Magnus and His Family Ch. 03

"Of course," he said, springing up from the bed. "What should I get?"

"There's some cold cream in the bathroom."

"Cold cream? Is that what you use?"

"It seems to work best."

Chuckling to himself, Paul—also not concerned about revealing his nudity to his mother—almost ran to the bathroom, got the cold cream, and brought it back to the bed.

Imogen reached out her hand. "Let me—" she began.

"I can do it," Paul said, his eyes shining.

"You?" she said nervously. "I don't know . . ."

"Oh, come on, Mom. I can reach that area more easily than you can."

She looked up at him uncertainly, and Paul was interested to note that, for the first time in this whole episode, she was blushing.

"All right," she said, flopping over onto her stomach.

Paul unscrewed the cap of the little blue jar and scooped up a large dollop of the cold white stuff with two fingers. Not without a little trepidation, he brought the substance to his mother's bottom. At first he seemed inclined to do little more than spread it around the outside of the opening, but he then realized that some additional work was necessary, and he inserted his two fingers into her anus and made sure to coat the whole area thoroughly. She sighed and wriggled a little, and her face, although partly hidden by a pillow, became a little more crimson.

He wiped his fingers with some Kleenex, then got into position. He had, in fact, never done this before. The two women to whom he had suggested the procedure had told him in no uncertain terms where he could get off. One of them, in fact, had ordered him to leave her bed—and her dorm room—immediately. (Young women can be so easily offended sometimes.) He had expected his mother to get on all fours—the standard position for the recipient, or so he believed—but she remained lying flat. It occurred to him that he could penetrate her just as well, maybe better, this way; and so he positioned himself directly on top of her and began the process of entering her nether orifice.

He made the mistake of going in too fast, not aware that the most difficult part of the process was getting the tip of his cock into the area.

"Ow!" she said sharply. "Easy there—I'm a little out of practice."

"Sorry, Mom," Paul said, covered with embarrassment, proceeding a little more slowly.

But that initial entry had resulted in such an incredible sensation—deliciously tight, and also carrying the added stimulus of the forbidden—that he could barely hold back from plunging in as far as he could. When he had gotten in about halfway, he began pumping—gently at first, then more forcefully. Imogen's face showed a slight frown, and she bit her lip as she endured the pain of his entry: she really was out of practice and had forgotten how even a modestly sized cock caused at least some discomfort. She clutched the bedsheets with her fists and began huffing and puffing in rhythm to his thrusts.

After some minutes, Paul felt that he had entered almost the entire way, and by an obscure instinct he encircled his mother's chest and seized her breasts with both hands, their weight and texture sending him into transports of ecstasy. Imogen did nothing but lie there, helpless and passive, moaning and sighing; and Paul suddenly realized how easily and thoroughly a man could control a woman by that seven- or eight-inch appendage extending from his groin, even if that woman was his own mother. Of course, the fact that he was bigger and stronger than his partner was a factor; but it was the fact of penetration—something a woman could never manage, but could only receive—that was the overriding factor.

But what Paul was most focused on was the sheer experience of entering a woman from behind. It was so overwhelming, so indescribable, that he could only cry out incoherently when, without warning, he shot an immense quantity of his seed deep into her in what seemed an unending flow. And when he had finished, he wished to remain in her forever, fused to her and clutching those breasts as he nuzzled her neck and shoulders in an ecstasy of post-coital bliss.

Incredibly, he didn't seem to be getting much softer, and it was only with supreme reluctance that he withdrew when her mother, with just a touch of irritation in her voice, said, "Please come out of me now, Paul."

As he flopped over onto his back, an overwhelming sense of exhaustion came upon him. He was dizzy and unable to see straight, and all he could think of was these two spectacular copulations with the creature who had borne him twenty years ago. She was so much better a partner in intimacy than any of his previous bedmates that he wondered if he could ever find any interest in women of his own age again.

But he was jolted out of his reverie by another sharp remark from Imogen. "You'd better wash now—with soap."

The implications did not escape him, and he could tell what she was thinking: If you expect me to put that thing in my mouth or any other part of my body, you'd better make sure it's clean.

Not without some aches of his own, he dragged himself out of bed and trudged over to the bathroom to do his ablutions. But he came back as soon as he could, finding his mother still on her stomach, herself exhausted and spent.

"Did you like that, Mom?" he said.

"Mmmm," she replied, a faint smile on her lips.

"Did it hurt?"

"A little. It's going to take a little while for me to get used to it."

The comment thrilled Paul. This isn't going to be a one-time thing: I'm going to be able to enjoy her body, and she mine, for a long time to come.

He again swept his mother up in his arms, holding her tight. Then a sudden anxious thought shot through his mind.

"Did you come, Mom?"

She smiled pensively. "No, dear. I almost did that first time. But—"

"Omigod, Mom," he cried in self-recrimination, "I've been so selfish!"

"It's okay, dear, you don't have to worry about that."

"But I do!" he exclaimed, and at once he turned her over onto her back, slid down her body, and gazed at her moist sex.

There was a kind of awe that came over him as he got a close look at the channel out of which he had emerged into life, now wet with both her juices and his; and he also noticed his emission dripping slowly out of her anus. As he buried his face into her cleft, he absorbed the heady aroma of her sex and lapped up the fluid that was coating it. He was rewarded by a deep groan from Imogen as she stared down at the incredible sight of her son licking her pussy, and she unconsciously spread her legs wider to allow him easier access. He seized her bottom with both hands as he used lips and tongue to stimulate her, sensing that he had to reciprocate for all the pleasure she had given him. And it was with supreme satisfaction that, in a matter of minutes, she let out some telltale cries and moans that indicated her own culmination; and as he gazed reverently at her, he saw her eyes and mouth wide open and her tongue extended as her climax washed over her. She held his head firmly to her crevice as she urged him to continue the stimulus. He was happy to oblige, licking her for minutes until at last her paroxysm subsided.

Gazing up the length of her body, mouth and cheeks glistening from her juices, he could only admire what he saw.

"Oh, Mom," he exclaimed, "you're so beautiful when you—" He stopped abruptly.

"When I come?" she said, laughing. "Thank you very much."

As he slithered his way back up to rest his head on her breasts and wrap his arms around her, he said, "I'm sorry, Mom."

"Sorry for what?"

Again he looked up at her. "Sorry for being so focused on my own pleasure that I didn't care about yours. I won't let that happen again."

She tousled his hair amiably. "That's okay, dear. You did it well."

"I love to make girls come!" he cried enthusiastically.

As he nestled his head back onto her bosom, he pondered the mysteries of female sexual response. This episode with his mother made him realize a truth that had vaguely been dawning upon him ever since he had started bedding girls at college: for women, the orgasm was a lot more all-encompassing—physically, mentally, and emotionally—than it was for men. When a man comes, he's in ecstasy for about eight to ten seconds, and then he metaphorically crashes to the ground, and it's all over; but women not only can have a climax go on for many minutes, but it seems somehow to take over their bodies and minds totally—every part of them responds to it, and as a result it gains immense symbolic importance to them. How lucky it was to be a woman! Everything about them was just made for sex.

Paul wanted to have a little more action, but Imogen put a stop to that. Stumbling out of bed and slipping on the nightgown that he had tossed away, she said, "I need to get dinner started. It's getting late."

She gave his naked body a final appreciative glance before heading downstairs.

The meal—spaghetti and meat sauce, with salad and garlic bread—was hastily but lovingly prepared, and both ate with relish. Imogen seemed a little reluctant to look at Paul, but he only stared at her in unaffected love and admiration. In some strange way she no longer seemed his mother, but instead took on the role of a universal mother: a nurturer of the young but also one who had the knowledge and experience to tend to the adult male of the species also. And every now and then she did look up shyly at him, with a little smile that betokened her appreciation for his tending to her. It had been so long since she had achieved such satisfaction—but things would be different now!

And yet, for all her smiles, there was still that hint of melancholy around her eyes.