Mommy Therapist

"I was lying, Jennifer! I lied!"

Mom let go of my balls at last, but the pain of the quintuple puncture wounds lingered afterward, both at ground zero, and radioactively everywhere else.

"I appreciate your honesty, Jake. Go ahead and take your pants off and sit back down."

I blinked at her. Were we really doing this? Again? It didn't always escalate to this. I mean, lately it always did. But it didn't used to. For a moment I even recalled a time when it never happened, hadn't happened, wouldn't dream of happening. That poor, blissfully ignorant kid.

"Come on," she sighed. "Chop-chop."

I undid my belt buckle. I unzipped my fly. Undressing in front of your mother never stops being weird, by the way. There is a deep, genetic wrongness that you do not get used to. I unbuttoned my pants and tugged them down. I knew to bring the briefs down with them. My mom didn't waste time with such particulars. When it was pants-off time, it was pants-off time. It was show-me-your-dick time. Oh, I'm sorry, does it sound weird when I put it like that? Like I said, you do not get used to it.

My cock sprang loose from the elastic of my underwear as I stooped over and dropped my trousers to my ankles. I stepped out of them. I stood in just socks and a shirt. I knew never to wear shoes to sessions. At first it had seemed like a nice rule, no shoes in the office. Kind of Japanese or something. Now it meant nothing to me.

Mom looked me up and down. She paused at my cock. Like a cartoon wolf about to feast on a leg of ham, my own topless mom licked her lips staring at my cock. I have to admit, of course, I have a good cock. It's a little on the big side, a little on the long side, and veiny but not, like, varicose. The head is a bright pinkish purple, very youthful I suppose, I don't really know, and the rest is a fleshy pink. My brother and I are both cut. He shaves his shit bald, I just kind of trim 'n' tidy. Mom asks only that I keep myself clean, and otherwise doesn't mind that I'm a little fuzzy.

Oh, and although we're identical twins, his cock is fatter than mine, and not quite as long. What? So I'm talking about my brother's cock. It's not like I've literally measured its circumference against mine. I just know how big-around it is. Whatever. We're twins. We look at each other's cocks. Get off my case.

"I appreciate you, you know," Mom said all of a sudden.

"Thanks?" I tried.

"Thanks Jennifer."

"Thanks, Jennifer," I mumbled. "I appreciate you, too."

"Do you, though?" she asked, affecting unsatisfied professional curiosity again.

"I really do, Jen."

"Do you really appreciate me, Jake?"

"I super appreciate you, Jen."

"Aww," she cooed. "You're going to make me blush, Jake."

"Hey Jen," I tried.

"Hm?" She really did seem to be leaning into this.

"You know what I really like to do with my mom?"

"What's that, Jake?"

"I really, really like to touch my cock in front of her."

"Oh, no, really?" she pretended, once again, to sound dismayed.

"Yep. I like to jerk off right there in front of her, Jen, so she can watch."

As I started pumping my fist up and down the length of my erection, I could see her eyes smoothly trailing the motion.

"And she just lets you, hm?"

I wasn't sure what to say to this one. Mom had made it sort of clear that, today anyway, she did not like being implicated in my stories about what we were doing. I continued to masturbate as I tried to figure out what to say. It was a little terrifying, watching her staring at my cock, hoping the site of her son's fully engorged member was enough to keep her awful gaze from suddenly shooting back up at me.

"Jake, I'm concerned," she said seriously, but without looking up from my dick. "I'm worried it sounds like you are on the verge of... doing something that you will regret. Possibly even for the rest of your life."

She looked up at me, now. I kept masturbating, hoping she'd look back down. She locked eyes with me.

"Well, Jen," I began. I was feeling terrified. I was acting brave. "That brings me to the next thing I like to do with my mom."

"Oh no," she brought a hand to her mouth as if in horror. "Don't tell me two have already--?"

"I don't just jerk off in front of her, Jen. I jerk off onto her. I cum all over her. Her tits. On her face. Sometimes it even gets in her mouth."

This was true. That had been a mixed bag of an experience. She'd seemed so into it, so thoroughly flushed with excitement, and had even helped the last few strokes, had aimed the last spurt toward her waiting face, her open mouth. But then when I had sprayed my cum onto her teeth and tongue she had spat it out in disgust, wiped her tongue and teeth on my shirt, and called me a pig.

She'd slapped me so hard I cried. I didn't know I could be slapped so hard I'd cry. Like I said, it wasn't always the pain, it was what it did to the brain.

And now here I was, recounting that duplicitous cum-shot. I was very aware of how bottomless I was in this moment. I felt like I'd just leaped off a cliff blindfolded. Below there was either water or razor-sharp rocks. I guess I'd find out when I got there.

Mom stared at me, incalculable. I could see her face, of course, but there was no meaning there. The absence of a legible other standing there unnerved me. I broke eye contact.

And hey. Her bare tits were a welcome distraction. My mom had soft, round tits. Granted, they weren't the pert, gravity-defying tits of a girl my age. But they were soft and round and tasted like the smell she wore. And that smell could drive me absolutely bananas.

Standing there, pumping my cock, staring at my mom's soft round tits and erect nipples, I found myself suddenly eager to be sucking them. I could see the texture of each nipple. I could smell the flavor. In fact, I found myself suddenly dangerously close to orgasm. I slowed my pace.

To be clear, Mom didn't like it when I came without permission. Her punishment, taking full advantage of that clear-headed, un-horny refractory period in the minutes just after climax, could be downright unspeakable. If you thought getting undressed was the worst part of being raped by your mom, or getting slapped into submission, or having her stab her fingernails into your nuts? Way out beyond the unmapped borders of all that piddly shit, in the shameful, flaccid void of post-incestuous regret, lurks a monstrous cosmic trauma orders of magnitude more severe than any that precede it, should the abuser be so heinous as to dare. I'm certainly not about to recall the details of what Mom has done to me, here. Use your imagination, asshole. It's legitimately fucked up.

"Jake, if I'm hearing you correctly," Mom started, and she began slowly sauntering toward me. Her sexy, topless lady walk was a good sign! It meant I very likely hadn't fucked up. I was probably falling into water, not rocks. Like, eighty-percent chance of survival.

"If I'm hearing you correctly," she said again as she sidled up next to me, pressed her breasts against my arm, and began speaking breathily, steamily, into my ear, "it sounds like you need to cum for me, baby."

"Jennifer," I cleared my throat nervously, tilted my head so she could have better access to my neck like I knew she wanted, "you always know just what to say."

Mom started giving me a hickey.

She loved giving me hickeys. At first it had been a simple selfish joy for her. But she soon realized, and relished in, that it gave me something to have to explain to my twin brother or our little sister if they happened to spot it. And they always spotted it. Mom especially enjoyed prohibiting me from growing my hair out, wearing turtlenecks, or donning scarves indoors. And my siblings knew I didn't have a girlfriend or boyfriend. I was not a gifted liar. If they teased me about the marks, I lied and said Leggings was getting frisky. This seemed to work, unfortunately, and led to them only helping to encourage and bolster Leggings' enthusiasm for me in small but grating, and ultimately effective, ways.

But then maybe, you know what? Maybe the Leggings cover story didn't work? Maybe my brother and sister only pretended to be fooled because that was easier for them than acknowledging what was really going on. Maybe that our mother raped me on a twice-weekly basis was an open secret? And maybe they did what I did, and compartmentalized it. After all, when I wasn't maddeningly horny from whatever amped-up, incest pheromone concoction Mom wore in our sessions, I was more than happy not to think about it.

In fact, I considered this the likeliest scenario. And so, to minimize contact with my siblings and spare them the reminder of just how much was wrong, I hid. I sequestered. I moved in short, economical vectors from home to school and back again. My "social life" was comprised of the aforementioned clients who came and went from my mother's office. These folks didn't know me, didn't care about me, never asked about the big red bitemarks on my neck. Except for Leggings. And her I could lie to.

Suddenly Mom wrapped her cold, dry, soft fingers around my hot, precum-slick cock with both hands. She had dropped to her knees beside me while I was distracted. She tugged at me to round and face her. She lapped, flat-tongue, up the full underside of my cock. She smacked her lips afterwards. She looked up at me.

"Okay, Jake. Do you like shoving your cock down your mom's throat?" She still sounded exactly, eerily, like a concerned mental health clinician.

"Y-yes?" I wasn't quite sure. Was this a trap?

"That's awful," she sighed. She planted a big, wet, noisy kiss on the head of my cock. Then she stayed there, lips stuck to my cock.

She stuck her tongue out and licked up and down over the entrance to my urethra--a sensation I didn't know I'd like until there it was. She grasped at the base of my cock with one hand, wrapped her fist around my cock with the other, and rolled her head in a slow, crackling half-circle. She was gearing up.

"Jake, honey," she said, suddenly Mom again. This was a favorite torture tactic of hers. This was an infinitely renewable source of pain for me. My cock was confused, badly, in her hands, still wet with spit. Something in me I thought was already broken, broke. I stayed hard. I stayed stuck in my mother's fists.

"I love you, sweetie."

"Um--"

She kissed my cock again, tenderly this time. Her hands on my cock caressed me.

"I--I love you, too--oh shiiiit!"

Mom shoved me into her. My cock slipped over her tongue, up against the roof of her mouth, her soft palate, past her uvula, down and back into her throat. Though it was fast, urgent even, how she swallowed me up, I felt the whole strange passage in time lapse. My cock bent a little bit to fit into her throat, but the stuff bending me was all hot and muscly. Then she pulled me back out, held me there, piss-hole to lips, while she swallowed a massive influx of spit and steeled herself for another esophogeal ramrodding.

A troubling thought suddenly occurred to me. I was not supposed to cum without her permission. This was known. And yet her permission-giving apparatus was going to be, if we stuck to what seemed to be the current plan, fully stuffed with cock.

"Mmmfhphh," she hummed as she noisily sucked the length of me in and out of her mouth. I reeled. Jennifer, my therapist, was taking my entire cock into her head, into her throat. Most of the time she was careful not to scrape me with her teeth, but to be honest, I kind of didn't mind the occasional reminder that this was indeed a beautiful woman's human mouth.

But then her voice would vibrate through my cock just so, and I'd be reminded of times my mother sang to me through a pillow, her voice muffled as she half-smothered me half-lulled me to sleep.

Mom's cheeks collapsed in, re-inflated, collapsed again. Her jaw came seemingly unhinged. She'd take me so far in her nose would mash up against my pubic bone. Nosy rub-rubs?

I reflexively lowered a hand toward her head, then thought better of it. She noticed. She grabbed my hand by the wrist and brought it to her ponytail.

"Mmff," she said. She shook my wrist to indicate she wanted me to grab on. I did. I grabbed my mom's head by the ponytail with one hand, the top of her head with the other, and pushed and pulled her head onto and off of and back onto my cock. She let me do this so fast it caused bubbly, gagging little conflicts in her throat. I dissociated a bit. I watched my mother's face. I watched my mother's breasts.

Mom moaned with genuine, narcissistic pride at this. Her throatful of cock might have looked tragically submissive to an uninformed onlooker. But I knew better. This was a wild power play on my mom's part. She had asserted her unquestionable hotness on the one person least willing to concede the point. Look on my body and despair, she was saying to the universe. Look how hot I am. My own son is skull-fucking me.

"Jen--you know what--ohhh, wait, wait, keep doing that," I stammered. She was holding me in her throat and, like, swallowing or something. She was making such strange, ugly, glorious noises on me. I was going to cum. Uh-oh. Uh-oh?

Suddenly I was a little bit dizzy. You don't often actually cum standing up if you think about it. Your legs enjoy being part of the whole orgasm process, you know? And so, as that twirly thing your mom does with her tongue around the head of your cock sends cereal-commercial whorls of cinnamon sugar swirls whooshing up through your body and into your inner child's happy place, your stupid boring grown-up knees in the meantime have this funny habit of wanting to check the fuck out. I about collapsed with my mom's cock still in her teeth. But as you can tell by the fact that I lived to tell the tale, I didn't.

"Hey Jen," I gasped. I sort of stopped my pushing and pulling motion, but she kept going in and out on her own. The ruse was for the moment broken. Mom was plainly having fun.

"Jennifer." I gave her ponytail a gentlemanly tug.

"MOM," I bopped her urgently on the top of the head.

And then I burst. At precisely that same moment, Mom pulled me out of her throat. I wound up cumming straight into the cold, air-conditioned void. All over my pants and underwear, as it were. And onto the floor of her office.

Mom stood up, straightened her skirt, and pushed me over. I teetered backwards breathlessly onto the loveseat, my brain still sort of down inside my cock, reeling and blinking and hearing cuckoo birds. She turned and bent to grab her shirt off the floor. I had, thank God, not ejaculated onto it. She slipped back into it. She crossed the room, toward her office door, and unlocked it.

"Clean up," she said, exited, and left the door open behind her.