A Perfect Cock Ch. 03

Jacob awoke to the sound of birds chirping outside his open window. The curtains were open, and early summer sunlight filtered through, already filling his room with warmth and dappling his sheets with liquid gold and light shadows. The smell of freshly cut grass and lounging around in summer pools was wafting in, the smells and aromas of the dawn of a new summer, away from the din of a busy college campus and the accompanying unending load of homework and studying. The smells and sights and sounds of relaxation, of time with his friends, of unloading and destressing before the cycle began anew the next semester. He could almost taste the condensation on the air, the faint mask of dew that had covered the ground over the course of a rather chilly night.

He could see, smell, hear, and taste the beginning of a stress-free, care-free summer, but his last sense brought his slowly-awakening mind into sharp focus, replaying the images of what he had seen - and more importantly, what had seen him - over and over again. Touch. The feeling of his hard, hard cock brushing against his tented sheets.

Jacob was not new to morning erections. In college, at least during his first year, they had gotten relatively annoying. It wasn't exactly considered proper etiquette to wake up next to one of your best friends sporting a raging hardon, especially if it ended up being the first thing that said friend ended up seeing in the morning. So, Jacob had taken to taking care of that erection before his roommate woke up. He'd gotten very good at it. He always woke up before his roommate, and usually had the time to jerk himself off under the covers. He had started watching his roommate's face, making sure he was still asleep while Jacob stroked his cock under the covers and came all over his stomach - or if he had planned ahead, into a receptacle for his seed. There had been something extremely erotic about it, at the time; it wasn't the fact that he had been watching his roommate, exactly. Jacob was many things, but no matter how he had experimented before, the fact remained that he was not gay - at least, not usually. It wasn't that. It was simply the idea that he might get caught, that someone else was in the room with him, unaware that he was masturbating.

So Jacob had taken to doing riskier and riskier things. He had started to forgo the covers in the mornings, and the clothes at night before he got into bed. He would lay there, naked, idly stroking his cock while staring up at the ceiling or at his roommate, Matt's, sleeping face. Often, he would lay there, buck naked, while Matt slept, and just look at his cock, pointed straight up at the ceiling. He would pull the foreskin all the way down, admiring the way his precum beaded at the head, and smear it all over, watching as it formed sticky trailed from the tip of his cock to the tip of his finger, like that famous painting - the Creation of Adam. Except this time, his finger was God and his orgasm was what he hoped to create. He really loved watching himself masturbate, and sometimes would imagine that a girl was there, just sitting next to him, fully clothed, but watching him as he stroked his dick. He would continue watching as he came, coating his abs and his stomach in his semen. That part was his favorite. He loved to watch himself come, and watching the slit at the tip of his cock spurt frothy white orgasmic juice over and over, again and again, had sometimes made him so horny that he would masturbate again, right there, using his own semen and cum as lube, gathering it from where it frosted his abs with his fingers and covering his cock with it. He even had pictures and videos of his cock, covered in his own semen, white and thick, and spurting even more in his second - or maybe even third - orgasm of the session. Watching his own cock on video never failed to make him orgasm.

When the novelty of jerking off without covers had worn off, Jacob began to get even riskier. He would prop his phone up while he came, taking videos of his own cock and hands and cum that he would play back later while he jerked off again, pretending that someone else was watching him, or send to his current girlfriend at the time. He would stand up in the narrow pathway between his and Matt's bed, jerking off scant feet from where Matt slept - and later on, where Matt's oblivious girlfriend slept with him. He would adventure and see how close he could get to Matt without him realizing that his best friend was naked and jerking off. When his own girlfriend slept over, they played games, letting her suck his cock right there in front of their sleeping roommate, or maybe quietly fuck. But those are stories for another time.

So no, Jacob was not new to the idea of morning wood. He felt his foreskin rubbing on his cock as he woke up to the faint summer breeze and the petrichor of a dwindling late spring storm. He felt the tip of his cock, the very slit at the end that opened up to deliver his cum to the world, rubbing slightly back and forth against the fine-spun sheets, and cracked his eyes open to look down at his cock; rather, where his cock was covered by tented fabric, the thin layer all that separated his body from the thin air around him. His eyes widened and he sat up.

His cock was a mess. Somehow, in the middle of the night, through dreams that eluded Jacob now, he had cum. And, seemingly, he had cum a lot - or perhaps a normal amount, just more than once. The sheets were wet and sticky, a large spot dampening the area around his cock. Where his tip was prominently bulging out of the fabric, semen bubbled out through the gaps between fibers, making what almost seemed to be a miniature fountain of cum that had amassed heavily throughout the night. There was clearer, slicker liquid within the mess as well, and a copious amount of it at that - precum, sticky and wet, the consistency of the juices of a well-aroused pussy. The air, which he had thought was fresh, had the faint scent of must in the air upon closer inspection as he sniffed.

Jacob was no stranger to a morning erection. He was, however, a stranger to wet dreams. Especially to wet dreams that made him cum over and over again, or cum this much. It wasn't like he hadn't cum while asleep before. Sometimes, his girlfriend tended to need his cock before he was ready, still asleep from the gymnastics of the night before. She would take it upon herself to suck his cock while he slept, slip it into her waiting pussy, and grind her clit on the edge of his cock and cum while he deposited his load deep inside her. Then, when he woke up, she would present her freshly-fucked, gaping pussy to his otherwise unaware face and get off again while he ate his own cum out of her pussy. He didn't mind. It wasn't the first time he tasted his own cum, and the salty, musky taste tended to go well with the wetter, sourer, sweeter taste of a woman's vaginal juices. So he would eat out his own load and swallow it along with the cum of his girlfriend while she writhed on top of him and sucked another load off his cock, tasting her own pussy off the shaft and head of his erection.

But a wet dream that made him cum, without any other stimulation? That was new. An image from his dream flashed through his head, and almost immediately, unconsciously, his still-hard cock pushed another drop of precum through his sheets, beading up and into the still-fresh pool of cum gathered there, atop his sheets.

His mother. The image from the day before, but slightly altered. Alice, his mother, stood there, watching him orgasm in the shower, separated from his naked body and hard cock by a glass wall that, in this segment of time taken from his dreams, dreams that he barely remembered, did not exist. Instead, only air separated his coming body and hard, hard cock, his straining head and swiftly masturbating hand, from her body. She stood there, watching him, mouth gaping. Saliva glistened and she swallowed as an arc of white semen, thick and gloopy and so fucking hot, crossed the gap between their bodies and hitting her in the chest. His cum landed directly where her nipple would be underneath her clothes - indeed, burned into his memory, into his dreams, into his horny masturbatory imaginings, her nipples were hard as rocks and basically breaking through the thin shirt that clung to her body. An incredible sight to see, to behold, as he came all over her shirt, which was thinner than these sheets that held his cock away from the air. His come was seeping through that shirt, and he knew that soon, it would melt away, into her shirt, into her skin.

He started to masturbate underneath the sheets as another image flashed into his head, rhythmically beating his cock up and down and squeezing it tightly between his fingers, rolling his foreskin over and over.

His mother, on her knees, his father's cock in her mouth. He couldn't see much. They were cloaked in shadows, in silhouettes, as she took his cock as far as she could, as deep into her mouth as she dared, choking and slobbering over its length. He jerked his cock as he thought about them, about how he had watched his dad face-fuck his mom right there in front of him, and how he had beat his cock as he watched them. He heard his mom choke once again as he replayed the scene in his head, heard the sounds of his father orgasming deep in her throat, heard ever last little swallow as she took her husband's - his dad's - semen all the way into her throat and down into her stomach like a good little slut, like a whore that lived for and loved semen. In his dream, his vivid, lucid replaying of the unbelievable events of last night, his mother turned slightly to the side and he saw something he hadn't seen before, or at least noticed, when he had watched it unfold in real life. The shape of his mother's nipple, clearly uncovered and unclothed, naked to his father and to him. He didn't see it, not exactly, but he saw its shape, its length, its thickness, its hardness. The way that it quivered at the tips of her full breasts as she breathed in, the way it bobbed as she swallowed load after load of his father's semen.

Cum erupted from the tip of Jacob's cock again as he relived those moments over and over, just watching the shadow of his mother's uncovered nipple. It bubbled up through the sheets, covering them anew in a fresh, musky sheen of cum that coated it and dripped downwards, widening the already massive pool of arousal and precum and cum that stained his sheets and made them cling wetly to his naked body.

When the throes of orgasm left him, he looked down at the shape of his hand and drooping cock, sliding back into its sheath of foreskin, leaving behind a trail of arousal and evidence of his orgasm. A single thought went through his head: what the fuck is happening to me?

He got up, sliding out his young naked body from the sheets. He balled them up and stuffed them into his laundry basket, telling himself that he'd wash them that night, when he came back from whatever his plans were with Chase, his high school buddy, for the day. He'd sort things out then.

Jacob cracked open his door, looked around furtively for any signs of motion. There were none. The coast was clear. Alice - his mother, he corrected himself - must be downstairs, probably helping herself to a glass of orange juice. He swung open his door, hoping to make a quick dash to the bathroom, where he could clean up and slip out of the house before anyone noticed. What he had not planned for, however, was his door to squeal like a freshly-fucked college girl and alert possibly the entire neighborhood to the fact that Jacob was awake.

A moment of silence passed; then, from downstairs, his mom's voice sounded. "Jacob?"

He cringed, cursing at himself. Stupid mistake. Always lift the door a little when you want it to be silent. He had been caught up in his rather horny trail of thoughts. "Yeah, Mom?" he answered weakly.

Her reply came quickly - suspiciously quickly. "Come down and get some breakfast." Not an abnormal request, but still - she almost never called for him in the mornings, letting him do his thing and eat when he wanted to. He just prayed that she hadn't seen him last night, didn't want to talk or confront him about the events that had transpired; both in the bathroom and later, in the darkness of an open bedroom door.

"Give me a second," he called back. "I have to use the bathroom."

--

Alice was at the dining table, drinking a glass of orange juice. She'd woken up that morning to a cold bed beside her, Richard already gone to go play golf with his business partners. Hopefully he would let them outscore him by a swing or two, puff up their ego and oil them up for the dealings that he'd hit them with while he was out there. But that left Alice by herself, in the mornings, without anything to do. She'd tried reading for a little bit, but had been too distracted. Then she'd tried to go back to sleep for a while. But she couldn't ignore the pulsing between her legs. So she'd done what she could, what she always did when she was horny with no cock around to satisfy her - regardless of who was on the other end of the shaft. She'd masturbated.

It hadn't really helped. With two fingers in her cunt, sopping wet and as horny as she'd ever been, she'd tried to fuck herself to oblivion, but simply found herself unable to. Even her rabbit vibrator, at the highest setting, had only been able to get her to orgasm after ten minutes, much longer than it usually took with her little toy. And even then, the orgasm had done nothing to allay the horny undertones that had stayed with her when she had woken up and grown with every waking moment. No, they had done nothing but make her even more horny, even more in need of a good fucking. By who, she was not yet ready to say.

So she got up instead, pussy throbbing, wet as can be, juices running down her legs, but still devoid of a fulfilling orgasm, and had gone to shower. Images flashed through her head at the sight of that glass wall, now clean. She touched the spot where her son had come again and again, right in front of her, coating that glass, and lightning jolted through her fingertips and into her pussy. Not an orgasm, simply more arousal. Subconsciously, she had been wondering, hoping, that there would be some cum left there on the wall. Her son's semen. Her little boy, now all grown up, and his seed, spurting out the little eye at the end of his cock, flying onto the wall. She had tasted it, last night, on her hands and knees. She would have done anything in that moment to keep tasting it, to stay there like the slut that she was and lick all of the residue of her son's semen off the glass.

She got on her hands and knees now, in the morning, even with the clean glass, and licked the wall again. Shameless, she thought to herself, even as she kneeled there like a bitch in heat, like a whore, like she needed her son's cock right then and there. Not far off the truth, all things told. Could she taste it there? Was that... her son's semen, or its afterimage burned into the glass? She brought a hand to her pussy, supporting herself on just her three other limbs now. There was no foreplay, no teasing of her hole or her clit. She shoved three fingers into her little opening and whimpered as she imagined her son pounding her from behind and licking his cum from his cock as he stuffed it down her throat. Her pussy exploded in orgasm, her first real orgasm of the day, at the image in her head. Wave after wave pounded into her head, shaking her from head to toe. All through it, her fingers kept pistoning in and out of her pussy, emulating a cock. She curved her fingers up slightly matching the curve of her son's -

What the fuck was happening to her?

In the past twelve, maybe twenty-four hours, everything had changed for Alice sexually. The random thought of her son masturbating when she had been on her chair, masturbating herself, yesterday. Will, the plumber, in the shower as he masturbated and came like a fountain all over her. Even more importantly, the sight of her son masturbating to her dildo. And perhaps the hottest, horniest, most incestuous of all, the taste of his cum coating her mouth as she licked it all off the glass in front of her. So much had happened, so much that should make her feel wrong, feel icky, feel like a failure of a mother that had come tasting her son's semen, licking it and playing with it in her mouth.

Instead, that single thought went through her head. What the fuck was she doing? But not in the way that she expected. Not in the way that told her that she was wrong, that what she was doing was completely abhorrent and immoral. No, the thought went through her head in one way, and one way only - why was she here, on her hands and knees, licking the dried vestiges of cum off a wall, instead of from the source?

She wanted more. She needed more. She really did. And the wrong part wasn't that she did. The wrong part was that she didn't have it already.

Alice needed a plan.

So she robed up, wearing nothing else underneath, and tightened it around her waist. She pulled her hair up into a messy bun, the way it had been last night when she had had her throat fucked raw. And she put on those glasses that she'd had last night, when she had watched her son cum in front of her. And she went downstairs, and sat down at the counter, and poured her self a glass of orange juice. And waited.

Almost an hour later, the door to Jacob's room swung open gently. She heard it, heard the squeal of its old hinges as it opened and the shameful silence that followed. She could almost imagine him there, cringing at the sound, as he tried to stalk his way, cat-like, to the bathroom and beyond.

She smiled to herself. He probably thought that if it hadn't squealed, she wouldn't have known. But she always knew when he was up, and when he left his door. She attributed it to her mother's senses.

Well then. Time to start the first phase of her plan.

"Jacob?" she called upstairs.

His voice echoed back to her, but it sounded slightly weird. Cautionary. "Yeah, Mom?"

She replied immediately, nervousness bleeding into her tone. "Come down and get some breakfast."

A heartbeat passed before he responded. She hoped he couldn't tell that anything was off - if anything was off.

"Give me a second," he called back after a moment. "I have to use the bathroom."

Images of what had happened the last time he'd used the bathroom flashed through her brain, but she suppressed them. That would come later. Alice nodded to herself, satisfied. Now she had to deal with the rest of her plan. She just hoped she was up to the task.

--

When Jacob came downstairs, he found Alice sitting exactly where he expected. In a bathrobe, at the table, with a glass of orange juice in hand. She had her hair done up in a messy bun, barely containing the blonde strands within its mass and leaving a few rogue ones framing her face. She wore thick black glasses, with large lenses that made her brown eyes seem a little bigger than they really were, open and inviting but still serious as she read something on her phone. Her robe did little to hide her figure. Large, voluptuous breasts with tight, fuzzy cloth woven over them, crossing over plunging cleavage. Tight waist with a cord cinching the robe even tighter, accentuating the disparity between her breasts and her waist. Wide hips, flowing down to her mid-thighs, where the robe left off and led into sculpted, toned thighs and dainty calves. He'd noticed these things before - he'd have to be asexual to not. But something had changed in his brain, something primal. Before, he would never have considered the woman before him hot; she was simply his mother. Now, however, things had changed, and his body ached to fuck her, pound her, even as he approached his imminent doom at her very hands.