Three Sons Pt. 02

"Omigod, Mom!" he burst out.

She cast a glance at him while still keeping his cock in her mouth. Removing it, she said, "Does that feel good?"

Peter was unable to respond.

She wasn't keen on having him come in her mouth, so she stopped, got up onto her knees, whipped the nightgown off of herself, and tossed it aside. Peter's jaw dropped at what he saw. Could there be any more beautiful woman in the whole world? He suddenly remembed that famous picture by Botticelli, The Birth of Venus—except that in that painting Venus, standing on the half-shell, was attempting to cover her breasts and delta with her hands, whereas his mother was boldly displaying her wares; and Venus was a blonde, while Jenny's hair was a glossy black. But it was the pure features on the face of these two beauties, each of them expressing just a hint of melancholy, that struck him as the strongest point of resemblance.

By God, his mom was a goddess!

He tentatively reached up to touch one of her breasts, while the other hand snaked around her back to seize her bottom. This first contact with her bare flesh was thrilling, but he knew it was only the beginning. Now suddenly energized, he almost wrestled with his mother so that she was on her back. Landing on top of her, he first buried his face into those heavenly breasts, absorbing their heady aroma, kissing and licking them, and sucking on their nipples. Jenny placed a hand gently on the back of his head, feeling like a Madonna about to receive her Child into herself.

He was about to do just that when Jenny said sharply, "Peter, you need to do something first."

"Wh-what, Mom?" he stammered.

"You shouldn't go into a girl unless she's wet. That will be painful to her and to you. You need to check down there to see if I'm ready for you."

The idea of touching that sacred spot with his hand was somehow even more frightening than actually plunging his cock into her; but he extended trembling fingers down to that warm space between her legs—and sure enough, he was gratified to find that she was wet. The curiously squishy feel of a woman's sex—which he recalled from his encounters with Mrs. Stevenson—always fascinated him.

There was a silent communication between son (Are you ready, Mom?) and mother (Yes, I am, dear). So he entered her.

Even if he wasn't a real virgin, he felt like one when he forged into Jenny's pussy. The sensation was so transcendently exquisite that he became dizzy, and he fell onto his mom with the full length of his body. The feel of her large, heavy breasts against his chest was delightful, and he began plastering her with kisses all over her face and neck. And he also began pounding her, leading her to say:

"Not so hard, dear. You don't want to finish too soon."

He eased up—and found that the sensation of going slowly and gently was even more rapturous than his fast and furious pummeling. He could feel every inch of his cock going in and out of that warm, wet cavity, and he was thrilled when his mother wrapped her legs around his hips and placed a hand on his bottom. And when he kissed her on her open lips, she impishly stuck her tongue into his mouth, flicking it against his own tongue and even against his teeth.

He knew he couldn't hold out very long. Even with his slow thrusts he sensed his culmination approaching—and, with a kind of low whine, he started sending long streams of his emission deep into her, cementing a relationship with this incredible woman who had been the central fact of his whole existence since birth. She graciously received his discharge, holding him tight as he buried his face in her neck. A few tears were squeezed out of his eyes.

When he flopped off of her and onto his back next to her, he saw that she was gazing at him with tender benevolence. But she didn't seem as excited as he hoped she would be.

"Was that good, Mom?" he said, desperately seeking her assurance on the matter.

"It was very nice, dear," she said calmly.

That wasn't quite the answer he wanted. Almost resentfully he said, "You didn't come, did you?"

"No, Peter. You must know that women don't often come just from intercourse. We need other kinds of stimulation."

"I can make you come!" he cried with frantic enthusiasm.

"Okay, dear, you go ahead."

Now she was the one lying on her back like someone waiting for an operation; but she closed her eyes as she prepared for her son's ministrations. As he began fondling her sex with his fingers, feeling the thick fluid—his fluid—that was now oozing out of her, he was held in a sort of awe as he noticed the different expressions that seemed to pass over her face. First there was a slight frown as she sensed his fingers stroking her labia; then, when he moved to her clitoris, she bit her lower lip as her own juices began to flow. At times her tongue stuck out of her mouth, quivering strangely; her breath became ragged and irregular; her hands clutched the sheets spasmodically; and little cries—something like moans or the mewing of a cat—came out of her closed lips.

Peter was hypnotized by the intensity and complexity of female sexual response. Somehow he sensed that the pleasure his mother was feeling was far more all-encompassing—far more of a total experience of body, mind, and soul—than his own. And when, on a sudden inspiration, he brought up one hand and twirled the nipple of one of her breasts while continuing to fondle her pussy, Jenny's eyes popped open and she began shaking all over, letting out something close to a shriek as the waves of her orgasm began washing over her. James had told him that a man could extend a woman's climax for many minutes with careful stimulation, and he kept on fingering her. She gave him a look of dazed incomprehension, as if she couldn't believe how much ecstasy her son was providing her.

At long last, she thrust his hand away and curled up into a fetal position, tremors still racking her body. He just gazed at her, then said:

"You're so beautiful when you come, Mom."

She laughed at that between breaths.

"I mean," he was keen to clarify, "you're beautiful all the time. But especially when you come."

She rolled around and stroked his face, as she had done at the outset.

"You're a sweetheart, Peter. You'll make some lucky woman very happy someday."

This was not the end but only the beginning of their intimacy, and there followed an intense session of anal sex, followed by a still more intense session of sixty-nine. Peter had never come three times with Mrs. Stevenson, and he was almost thinking he could have kept on and done it at least once more; but his mom seemed tired after that third bout, and so he let her fall asleep next to him.

He himself didn't sleep for quite a while. He was just staring at her, with a mix of love, reverence, and desire.