Waking to a Burn

I saw the irony of it--the juxtaposition of her meaning and my desires--but there was nothing that could stop the blaring alarm in my body, urgently demanding another sexual release.

Mom said, "Do you see it? The problem I've created? These feelings should not be directed at your own mo--." She stopped, and her eyes were wide with anxiety as she stared at my penis.

I glanced at it. The fat knob was practically leaping at her face. The taut skin over the entire length shined.

"Oh, no," she murmured. Pushing on the mattress, she rolled onto her side with a wince, facing me but inching away.

Her breasts reared into view. My eyes fastened upon them. Plump. Full. Each more than a handful, but not much. The higher one sloughed upon the lower, creating about eight inches of spectacular, soft cleavage. Almost as tan as the rest of Mom's front, they were crowned with pink areolae the size of mason jar lids. The nipples were short and wide, flat-topped, each with a puckered indentation in the center not unlike two miniature versions of her anus.

My hand reached out for them. Mom caught my wrist and held it. "Sugar, no. Don't you see it? This is exactly what I've been talking about."

"I only want to feel them--just for a second." I scooted toward her, and she covered her nipples with her forearm.

"No. I can't let you. I can't be your partner in that way anymore."

I gently twisted my wrist free.

"Be a gentleman now," she cautioned.

I moved closer to her. "Let me see them. Please, Mom."

"Sugar," she chided, putting a hand on my chest to ward off any further advance.

I changed tactics. "So, you enjoyed it when I mated with you, but fifteen minutes later, you won't let me see your breasts?"

"Sugar--!" she argued. Then she rolled her eyes sheepishly and moved her arm. "There. Now you can see them."

I gazed, and within seconds I reached for them.

"'See,'" she complained. "You said, 'See,' not 'touch.'"

I stopped. Clearing my throat, I asked, "May I please touch your breasts--briefly."

She eyed me warily before saying, "Thank you for asking like a gentleman, but you may not." Then, she moved to cover them up with her forearm.

"Mom, wait. Wait! Look--look at my erection."

Hesitating, she sighed and glanced at it. I scooted up the bed to give her a better view.

"Tell me what you see," I said.

Mom stared at it for several seconds. She said, "I see your penis, and it is large and very erect."

"How hard is it?"

Without thinking, she grabbed it. "Oh!" Her eyes darted to mine in surprise. "Oh, dearie, it's very hard."

I nodded. "Because of you," I said. "He wants you."

"He does?"

I almost burst into laughter at the innocence in Mom's voice and how she didn't hesitate to adopt my pronoun. Meanwhile, Mom reached for "him" again. Her fingers wrapped around the shaft, gently gauging its rigidity and girth.

"So, you can touch my penis," I gently pointed out, "but I can't touch your breasts?"

She let go. Looking at me with that same guilelessness, she said, "You tricked me."

I shook my head. "I'm being a gentleman."

She smiled shyly and nodded, moving her arms out of my way.

I moved closer to her and cupped the upper one, gathering its mass and hefting it. I ran my finger lightly over the flesh all around it before finishing with a gentle pinch of her nipple. Then, I slid my thumb into the cleavage. There was so much soft warmth there between them. And weight. Her breasts gripped my thumb firmly. I rocked the digit back and forth, feeling it slide effortlessly across the flawlessly smooth skin.

Our eyes met while my thumb undulated in her cleavage. Neither of us spoke, but something was communicated. I felt it.

I leaned to her face and whispered in her ear, telling her my intentions. She responded with the faintest whimper of assent.

Scooting further up the bed, I watched Mom's head bent down to observe the approach of my penis. When I settled, the knob poked the underside of her breasts, and Mom gasped airily. Her fingers alighted on the shaft, and she guided the tip into her cleavage.

I swept my finger through her thick curls, arming my hips for a thrust. Mom bent to my tummy and planted a soft kiss there before drawing back and staring expectantly at the top of her breasts.

I drove my erection through. When the tip parted her cleavage, Mom bent down and kissed the tip. I drew back and thrust again, grasping at this new, wonderful sensation.

"So good, Mom."

"You like it, sugar?"

"Yes."

"I like how warm and firm he is."

I plowed through again. And again.

I didn't know what to think. I had been exposed to so many varieties of sex so quickly that it was difficult to keep it all in perspective. I knew I really, really liked having my penis between Mom's breasts. I also knew my favorite place to mate with her was definitely her special secret. Being in her vagina was an uncannily perfect sensation, and it had the amazing benefit of giving Mom utmost pleasure, too. In fairness, I could only compare what I was doing to oral and anal sex.

As my satisfaction grew to feverish levels, I decided each of the other ways of mating--breasts, mouth, and anus--had its place, and what I wanted depended on the setting and mood. At that moment, I needed her breasts. I needed to possess them with my erection. The motherhood and love they represented soothed me and thrilled me.

"Mom--," I grunted.

Her face rose to mine. "Sugar?"

"I'm--. I'm--." I couldn't finish.

"Just let it go."

I grunted again, and Mom bent down to see. I was ejaculating.

"Oh!" she gasped. "Oh, sweet potato--!"

The contractions were shockingly crisp, as if my testicles were siphoning up the last of what they had produced and pitching it up the shaft with reckless strength.

"Oh, Maureen!" Mom exclaimed, "Dearie, there's more!?"

I growled as the convulsions dwindled.

"Oh," she moaned.

Matters ended, and I let out a long, low growl of satisfaction.

Mom turned to me. "Sugar!" she whined.

The knob of my penis, covered in a thin pool of semen, poked through the gap of Mom's cleavage. The tops of her breasts were lightly speckled with droplets and runs. But her face--.

"Mom," I said, and a burst of laughter escaped me before I could cut it off. "Oh, gosh. I'm sorry."

From her nose to her chin was a maze of sperm. Lines crisscrossed her cheeks and chin. Her mouth hung open, and stretched between her lips were two-three-four threads of the sticky fluid. A fat blob oozed along the side of her nose making its way to her mouth.

She looked so youthful with that astonished expression. She could have been eighteen. I could have been my pop.

Mom remained there, frozen. She either couldn't move or she didn't want to move. She made little shocked gasps every few seconds as if she were waiting for me to help her.

I did. "Wait there," I said, sliding my penis from her breasts and climbing out of bed. I ran to the shower and grabbed a washcloth. It took several seconds for the sink to begin putting out warm water. Soaking the cloth and wringing it out, I went back to the bed.

She had unfrozen herself. Now, I was the one no longer moving. I was beside her, holding the washcloth out to her, staring down.

Mom fed my semen to herself. She dragged her index finger along the various pools and lines, and then she sucked her finger clean.

She didn't delight in it. She didn't coo to me how sweet it was. Rather, she cleaned her face like she'd done it before, as if it was, quite simply, how this sort of situation was handled.

Once, pulling her finger from her lips with a smack, she declared, "Well, sugar, this is just obscene." Then, she wiped the sperm from her breasts and scrutinized the dollop on her finger. "Mercy! I have never had so much semen--!" Mom saw the washcloth. "Hand me that?"

I gave it to her. She wiped her breasts and face, and while she cleaned her neck, she glanced at my penis. I looked down. The flagging knob remained coated.

"Come here," she said.

I climbed on the bed on my knees. Mom raised the shaft and covered the tip with her lips, sucking it clean. When she pulled off with a sigh, she said, "Well, that was almost a full meal! I may not need anything more until lunch." She winked and grinned.

Then, rolling onto her tummy and laying flat, she closed her eyes and told me she needed to rest.

***

"Sugar, it's time for us to get serious about what's been happening between us," Mom declared, laying on her side in bed the next day after school.

"Everything is fine," I countered. "Can't we just--?"

"No, it isn't fine, and last time I tried to have this conversation, you got carried away by my breasts. I allowed it then. I won't now. Please sit."

"I'll just get the gel cream and--."

"No. Sit."

It was Monday afternoon. What skin was going to peel had done so. Mom was no longer miserable, and she really only needed me to put regular healing lotion on her back to keep it moist, which I did in the morning before school. No more gel cream. If she went through the itching agony of her burned anus on Sunday evening, she never woke me to complain about it or to seek help.

I missed her, and I wanted her desperately. At school, I spent the day engrossed in dreams about the things we would do together when I got home.

I drew her make-up chair from the vanity and set it up across from her bed. I plopped into it like the petulant teenager I was.

Why, I wondered, was I no longer asserting myself? Why was I doing as she asked? A part of me had an idea but couldn't articulate it.

"Sugar, please don't do me the disrespect of sitting there like a surly brat. Sit up like a gentleman and listen."

Chagrinned, I straighten my back and shoulders.

"Do you remember the story I told you about your father on Sunday morning?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Good. Do you see how what happened after I told your father's story is a perfect example of the lesson it teaches?"

"Sort of."

"No 'sort of.' You do or you don't. Which is it?"

"Yes."

"Explain it to me, then."

I sighed. "Pop's story was about how when a fella mates with a lady for the first time, things deep down come to life--instincts and hormones. And one of the things that happens is he wants to have more--he wants to mate more with his woman. So, when you were telling me and I got an erection and we--we mated--it shows how what Pop said is true."

Mom blinked. "Well, that was--I couldn't have said it better. Thank you."

"But it wasn't just me," I argued. "You wanted it, too."

"I--I may have--then. But, no more."

"Why not?"

"Because I am your mother, sugar. The feelings you're going through must not be for me. They're designed for some young lady out there you'll meet someday, one you will cherish above all others. It was a terrible mistake for your own mother to trigger those instincts, and I apologize to you."

I shifted uncomfortably. "I liked it."

"Because coupling is enjoyable. I know it is."

"But--."

"Look," she said, "one thing I will never do--never--is take you for a husband and partner. Put that out of your head. The laws of heaven and earth forbid it, and for good reason. We must and shall resume a normal mother-son relationship."

I knew she was right, but I was eighteen, and I loved my Mom. I enjoyed getting to know her better in that way, awful to others though it might seem. It was a deeper understanding of the woman underneath that mask of motherhood, and in a strange way, I felt like the things we did together helped me to better know my pop.

I didn't say any of those things. The ideas were vague. The words to put to them eluded me. I only felt the truth of them in my gut.

"Would you deprive your mother of her son's wedding?" she asked. "Of introducing a new young lady into our family? Would you rob me the joy of holding grandbabies in my arms?"

"No," I said, feeling a pang of guilt.

Mom perked up when she heard that word. "Thank you, sugar. That means a lot." Silence followed this utterance. We glanced at one another, but our eyes never met and held. Finally, Mom said, "If there's anything to be salvaged from what's occurred between us, then let it be like a lesson in love and coupling. Goodness knows I failed you miserably on that subject--until now. Let's remember what transpired between us as a very special time and a secret matter between a mother and son. I showed you how a woman pleases a man, and you learned how to please a woman."

"Okay."

"Can you live with that?"

"I think so."

"I believe I can, too."

I nodded, finally able to look at her.

"One more thing," she said, "before our conversation ends?"

I waited for it.

"And please do be calm and patient as I speak."

I shrugged and nodded.

"Jealousy," she said, "is bound up in all of this--for both of us, perhaps. I'm not quite sure." Mom pushed herself to a sitting position. The baby blue sheets fell away, but a light pink bathrobe covered her body. Touching her chest, she declared, "I'm not interested in finding another husband. Not now. Likely not for some time to come."

An ice-pick sunk into my heart at the notion. Another husband? I wanted to roar with anger.

I didn't; I tried to remain calm. It wasn't working, and she noticed. "Relax and breathe, sugar. Be patient with me, please."

I took a deep breath and nodded.

Mom said, "As I was saying, not for some time. Years perhaps. But can't you see that one day down the road it could happen? Can you accept that? I mean, would you rather me grow old--alone and forlorn--with no helper or partner or, yes, lover? Would you do that to me?"

I shook my head.

"Thank you, sugar. And remember," Mom added, "this may work both ways. You're going to meet young ladies at college this fall. This summer, perhaps. How do you imagine I will feel, knowing some cute young doll of a girl has my son's affections and desires when they were once mine?"

The thought was embarrassing in a strangely gratifying way. I may have turned a bit pink. I cleared my throat, saying, "I can be a gentleman about it, Mom. The jealousy, I mean."

She smiled, "And I will be a proper lady."

Her words sparked a memory and a question. I wanted to know the answer. Not sure what her reply might actually mean to me, I spoke. "Mom, is it alright if I ask you one last question about--about the things we did?"

She hesitated.

"Not--not to change your mind. Or mine. I know it's all over. It's just something I need to know."

She nodded. "Alright. Ask it, sugar."

It was not easy to begin. I faltered before finally speaking. "When I put my penis in your fanny, had you ever done that before?"

Mom's mouth fell open. She didn't make a sound; she blushed. Adjusting her robe, she finally responded by shaking her head.

"Never?"

"No."

"Did you--did any part of you--? Did you like it--sexually?"

She stared into my eyes for several seconds before she replied, "You are supposed to be acting like a gentleman, and I as a lady. Is that question very gentlemanly? And I think you know my feelings on what is and isn't ladylike. No, I did not."

I had been leaning slightly forward. Her answer made me sit against the back of her chair. "Okay," I said.

I left her room, wondering why I had needed answers to those questions. Like several times over the past few days, I couldn't help but feel like I was operating on instinct. My guts understood things that my mind couldn't express.

***

Mom recovered well enough. Her skin cleared up, and she spent time out in the sun regaining her tan. The June photoshoot for Bonny Blue went off without any challenges.

Alone one day, I found myself browsing through old copies of Bonny Blue--something I thought I'd never done before. I scrutinized Mom's body, looking for things that triggered memories, looking for connections to my experiences with her. Then, a buried memory arose. Excitement and shame intermixed before I cast the memory and the magazine down.

Both of us stuck to the plan; we didn't mate again. Despite the cravings of my body, I saw the merits of her decision. By the time I was readying to head off to college, I began to feel like it had all along been my decision, too.

Gary found us on the day before we left for Memphis to drop me off at school. There was no secrecy to it. On a Saturday morning, we heard the crunch of a car on our gravel driveway. I looked and saw Gary's white truck. I told Mom it was him.

"Watch him," Mom commanded, dashing upstairs.

Peeking through the blinds, I saw the son-of-a-you-know-what climb out of his truck. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and took the sidewalk to our front door.

Mom raced past me, carrying something. I heard her open the front door. Following, I watched from behind as Gary abruptly stopped and Mom racked a shell in the chamber of a shotgun I didn't even know she owned.

"Not one step closer, Gary," she flatly stated.

"Maureen," he said, "now don't--just take it real easy."

"State your business."

"I'm a changed man, see?"

I walked up behind Mom. Gary saw me and said, "Hey, kid. Congrats on your graduation."

I didn't react or reply.

Gary nodded. "Anyways, I'm a changed man. Haven't had a drop of liquor in a month. Got all my affairs fixed up proper, and I been seeing a--seeing a professional about my temper and all."

"Good for you. That it?"

"Maureen, we was man and wife married. This how you're going to treat me?"

"Nothing more," she replied, "than you deserve."

He nodded, rubbing his jaw and kicking the gravel. "I hear you. You're right, and I'm sorry. But, I'm changed, see?"

"You already told me so."

Gary shrugged and shook his head. "Won't you just let me come in? Can't we sit down and talk for a few minutes like grown-ups?"

"No, and this is private property, and I'm about done talking."

"You still look beautiful," he offered.

Mom didn't respond.

"I want you back, Maureen. I want to treat you right this time--take care of you."

"We're done and you're done," Mom said. Turning to me and loud enough for Gary to hear, she said, "Sugar, call the sheriff. Let him know we've got a trespasser. Go on."

I pulled my phone from my pocket and punched in nine-one-one, but I waited to send it.

"Don't be like this, girl," Gary said. "I still love you."

"Call it," Mom said.

I hit send and drew the phone to my ear.

Gary turned and walked back to his truck. Opening the door, he stopped and hollered, "You need me, Maureen. Think about it. Think hard. I'm a changed man." Then, he climbed into his truck and drove off, kicking gravel out the back of his tires as he left in a hurry.

I told the operator we had a trespasser, but that he'd left.

Mom was visibly shaken by the encounter. She talked about moving again. She wondered about me canceling my university plans and taking classes at a local community college in St. Louis. The longer she talked, however, the more she convinced herself otherwise.

"We scared him off, didn't we?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"And if he's in town and comes back tomorrow, we'll be gone."

"Right."

"And I won't be back until Tuesday. That should be enough time to make him give up and go back to Nashville, shouldn't it?"

I shrugged.

"Maybe, I'll change my hotel reservations," Mom suggested, "and add a few days."

"Couldn't hurt."

"That's what I'll do," she decided.

***

College was a great time. I liked being responsible for myself. I did well in my first semester of classes and met plenty of girls.

I surprised myself by joining the University of Memphis Rugby Club--it was not an official team, but we had a small budget for gear, and we played other colleges. What I liked about it was the commitment. These fellas were not kidding around. Having a friend on the school's football team, I knew our practices and workouts were comparable in intensity and duration.