Confessions of a Motherfucker Ch. 01

I still remember that first time I fucked my mother quite fondly.

I got home a little after midnight, frustrated, carrying a heavy load of blue balls in my jeans. My date, my third date actually, with Bonnie, my current love interest had gone as planned. The movie was forgettable and my arm was still a bit achy from having it across the back of her seat for a couple of hours when we cruised for a half hour before making it to that deserted stretch of road where a line of cars marked the local "Lovers' Lane."

We necked and kissed. I got her blouse open and bra up so I could play with her tits, tiny little teacup titties that I found cute and so different from my usual interest in girls with big boobs. We even played stinkfinger for a while but when I started tugging at her panties she stopped me. No amount of my pleading could release her death grip on those damn panties so, in a bit of a huff I suppose, I drove her home, deposited her a bit earlier than usual, kissed her a quick, almost chaste good night, and headed home.

So I got home, walking in that way I suppose every college freshman with a functioning Y chromosome has done, my balls swollen and an ache deep in my belly that I associated with a prostate gland that was overstimulated.

Mom's car was in the driveway, surprising me. It was Friday night, after all, and Mom rarely made it home on Friday nights. She was young, I had come along when she was only 17 so she was 35, single, and good-looking. She usually had a date and rarely got home before Saturday morning.

But there was her car so when I walked in I called out, doing my best Wally Cleaver imitation, "Hi Mom, I'm home."

I didn't get a reply but didn't think much about it. I figured she was asleep or, more properly I suppose, passed out. So I went through to the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator.

Mom was a vodka drinker, either straight from the bottle or as a screwdriver, but she always kept beer in the refrigerator for me. It was a taste I had acquired young, back when my cousin, recently separated from the Navy, lived with us for a couple of years.

I popped the can open, always enjoying that little "pop/whoosh" sound, and took a big pull. Then I turned on the TV and grinned as professional wrestling came on. Yeah, yeah, I know it's fake, but come on. To do that stuff and NOT kill each other shows athleticism far beyond anything I ever achieved.

So I watched as Hulk Hogan, a good guy for now I was happy to note, I had always been a fan, did his signature leg drop on somebody, I can't say I remember who. Another couple of matches were equally forgettable. I guess I just wasn't into it.

I finished my beer and then went into the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth before I headed to bed.

And there was Mom, on her knees, her cheek against the porcelain of the toilet bowl, her slacks and panties around her knees, her bare ass and pussy on display. She was snoring softly and drooling a little.

It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out what had happened. She got home, alone, her car miraculously unwrecked for the bazillionth time, and came into the bathroom to pee but then got sick, too much alcohol consumed too quickly I would have bet my next month's pay from my part-time gig at the local mechanic's shop. And then she passed out.

The results of her being sick still floated in the toilet bowl and were joined by the matted end of her hair.

"Well, shit," I breathed.

It wasn't my first rodeo. When you're raised by a drunk, scenes like this are, well, not common but not uncommon either (Sorry, Mrs. O'Neil, my seventh-grade grammar teacher, but sometimes the double negative is the BEST way to express things in English).

I started at her shoes. She's a bit of a clothes horse and favored three- and sometimes four-inch pumps. These were bright red with three-inch heels that could have stabbed someone quite effectively. She had knee-high nylons on and I peeled them off too.

I flushed the toilet and between the noise and that spatter you always get, she stirred.

"Come on, Sluterella," I said, chuckling and helping her to move into a more-or-less sitting position, "let's get you cleaned up."

Suddenly her eyes got big and she rolled forward, hanging onto the bowl and throwing up noisily.

And my dick, the hair-triggered thing that any human with a Y chromosome and 18 years on his clock will recognize, got hard looking at her on all fours like that, her full plump labia with their heavy cover of black pubic hair were on display between her thighs as she retched and vomited and they peeked out and retreated with the movement of her body.

I had a moment of self-loathing but didn't look away. Instead, I pulled her hair out of the way and began rubbing her back gently.

I can't say I thought it was, you know, "sexy," but I did think it was terribly erotic, the way her body strained as her stomach emptied. Then she was down to dry heaves, nothing but thick, clear, bitter-smelling bile and saliva hanging in thick strings from her lips as her body kept retching.

By then I was so goddam hard all I could think of was how I wanted to fuck her. Hell, looking at the way her mouth was running, I wanted to kiss her. Okay, I was probably a little crazy right then, but it had been a frustrating night.

"Okay," I said when she finally wound down, "Let's try again."

When she leaned back those thick strings of whatever hanging from her mouth swung down to wet the front of her blouse.

It felt slimy and hot as I started on her buttons, and even that added to the weird eroticism of what I was doing. I unbuttoned the buttons, one at a time, and damn if I didn't get even harder.

My mother is pretty heavy-chested. Not, you know, one of those weird macromastia gals you can find on the porn sites with their 56KK bras and shit like that. But Mom's bras were a legitimate 38D and the cleavage I exposed was pale, her breasts covered with a light tracery of blue veins forming a little roadmap to her areolas and nipples.

Of course the blouse had buttons on the sleeves, and the buttons were slick from the way she had wiped at her mouth while she was being sick. I had to concentrate and work to get them unbuttoned. But I persevered, as any healthy 18-year-old would in that situation, and managed to get the blouse off of her. The bra was easier. It wasn't slick and I had some experience with the wire hooks of a woman's bra. I reached around her and unhooked the bra, dropping it to join the rest of her sodden clothes.

I stood then, smiling, taking her in, naked on her knees on the bathroom floor.

"You're beautiful," I said, and on some level I meant it. Even with the residue of the pukefest on her, dammit, she looked good.

I kicked off my shoes, peeled off my socks, peeled off my T-shirt, and unbuttoned, unzipped, and pushed down my jeans. I left my shorts on, tidy whities if you care. I never got into boxers.

I stepped to the tub, pulled the shower curtain closed, turned on the water, full hot, and pulled the diverter to get the shower going.

When I turned to her, intending to help her up, she was reaching for me in that sort of vague, waving way of the truly drunk. Finally, she managed to get her hands on the waistband of my shorts and started to tug them down.

"You can't shower dressed," she said although to write it properly it would be more like, "Ya cand showuh dreshed." She was slurring her words badly.

"Ohhhhhhh," she said, giggling, when the elastic of the waistband caught, pulling my erection down and then allowing it to jump back to full attention when the waistband cleared the end.

I froze. I suppose that in later years I could have come up with a quip to ease the sudden tension but, well, I was just one year out of high school. I might have been bright, but I was inexperienced.

She reached up, slowly. It was like she was mesmerized or something the way her eyes were locked on my throbbing cock.

I was frozen. I couldn't breathe. I stood, unmoving, throbbing, watching.

She touched it. Just a touch. Right at the frenular delta, the little triangle at the bottom of my glans, the head of my erection, that almost points to the urethra, the little peehole.

Just a touch.

And I came like a damn garden hose.

I came like I had never cum before.

Hell, I came like I never imagined a human being COULD cum.

The jet of my semen, thick and white and sticky, hit her hair and made a line across her face from above her right eye down until I finished with it hitting the hollow of her collarbone.

Her eyes were big.

A second pump of my body, evolution's way of sending my seed deep into my mate's body to find an egg to fertilize, was almost as powerful. It hit her right between the eyes, forcing her to close them, and then ran down both cheeks.

The third and fourth pumps were weaker, leaving white trails on her tits before my body was finished and in a final spasm a thick drop hung from the end of my already softening dick.

When she touched it we were both surprised, at least I was and I'm pretty sure she was, when my body managed a final spurt leaving a thick blob on the back of her finger.

"Oh, God," I moaned, dropping to my knees to be eye-to-eye with her, "Mom, I'm sorry."

And she grinned.

"Don't be," she said, and she seemed almost happy, "You just paid an old barfly a wonderful compliment."

Then she got the giggles and they were contagious. Soon we were both laughing like a couple of loons, great whoops of pure joy.

The embrace and the kiss, slick and oily with what was on her mouth, surprised me, but it was a good kiss. It was a real man-woman kiss, not a mother-son peck.

Mom and I had always had a casual, almost-but-not-quite-adult relationship. Single moms and their sons tend to get like that. When your mother's an alcoholic, well, borders get kind of blurry.

But this was new.

We finally got our laughter under control, the word "hysteria" had popped into my mind at one point, and I stood, offering my hand.

And things changed, and they sometimes do.

There I was, standing and there she was, on her knees, and there my cock was, soft now, but with one final little drop still clinging.

Our eyes met.

As I watched her move, so slowly it was almost imperceptible, about a thousand thoughts ran through my mind. One theme, as my mind bounced around, was, "She's your MOTHER!" The counter theme was, "Jesus Christ, you KNOW you want her to do it."

I caught her, my fingers working into her thick hair, and stopped her as her lips were about an inch from my dick.

"Mom," I said, and my voice was a little shaky.

She smiled then, and said, "Please."

And I was lost.

I released her hair and she finished closing the distance. She kissed it, a gentle, loving kiss.

I may have cum a matter of seconds before, but I WAS 18 and this was SUCH an intense encounter.

As she took me into her mouth, smiling with her eyes as she did, I felt myself getting hard again.

This was my first time in a woman's mouth.

Since then I've talked, as men will, you know, locker room talk, and the near-consensus is that a first blowjob is often not very good. It tends to happen when both participants are young and the girl involved is almost always inexperienced. With experience, it gets better.

Well, I was the exception that made it only a near consensus.

My first blowjob was delivered by my very expert mother. It lingered. Her tongue was warm and wet and seemed to almost wrap around me as I slowly hardened in her mouth. Her eyes never left mine, and the smile around her eyes made me smile back.

Her eyes were watering, my salty semen irritated them, and as I watched her nose started running. In that instant the thought came, full blown, to my mind.

Good sex is often messy but never dirty.

And she WAS messy.

As her nose ran the mucus lubricated my now fully erect cock, making the sensation better.

It seemed natural, almost instinctive, to run my fingers through her hair, lightly massaging her scalp. Her eyes closed for a moment in pure pleasure but then opened to meet mine again.

After my spectacular ejaculation earlier I was surprised to feel the pressure building deep in my belly. But there it was.

And the thing is, she looked so damn happy.

That educated tongue stayed busy as she fellated me and suddenly her womanscent, that deeply aphrodisiacal perfume of a woman fully aroused and receptive, the pheromones inviting her mate to take her, to impregnate her, filled the room. The sensation of her lips and tongue was special, and when her hands grabbed my ass, spread my cheeks, and a fingertip started tickling my anus, the sheer novelty of what was happening, combined with that wonderful scent took me over the top.

I came, and it was painful as my body demanded the impossible. Even at my age, twice in a few minutes was too much to expect.

And she kept sucking gently as I slowly softened, the vacuum she was applying trying to keep me hard.

She swallowed, noisily, dramatically, released me, licked her lips, smiling all the while, and stood.

"Okay," she said, grinning, "Now you can clean me up."

"Mom," I started but she shushed me with a finger to my lips as she had done a zillion times in the past.

"Clean me up, Baby," she said, "We'll talk later."

So I did. I helped retain her balance as we stepped into the tub, then made her giggle as I turned her so she was under the showerhead.

She looked so young, about my age if we're being honest here, with her hair wet and hanging down her face, that I just wanted to look at her.

I started with her face, carefully softening the crust around her nose with the wet washcloth first and then using her expensive bath soap to scrub. As I did, the years came back with the crows' feet around her eyes, the little lines at the corners of her mouth, and that little wattle forming under her chin.

I shampooed her hair, using her expensive color protective shampoo, and then did it again because the ends were still a little crusty. I finished with her conditioner, and, again, was fascinated at the way the years fell away.

Doing her body was probably more fun than it should have been, well, for me anyway. Mom's one of those women with breasts that sag dramatically, but with mammary glands that are still full so that her breasts looked almost like big oranges, or maybe small cantaloupes, hanging in a bag made of skin. Her areolas are large and very puffy, with tiny nipples centered in them. They are a light tan color and when she gets excited the areolas make wrinkled cones with those tiny nipples standing atop the cone. They're nice tits.

So I washed her neck and throat and boobs. I lifted each arm and did each hand, carefully washing each finger, and making her giggle. When I did her belly and then her pussy it was, well, sensual without becoming sexual. But it was fun, feeling that coarse pubic hair under the suds as I cleaned her carefully.

I got to my knees to do her legs and she had to grab my shoulders to keep her balance when I did her feet, one at a time, making her shriek with laughter when I did "Piggies to Market" on her toes.

I turned her and started up the backs of her legs, washing her. At her ass, a nice ass I'll mention, I parted her cheeks and got my first glimpse of the tiny rosebud of her asshole surrounded by a darkly stained circle.

I stood to finish her back, ending with a kiss on the back of her neck before turning her and handing her the soap.

"Your turn," I said.

She mirrored, more or less, what I'd done. My face, my hair, and then my body.

She lingered at my cock which promptly got hard again, making her giggle. I thought, the way she soaped it up, that she was going to masturbate me but she just cleaned me VERY thoroughly.

She did the on-her-knees thing to do my feet, and I grabbed her shoulders. Then she turned me and did my back, making me jump when she washed my asshole more thoroughly than was probably strictly necessary.

As I had done she finished with a kiss on the back of my neck and then I turned the water off.

We dried each other with much giggling and squirming, and then stood side by side to brush our teeth. I couldn't look away from the way her breasts sort of jiggled in opposition to the movement of her arms as she brushed her teeth.

Clean, dry, and breath fresh she looked up at me and held my eyes for a long five count.

Then she took a deep breath and said, "Fuck the taboo, come to bed."

We held hands as we walked into the bedroom and then split, each heading to "our" side of the bed. We flipped back the spread and sheet and I watched as she crawled in.

"Come on," she said, holding out her arms and I climbed into bed and into her arms.

The kiss was great and I got hard again, almost instantly. Our lips met, perfectly. Our noses fit side by side, perfectly. Our tongues touched and the meeting was perfect as well. Her breasts felt warm and firm and oddly soft, the areolas and nipples hard little points against me. It was a truly great kiss, a world-class kiss, the kiss against which I would measure all other kisses and against which they were found wanting.

We held that kiss, our mouths locked together, as nature took over. I moved, a natural, almost instinctive motion, to work my knees between hers and then slip inside of her, our bodies naturally lining up. It was the most natural thing in the world.

And still, we held that kiss.

It was perfect.

It was so much better than my previous three sexual partners there are no words to describe it.

It was just, well, perfect.

I couldn't help but wonder, even as I was lost in the perfect sensation, if she was feeling this too.

Let me try to explain it.

I had been with three women, well, three girls, before. The first had been an awkward thing, both of us virgins, neither of us really knowing what to do. She had been tight and wet and slick, and there had been that instant of resistance as her hymen ruptured and she had been kind of pulling away and I had been too anxious and in two quick thrusts it was over. I never went out with her again and we couldn't even talk to each other in the hallway at school.

The second was, well, there's no way to sugarcoat it. The second was the well-known class slut. She was fat and plain and made up for it by saying "yes" whenever asked. She knew more than me, of course, but then again, so did pretty much everyone. I took her home when I knew Mom wouldn't be there and we fucked on my bed. It was truly just fucking. She was sloppy and loose. Thinking back I would realize that the stretch marks on her belly and boobs showed that she had a baby at some point. It was good, of course. I drained the old dragon and that's all I really cared about.

The third was as close to real lovemaking as I had been before tonight. And thinking back, I suppose that's because she reminded me of Mom. Willa, my first-generation Swedish-American girlfriend for a while, was big and busty and blonde. Not pretty but cute in that ridiculously healthy way of some outdoorsy women. She was one of those real blondes with thick hair that left a fine, almost downy cover over her whole body. She was WAY more experienced than me, and was the first time I ever brought a girl to orgasm. But she was a free spirit and after four times with me, she moved on to someone else.

But this, what I was feeling right NOW, was so much better than either of those it wasn't in the same league. As Mom accepted me into her body, it was like each cell found its mate and embraced. Where I was inside of her, we touched EVERYWHERE. And outside, our skin touched everywhere. In the kiss, our lips touched everywhere.

I was lost, hell, I was wallowing in this perfect sensation, when she broke the kiss and pushed me away. Well, pushed me far enough to be able to focus on my eyes.