up against me, unwittingly showing me how to fuck. Immediately, I began returning the thrusts and, covered with leaves and grass in the pitch darkness of the forest, we went to it like primeval animals. The walls of Susan's young pussy felt much different than my clutching, urgent hand, but it was wonderful, nonetheless. After a few moments, she spoke.

"Its okay if you come inside me," she whispered, "I won't get pregnant. I'm taking a pill."

I'm glad she knew about getting pregnant. Very glad. I knew everything there was to know about the female breast, but dad had yet to give me the proper birds and bees talk. Go figure.

In spite of my nervousness, it didn't take long before I felt the sensation of an approaching orgasm. Susan definitely knew how to apply the right pelvic thrusts to amplify the friction against my throbbing weenie.

"Ohhh," my voice quivered with ecstasy, "I think I'm coming". What a stud.

Susan was not about to be left behind. Immediately, she reached down to her moist bush, sliding her little fingers between our undulating bellies, and began rubbing that same sweet spot I saw mom rubbing months before. To my joy, her fingers also managed to rub against my wet, sliding cock. Quickly, I crested an orgasm, coming as hard as I had ever done with my own hand.

Silently, I arched my back, my face tight with agony as if someone had stabbed me between the shoulders. When I opened my eyes, I saw Susan come. Her cool demeanor dissipated, just for a moment, as her eyes rolled back into her head. Her mouth opened, and she let out a healthy moan, waking the forest. As Susan's body writhed and shook, she moaned again, only more loudly.

As we wrenched out our teenaged lust together, I realized how loud her moans had become. Looking up, I noticed a light flicker on in the counselor's cabin. Suddenly, one of the counselors appeared in the darkness, about 100 feet from our love nest. Within seconds, we had sprinted out of sight, into the brush, taking the long path back to camp.

When I returned to my bunk, I noticed the front of my pants were wet with sex. My limp little sausage still peeked from the open fly. Bill Johnson was the only boy not asleep by then and, turning to lean on his elbow in his bunk, smirked at my appearance.

"And where have you been, lover?" he whispered in that fey voice of his. I always thought Bill Johnson would have sucked my dick if I gave him half the chance, but I never got that desperate. Not that year.

The next day, I realized that Susan was off pursuing another lover. She and one of the older boys were conspicuously absent most of the day. That evening, they returned from the forest, both looking quite exhausted and dirty.

I took it hard for a day or two, but soon camp ended and there were my folks, standing near the open rear hatch of our huge Oldsmobile station wagon, the one with the Vista roof and imitation wood-grain appliques on the sides. On that beautiful, warm Sunday, my mother took me back into her loving arms. Susan could go blow a horse, I told myself, briefly nuzzling my mother's sweet mounds. I had yet to find a girl who could match my mom for love and warmth. On the brighter side, at least Susan showed me how to fuck, and for that, I would be eternally grateful. That newfound sexual knowledge would come in handy in the very near future.

3.

From the moment I returned home, my life veered onto a bizarre course. My mother, once relatively shy and demure, had been allowing me more substantial views of her nude body. Shortly before my departure for summer camp, her regular exposures had escalated into little staged shows. To my surprise and delight, she was transforming into a teasing showoff. Looking back, I'm sure she wanted me to make a move on her but, at that young age, all I could do was gape in wonder, grasping to get a clue.

That year, odd scheduling on the school's part meant that I was off to class the day after mom and dad retrieved me from camp. What I would later call "Episode 1" (in memory of all the TV crime and suspense dramas that were so popular at the time) of mom's new, improved version of tease-play, occurred the next morning, before school.

As always, I would awake to my Star Wars alarm clock, then pad into mom's bedroom to wake her, so she could prepare breakfast. By the time I took a dump and showered, mom would have a hot breakfast waiting for me. That was the deal. It was an old routine that varied little during the school season.