Adult Nursing Relationship

"Well," I said, smiling up at her as I stopped the game I was playing (Titanfall II if it matters), "did you get laid?"

She giggled.

"No," she said, "He turned out to be a bit of a dick."

"Hmmmmm," I said, "I'm not sure I believe you."

My mother has a great smile. It lights up her face, strips about 20 years from her, and shows that slightly crooked front tooth that limits her prettiness to just that, pretty. Otherwise, she might actually be beautiful.

"Want me to prove it?" she asked.

"Always," I said.

She kissed me then, smiling, lifted her skirt pushed her panties past her hips until they could fall to her feet, and walked to me.

"Check," she said, moving so her legs were a bit more than shoulder width.

I stretched her pretty dramatically when I was born, and she dangles, pink inner lips showing no sign of semen. We have an open relationship, but I felt a wave of relief at that.

"Satisfied?" she asked.

"Of course," I said.

"Hungry?" she asked.

"Of course," I said for the second time.

I watched, captivated, as she unbuttoned her blouse, her smile that beautiful smile I know so well. Mom is a big woman, plus size is the current euphemism. She's big and buxom in the way of Jane Russell or Marilyn Monroe or Sophia Loren, those movie stars of the 1950s. Since menopause struck, she had been putting on weight and I thought she was even more beautiful than before, and she IS beautiful to me.

She sat, and, as I had pretty much every day of my life, I moved around until my head rested in the crook of her arm. Like Pavlov's famous dog, I was salivating as I watched her unhook the flap of her white nursing bra, so white I knew she added bleach with every wash. I smelled the faint laundry smell of the material, so familiar, and felt myself getting hard even as she lifted her heavy breast free and offered it to me.

She was engorged as I knew she would be. Date night without getting laid has that effect on her. The nipple she brushed across my lips was a very pale tan, centered on a very big areola, and I latched on greedily. I really was hungry and when I felt the first rush of her milk, warm and thick and sweet, I came fully erect. She was flowing freely now, brushing imaginary hairs back from my face, tickling my cheeks, humming a little lullaby.

Her breathing was speeding up as I suckled, as it always did.

"Easy, David," she said, working her finger between my lips and her breast to break my latch.

"Easy," she repeated, "you greedy boy."

She kept my head cushioned as she undid the other flap of her bra, worked her nipple and areola a little with her fingers to express the first drops, and offered it to me.

I latched on again, but not as urgently, as greedily. My belly was full. This was for our pleasure, not for basic nourishment. I felt her fingers tracing down my belly and then working their way under my shorts until she found my erection. She held it in her hand, squeezing gently, as I nursed, just as gently.

She jacked me off slowly, each stroke a soft pull. I wasn't suckling so much letting her milk flow, enjoying the perfect intimacy of being fed from her body.

She didn't finish me, and when her breast was empty she broke the latch again and gently pushed me away.

Honestly, I don't think there's anything in God's world sexier than my mother sitting back, satisfied from feeding her son, with those big tits hanging out of her nursing bra, a final drop of her milk wetting the tip of her nipple.

"Come on, Baby," she said, "bedtime."

As I did every night, I undressed her, slowly, lightly brushing the skin I exposed. I undid the buttons at her wrists and slid the lightweight, bright green blouse that set off her honey-blonde hair (yeah, yeah, we all know her regular visits to Roderick, her hairdresser so obviously gay you expected him to burst into flame at any second, kept any hint of grey out of that beautiful mane of hers) and caressed those big soft pads of fat flesh at the backs of her arms, what she calls her "arm flop," that had been growing since menopause struck.

As always, I loved the soft "mmmmmmm" she hummed when I did that.

I undid the six hooks at the back of her bra. She's a big woman with big boobs and she needs big support.

I ran the palms of my hand down her back, the incipient rolls of her weight gain so damn lovely I could never undress her without caressing them.

From behind I reached around and cupped her belly, like her back she had the embryonic roll of belly fat that I suspected someday would give her a truly fat woman's natural modesty of a belly apron, and squeezed and jiggled it, making her giggle and say, "Don't play with my fat," another part of our nightly ritual.

I pressed myself against her ass, big and soft, a true bubble butt.

"Watch it, buster," she said for, by my actual count, the bazillionth time.

"You know you're going to say 'yes' someday," I said.

"But not today," she said, turning and kissing me.

"Now come to bed, honey," she added crawling into bed, giving me an interesting flash of her big ass and smooth labia, shiny with her excitement.

I peeled off my T-shirt, pushed down my shorts, and crawled in with her.

My fingertip found her clitoris as she took my erection into her hand.

We kissed, and whispered "I love you" to each other, mixed in with occasional "ooooh" and "Yes, like that."

She came first, as she always does, her thick nectar, that product of the mucus membranes that line her vagina along with the Bartholin's and Skene's glands deeper inside, covered my hand with that hot, thick, sticky honey.

Her own need met, she finished me quickly. My ejaculation was good, as it always is with her. She knows all of my tells and can play me like a piano.

"Mom," I said, softly, kissing her as we both basked in the afterglow, "why won't you let me?"

"You know, honey," she said, smiling a gentle smile, brushing more imaginary hairs from my face.

"I know about taboos," I said, Hell, I was a 25-year-old sophomore in college, thinking about going pre-med but not serious enough to commit. I knew about a lot of things. "And I know they're stupid. I know about recessives and all of that, and I know we can check and test and make sure there's no problem. But dammit, Mom," and I lightly traced the scar low on her belly, the Caesarian Section scar that had saved both of our lives when I was born but also ensured that I would be an only child, "none of that matters for us."

She was smiling, and tears were flowing from her eyes, her nose was running as she cried.

"I know, Honey," she said, her voice steady in spite of the tears, "but we're of different generations," she giggled and added, "literally. That's a bridge I'm just not ready to cross."

"It wouldn't be fucking," I said, "it would be an expression of my love for you."

"I know, Davey," she said, "but for now the answer is 'no.'"

I sighed, kissed her, kissing away her tears and the slickness of her lips from her runny nose, and touched between her legs.

"Another, before sleep?" I asked, touching the hard button of her clitoris.

"God, I love you," she said, parting her legs in invitation.

I masturbated her slowly, covering her face with kisses, tasting salty sweat and mucus as I did it, watching her face and telling her I love her.

Since I wasn't part of this, and I was disappointed, I tormented her. I took her to the edge, slowly, enjoying the way her body responded to my fingertip. I liked the feeling of her thick wetness on my hand.

Mostly, I loved watching the changes in her face as her need built but I didn't finish her. Her mouth was wide open, her eyes were shut so tightly that her forehead showed four distinct wrinkle lines. Right above her nose, four more lines made her look kind of like a Klingon from Star Trek, specifically Worf.

"Please," she said softly, squirming.

"Say 'yes,'" I said.

"I can't," she breathed through gasps.

So I held her there, right on the edge, her body squirming, begging for release.

"Say 'yes,'" I said again.

"Daveyyyyyyyyy," she wailed, "I can't."

I held her there, her hips thrusting, bucking, making the bed shake. She was sweating now, from excitement and exertion, and my hand was soaked with her excitement. Her womanscent was so thick in the air I wanted to bottle it and figured I could make a fortune.

"Say 'someday,'" I said.

"SOMEDAY!!!!!!!," she yelled.

And I finished her.

The power of her orgasm, delayed as it had been, almost levitated her.

"Someday," she whispered, pulling me into an embrace and covering my face with kisses.

"Someday," she repeated, snuggling against me.

"Someday," she said a third time, so softly it was almost inaudible.

"Someday," I said, kissing the top of her head and pulling the covers up, making us a nice warm den.

"Someday," I said, very softly.

Her reply was a soft snore.

"I love you, Mom," I whispered.

[Author's note: This is a tough one for me. In a way, I think the story is complete. In another way, almost as clear to me, I think there's a lot more to be seen about David's relationship with his mother. And her relationship with him for that matter. So, I'm asking for your comments, Gentle Reader. Would you like to see more, or is this enough? Thanks for your interest and your support, especially the almost 900 of you who follow me. I appreciate it and I would really appreciate feedback on this story.