Dad Ch. 03: Matthew 13.8 - Iss 01x

"So, I have not had sex in nearly a year. And I do miss it."

Then she giggled, snuggled further down me; and, with as much joy as was possible at that moment - slowly and teasingly took my cock into her mouth, and gave it some hearty sucks as I groaned and panted with delight. She squeezed my balls, but then released me as he started to react.

"Correction! Did miss it."

And here she shed twenty years; and gripped and squeezed my cock as she kissed me hungrily.

"Please don't make me miss it anymore."

"I won't if you are a good girl - and behave yourself!" I replied sententiously.

"Ooooh Master? How good would you like me to be?" as she rolled away from me slightly, she peered at me with such a 'coy' smirk, that she appeared only 'old enough' to have been my daughter!

"Well," I said as I snuggled down and started to nibble a nipple with my lips; and gently stroke her, inside her fanny, right on her G-spot, which started her gasping and wriggling, "it's sort of like when you move like this.... ."

*

It seems that there are some things that Dad had missed in his sex education and experience that I hadn't. The most significant if these was that Mum had a very sensitive G-spot. It had helped him get her to achieve easy orgasms during penetration, but she and I found that gently stroking her G‑spot with my fingers as I gently licked or sucked her nipples, but especially her clit - could bring her through as many orgasms as she was capable of enduring (energy and sanity wise) in a set period. During one afternoon, I think she managed something like seven or eight in fifteen to twenty minutes. She was in blissful oblivion from her loss then for a couple of hours. But then when she regained consciousness, all she could do was lay in my lap sobbing in gratitude and alternatively pleading for forgiveness for what she was subjecting me to; or pleading with me not to do that to her anymore; or pleading with me to give her the oblivion again and again.

*

Days passed. I moved in with Mum, and by that, I mean moved into her bed. But, however much we made love, or fucked - whatever - in her bed, or the couch; morning, noon, or night; we were the grieving mother and son when we were out together.

In our home we were, more or less, like any couple of 'house-mates'. We divided up the jobs between us. Mum did most of the cooking and cleaning while I was at Uni; and I 'had moved back home to care for my widowed mother'. I had given up my room in the college residency, and sorrowfully let down my Uni. 'fuck friend', as gently as I could, on the grounds of releasing her from any commitment to me. (She gave me a blank look, and said 'What fucking commitment? We have sex occasionally!' I kissed her and thanked her for her understanding. She left - still looking baffled.)

I did the maintenance at home that Dad used to do; you know? Replaced fuses, and light bulbs; retuned the TV; sorted the problems on the computer. I'd always done some stuff, of course, but usually when there was 'an emergency' and Dad wasn't free to drop whatever he was doing. I now also 'did' the cars (I had 'inherited' Mum's car, as she inherited Dad's. Her car was cheaper than Dad's for a student to insure). I mowed the lawn; kept the lawnmower operating; etc.; etc.

Of course, where I told you, above, of our love making, fucking even, I didn't mention all the additional time we spent in bed, or on the couch, as I cradled her through heartrending outbursts of her grief, when his loss became too great for her to hold it in. And I know that the passionate, intensive sex that we had after many of those episodes, was her seeking to divert herself away from fixating on her loss.

A Note here, for you tipplers out there, just to put us into context: -

You have found the perfect wine, or beer, or spirit to satisfy your taste, and you have been enjoying it for years. Suddenly, that brand is withdrawn, you cannot get it anywhere.

So you search for a substitute. You are very sure that there can never be a substitute, or at least a good one. But you still search - and, in the meantime, you make do; and you live out the rest of your life disappointed. That's my Mum, but minus the searching. I - am that substitute. And, obviously, even then, I did know that.