Mom's Touch But Don't Look Policy

I had fingered lots of girls -- it was the hit game that all the cool kids were playing -- so I felt pretty good about my skills to get Mom off. I gently traced around her pussy till I found the little nub that was certain to bring her pleasure. Then I started stroking it back and forth.

I was touching my mom's clit. I was playing with her pussy. I could feel how hot and wet she was. Oh God.

As I worked Mom over, she redoubled her efforts on my dick. We mirrored each other's movements. As if steering each other with our respective sexes. Whenever Mom slowed, I did the same. If she sped up, I matched that too.

I managed to get Mom off first. Is it weird that it was one of the proudest moments of my life? I saw Mom stiffen, her face flushed, and then she let out a long, drawn out sigh.

A moment later, she brought me my own pleasure. I came hard, coating her hand and the blanket with my spend.

Both of us sank into the cushions, looking at each other playfully.

"Stuff on your hand?" I asked.

"Weirdly, yes," Mom said, "You?"

"Little bit," I said, "I don't mind it though, really."

"Oh, me neither," Mom said, "But we should still probably take care of it."

We both got up and went over to the basement bathroom. Mom went first and I followed. As I dried myself off, Mom called to me from the couch.

"You know, I think this blanket is stained?" she said.

"Oh," I said, "Well that's too bad."

"I guess we should throw it in the wash," Mom said, "But don't worry. I'm sure I can have it ready for tomorrow night's movie."

"Yes, I wouldn't want to get cold," I said, taking the comforter from Mom and stuffing it into the washing machine.

*

We established a whole new routine. In the mornings we'd wake up and go for a run. Then we'd clean up and have breakfast. We spent the middle of the day doing our own thing. I had class and Mom had Mom-stuff.

At night, we made dinner and cleaned up together. But we stopped watching movies. There didn't seem to be any point. Since we weren't really paying attention, we could have any old show on.

Every evening, we sat under the blanket on Dad's couch, and brought each other off with our hands. Each of us pretending as best we could that nothing was going on.

Now that she knew she could trust me, Mom started changing up her habits. Sometimes, I would discover she'd put lubricant on her palm beforehand. Holy crap did I cum ropes the first time she did that. Other times, she'd use her other hand on my balls, lightly cupping them while she drained them dry. She'd also change up her movements, straight up and down, or kind of a corkscrew, or running her thumb up the underside of my dick. One time, she did all those things together, and I nearly died.

I had to keep up with her inventiveness. I brought out all the tricks I knew. I played with her clit again, yes, but I'd also slip a finger inside her (the first time I did that, I actually came without Mom needing to touch me). I found that Mom usually liked a combination of two fingers in her twat while my thumb rubbed her clitoris. Her butthole, on the other hand, was a flat no-go. Still, I found lots of other ways to make things interesting. Like me, it seemed that Mom mostly liked variety.

We never discussed our evening activities with each other. Once we were both satisfied, we'd turn off the TV and go to bed. The next morning, we'd do it all again. Nothing changed. I honestly believed that nothing ever would.

*

"Have you gone all the way?" Mom asked, as if this was a totally normal mother-son conversation.

We were sitting outside in the backyard. Mom's feet were up on my lap, and I was slowly painting her toes. She'd already finished with her fingers -- going from dark purple to a cute, canary yellow.

The problem was, Mom's question actually felt perfectly normal. This weird existence we had where we were both fooling around regularly while also pretending that we weren't, meant that we could have these incongruous conversations that seemed like they should have been weird but were actually ordinary.

"No, I'm not a virgin," I said.

"Cassie?" Mom asked.

It said a lot that enough time and handjobs had passed that I didn't even flinch when Mom mentioned my ex. Honestly, the only girl I ever thought about those days was the sexy, sultry woman whose toenails I was painting.

"I had sex with Cassie, yes," I said.

"Was she any good?" Mom asked.

I eyed her. I wasn't sure if this was a trap question. You don't tell the person you're fooling around with that you had amazing sex with your ex. But then, Mom and I weren't doing that. Supposedly.

I decided to answer honestly. "It was OK," I said, "Cassie had a lot of hangups."

"Like what?" Mom asked, leaning forward as best she could with her foot in my hands.

"She was, well. She was sort of afraid of my stuff. You know what I mean?"

"Honestly, can you blame her?" Mom asked.

"She was on the pill, and we always used condoms," I said. I was surprising myself with how candid I could be. "Even with oral. I couldn't ever really enjoy my... Well, when I... You know."

How was it that I was sharing an orgasm with my mom every night, but couldn't say the word during the day?

"I understand," Mom said, "You felt like you did everything to get her off, but when she did it for you it wasn't the same."

"Yes," I said, "Exactly. One time, though, we got drunk and did it and it was like being with a different person. She totally abandoned all of her issues and it was amazing. The next morning, she was mad, though. Said it was all my fault."

"Honey, you of all people can understand," Mom said, "Considering our family history. Honestly, we all probably would have been much happier if I had a little more of your girlfriend's healthy fear of ejaculate."

"And then you wouldn't have me," I said.

"Oh, honey, that's not what I mean."

"Do you regret having me?" I asked, "Did I ruin your life?"

"No," Mom said, "You're amazing. Having a child was the best thing that ever happened to me. I just wish it could have happened when I was 28 instead of 20."

I understood. Of course I did. I nodded and went back to painting Mom's pinkie toe.

"The truth is," Mom said, "If I ever got the chance to trade -- if I could go back and be a regular mom? I would still choose you. Every time."

"Why didn't you have more kids?" I asked. I knew it was an impertinent question, but I couldn't help myself. "You said you loved having me. You're still young. Why not more?"

"Well, at the time taking care of one was enough," Mom said, "And then your father got busy with work. One day, I looked up and you were going off to college. But..."

Mom looked away, blushing.

"What?" I asked.

"Well," she said, her voice thin, "Your father and I... After you moved out, I missed having a baby around. So, we've been, you know. Trying." Mom eyed me anxiously.

"Cool," I said, "I'd love a little brother or sister."

Mom let out a large sigh of relief. Like she'd really been anxious about how I would react. Admittedly, it would be weird if I was out of college with a sibling that was barely out of diapers. But Mom was so young, it made sense that she would want to start a second chapter of the family story.

"I guess when Dad gets back, you'll be able to try again," I said. For some reason, that thought bothered me.

"I guess so," Mom said, and she gave me an empty smile.

*

The next morning, we woke up for our morning run. The days were getting hotter, and more people were out on the streets with us. The world was slowly reawakening.

We'd gotten up to five miles a day and I was starting to feel really good. It was warm enough, too, where I was able to run without a shirt. I tried to convince Mom to go with just a sports bra, but she told me she didn't feel appropriate being exposed like that.

We were at our usual pace as we turned the corner down a quiet, tree-lined street. We were doing so well, I was starting to think about pushing it, maybe up to 7 miles. Mom usually trailed me when we ran, but as we turned, she caught up to my side.

She looked down at my bare chest. For a moment, I saw her eyes go wide. Then she fell back.

"Mom?" I turned around, thinking she'd just lost her pace. Instead, I found her sprawled in the middle of the street. "Mom!"

I raced back and knelt next to her. Mom was lying on the ground. She had a light scratch on her cheek. She looked at me, her blue eyes small and scared.

"I tripped," Mom said, "I'm OK." But her body belied her calm demeanor -- lying in the fetal position on the ground.

"Can you stand?" I asked.

"Definitely," Mom said. She started to get up, but when she put weight on her left leg, she tumbled back over again.

I rushed to be next to her.

"Knee?" I asked, worried. If her knee was out, we were calling an ambulance.

"Ankle," Mom said. Ok, maybe that wasn't so bad.

Gingerly, I helped my Mom stand. She was OK on her right leg, but she held her left lamely.

"I can walk home," Mom said. She took a step, grimaced, then took another.

"I'm calling someone," I said.

"No," Mom said, "I'm fine."

I watched, grimly, as she limped down the street. We were three miles from home. There was no way she would make it.

Before she could argue, I raced up and scooped my mom into my arms. I held her up, like a baby, and started to walk us back home. Mom wasn't tiny, but she was light. I hadn't done all that upper body work planning to one day carry a woman three miles, but it seemed like a worthy reward in the moment.

We walked down the street; my mother clutched to my chest.

"Sorry," Mom said. She was clearly embarrassed by what had happened. "I guess I tripped on something."

"It's OK," I said, "I'm just glad I can be here for you."

"My little knight," Mom said, remembering her old nickname for me. "Come to save me once again."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," I said.

Three miles running is very different than three miles walking. Especially while carrying someone. We had to break a couple of times so I could rest. It had taken us less than an hour to get out but coming back to the house took more than three.

When we finally got home, both of us collapsed on the front lawn. We lay on the grass, staring up at the blue sky. The day was warm. The air smelled like honeysuckle. The world was comfortingly quiet.

"This is nice," Mom said.

"No, it's not," I said.

She reached over and grabbed my hand, squeezing it tight. "Yes, but it kinda is."

I pulled her hand to my lips and kissed it. Chivalrous to the end. For a moment, I thought Mom would yell at me for doing something affectionate where she could see it. Where everyone could. But instead, she beamed at me.

Eventually, we were able to get up and I carried Mom inside the house, up to her bedroom. Even as an adult, it felt strange being in Mom's space. Like I'd crossed an invisible barrier into my parents' private world. The room was well appointed with dark woods and a crimson comforter. It felt very mature. Quite demure.

I laid Mom down carefully on her Queen-sized bed. Then I went downstairs to the fridge and threw together a bag of ice. When I came back, Mom was lying back, head propped up by the pillows. She was still in her running outfit: tight black yoga pants and a green tank top. Her ponytail was askew, and her blonde hair stuck out in little, golden streaks.

With everything going on in the world, I really didn't want to take Mom to the hospital. Instead, I looked up what Dr. Google thought and put together a little plan. Rest and ice, mostly, while checking for swelling. I knew that if Mom couldn't put weight on the ankle, she'd be going to the doctor, but I was hoping it was just a sprain and she'd be fine.

Once I was sure my patient was OK, I went and took a shower. Then I made some breakfast and brought it up for Mom.

"Do you want to take a shower, too?" I asked, hoping for the chance to help her.

"I'm OK for now," Mom said, and I knew that I'd gone too far. Again, that was the problem with hiding our relationship under a blanket, it was impossible to truly understand the shape of it. Instead, I had to guess and, occasionally, break the boundaries by accident.

I knew I'd overstepped, so I got up off the bed.

"Let me know when you're done," I said, "I'll change out your ice bag."

"It's good to have my little knight back," Mom said.

"He never left," I replied, standing over her. Mom gave me a dubious look.

"You're the one who pulled away, Mom," I said, the bitterness creeping into my voice.

"Me? You're the one who started spending all that time with your father," Mom said, "I thought maybe you'd just, I don't know, grown out of me."

"I thought I'd done something to make you mad," I said. I sat back down on the edge of the bed.

"So, we both separated for no reason," Mom said, drawing the conclusion for both of us.

"I guess so," I said, "I'm sorry. I feel like we lost so much time together."

"I love you so much," Mom said, "I don't want to miss anything more."

I climbed over and carefully hugged Mom. She kissed my cheek, then we broke apart.

Mom slept for a while. I heard the sound of water turning on and realized she'd gotten herself into the shower, somehow. Much as I was sad to miss out on shower time with Mom, I was glad she got in there. She was starting to smell a little ripe.

Around dinner time, I put together a quick, easy meal. I brought it up to Mom in her bed. I took the other side and we sat and ate.

"This is really good," Mom said.

"It's just pasta," I said, "I guess I learned from the best."

"Clearly," Mom said.

When we were done, I cleared the plates then came back. Mom's ankle was a little swollen but there wasn't any bruising. Based on my hardcore, Internet-derived medical education, I felt pretty sure she hadn't broken or torn anything.

Once again, I decided to take a chance. "Do you want me to help you into pajamas?" I asked.

Mom shook her head at me. "I'll be fine like this." Post shower, she'd changed into a surprisingly racy outfit (for her): a pair of long shorts and a yellow tank top.

"OK," I said, "I'll see you in the morning."

"Hey Jay?" Mom called to me as I got to the door.

"What's up?"

"I'm, um, sorry that we aren't able to do our movie night," Mom said, "I know you've come to enjoy it."

"I think you're getting pleasure from it as well," I said.

"Oh, for sure," Mom said, "I love watching shows with my handsome son. But since there's no TV in here, I guess we'll have to wait until I can move around better."

"We can set up in here," I said, "I'll grab my iPad and we can watch in your bed."

"That would be lovely," Mom said, the excitement leaking into her voice, "I'd hate to break our tradition."

I went to my bedroom and grabbed my tablet. Then I climbed into bed next to my mother. We propped the screen up between us and settled in. I found another nonsense reality show about people gardening and turned it on.

Mom got under the comforter, so the covers were up to about her waist, and I did the same on the other side. On my father's side. Suddenly I became very aware of what I was doing and where I was doing it. The guilt that should have overcome me never appeared.

As the show got started, Mom snuggled against my side. She rested her head on my shoulder. Flowing, gilded locks ran down my chest.

At this point, I was usually the one to make the first move, matching the stereotype of the overeager son. But that night I wanted Mom to initiate. I know it seems obvious in retrospect, but in the moment, I wanted to be sure that Mom, in her injured state, wasn't actually interested in just watching TV. Then I felt her small hand wrap around my dick and all my questions were answered.

"Oh M... I mean, oh man. This show is really good," I said, as her lithe fingers contracted on my cock.

"Mmhm," Mom said, absently.

"I really like how it, um, feels," I said, "What it must feel like, I mean, to get all that work done."

With nothing to hold me back, I shot my hand between Mom's legs. She let out a little gasp as I brushed her panty-clad pussy.

"They should, ah, wait a bit," Mom said, "That is, um, prep everything for the garden before they get started."

"Oh," I said, moving my hand back so it was lightly stroking the material of Mom's underwear. "Yes, I can see what that would result in a better, um, project."

"Exactly," Mom said.

Usually, I wasn't this hyped up. Something about being in my parents' bed, touching Mom in her private place, had me particularly excited.

"See, now I think they should start working," Mom said, after I'd spent some time teasing at her.

I nodded. I found her clit with my fingers. She was particularly slippery that night and I wondered if some of the same thoughts that had me going were getting to her as well.

I glanced over at Mom. Her pretty face was even more beautiful in her pleasure. If anything, the fact that she was trying to keep from showing anything at all only increased how alluring she appeared. The muscles of Mom's neck were taut. Her lips thin. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

"Oh!" Mom exclaimed as I filled her pussy with my finger. "Oh, that's a nice... flower arrangement. Very nice." Her embarrassment at her exclamation was almost as sexy as the sound itself.

I think she wanted to get me the same way, so Mom redoubled her efforts on my dick. She used all her secret tricks, stroking and twisting to get me to react. I decided to mess with her a little more. What can I say? I'm still a boy.

I got Mom right on the precipice. I'd reached this wonderful, intimate point where I knew Mom's orgasm so well, that I recognized all the signs. I could tell that she was about to peak at any moment.

"Well, I think I'm going to turn in," I said.

"What?!"

"It's been a long day and I'm tired," I said.

Mom looked directly at where my hand was, under the covers. She'd never acknowledged what we were doing more than this.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice weak and thready.

"Not much else going on, right?" I said. I made a show of looking in the exact same place she was. I didn't think she was going to admit what was going on. In fact, I knew that if she ever did, it would probably be the end of things. But like any good son, I liked to see my mother squirm a little.

"Don't you want to see the finish?" Mom asked. "Of the show, I mean. I hear the climax is, um, really super good."

I pretended to think about it. "I guess you're right," I said, "Let's get this one done before we call it a night."

A moment later, Mom arched her bottom slightly, letting out a quick, sharp squeak.

"Ah!" she said, then quickly raised her free arm in the air and stretched, "I mean, ahhhhhh. So tired."

"That was a big yawn," I said.

Mom nodded. "Biggest one I've had in a while," she said, "I must be super tired."

She continued to stroke me under the sheet. A moment later, my eyes slammed shut as my orgasm overcame me. My body shook as I tried to hold it in. I was only partially successful.

"That was a pretty big yawn, too," Mom said, quickly covering for me.

"Must be contagious," I said. We shared a smile. Our foreheads rested against each other. For a moment, it seemed like Mom was about to lean forward and...

"Oh! Wouldn't you know it," Mom said, "I got that damn moisturizer on my hand again."

"What is it with you?" I asked, playful.

"You know, I honestly don't know," Mom said.

"I can get you a tissue," I said, starting to get up.

"Don't bother," Mom said, holding me back with her dry hand. "You know, my chest has been feeling sort of itchy lately, I think I'll dispose of it there."

I watched, gobsmacked, as Mom let go of my cock and slipped her hand up under her own shirt. She grabbed her breast and started rubbing it, slowly. Sensually.