Her head languidly rose from the pillow. With her eyes shut and head tilted back, she muttered, “Oh, sugar, I’m sorry, but that feels–so much better.”
Hearing those words, I drew back my left hand, leaving my finger inside of her and feeling the two perfect globes hug the rest of my right hand. I tugged the waistband of my shorts down to my hips. Then, snaking my hand inside, I drew my erection free and instantly began stroking it.
My body responded immediately, rewarding each tug of the shaft with dizzying waves of pleasure.
Mom moaned again. The sound electrified me. I quit stroking, suddenly alarmed that a climax was unstoppably imminent. It was a horrifying prospect. My semen would splatter her bottom. She would find out. She would be furious.
Pinching my eyes shut, I grimaced and thought, “No. No. No!” Any further sensual utterance from her, I knew, would send jets of sperm rushing from me. Flexing my penis with my entire core, I felt the raging torrent of my climax slowly, achingly diminish until I once more had control. I silently let out the breath I had been damming up.
No more masturbating, I told myself. Not now.
Then, I caught a glimpse of the head of my erection. A dollop of semen was there at the slit. I quickly swiped it off with a finger. About to rub it off on my gym shorts, I stopped.
I returned my attention to Mom’s anus and gently drew my middle finger out of it. Quickly, I transferred the bead of sperm onto that same finger. Then, grasping one meaty half, I softly massaged her bottom. Heart thudding, I gently urged my semen-tipped middle finger back inside of her until I felt the passage of the first knuckle.
Mom snuggled into the pillow and sighed.
My semen, I told myself, is inside Mom. Inside it. I knew I should have felt disgraced and ashamed at what I’d done, but I was feverish with excitement. I rocked the knuckle back and forth through the taut muscle a few times, and then I drew the finger out completely. The sperm was gone, all of it.
Then, I noticed something. Her muscle didn’t briskly cinch closed. It throbbed for a moment–a little half-inch yawning hole. Then, a moment later, it closed tightly.
Mom opened her mouth to speak, but when she felt my finger dip into her again, no words came out, only a gasp. Her eyes pinched shut.
“Almost done,” I said.
She nodded.
I drew the finger out again. This time, I put it back inside while her little star remained open. Back and forth, I went, feeding my finger into her anus to the first knuckle, and then taking it back.
I moved my body backward and bent down to watch it closely. With my face just a few inches above the action, I drew my finger free and watched.
I watched it throb open and pinch closed.
I fed the knuckle inside once more, and when I drew it out, a madness overcame me. Without thinking, I maneuvered a dollop of saliva behind my lips and gently pushed it free. It fell into the darkness, and I watched Mom’s anus seal tightly shut, securing the deposit inside of her.
I drew back, stupefied by my own incautiousness. Could she feel that? Did she know? I asked myself with sudden alarm.
My eyes went to her face. She was looking back at me.
Oh, no. How, I wondered, does one have that conversation? How does a son explain to his mother that, yes, he did spit inside of her anus? Why had I done that? Why had I liked it?
My body remained bent at the waist, so there was little chance she could see my erection. Still, I closed my eyes, waiting for her to chastise me.
“Are you finished?” she asked gently.
I opened my eyes. She looked relaxed and appreciative.
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah.”
“That was so helpful. I’d hug you if I could.”
I crawled off of her.
She rubbed my back and told me that she knew it was a sacrifice, but that it was very soothing. She finished, saying, “I suppose I should be grateful to have such a ‘cute’–.”
She quit speaking. I turned toward her.
Her smile had vanished. Her eyes were on my crotch; my erection was visible through my shorts. A wet spot lay where the tip stretched the cotton fabric to its limit.
Like lightning, I covered myself, but I knew it was too late. I sighed in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Mom. It just–.”
“Sugar?”
“–just happened. I didn’t–.”
“Sugar?”
“–mean to. I–.”
“Raymond Joseph.”
I closed my mouth when she said my name.
Having my full attention, Mom gently said, “We won’t discuss it other than to say that I understand. These things can happen. I’ll consider it a kind of compliment, and I won’t mention it again.”
I nodded, amazed and wondering if the whiskey or the massage had momentarily relaxed mom’s strait-laced policies about sexuality.
“Will you fetch my drink and let me finish it?” she asked.
Curling at the waist to hide my shame, I brought the tumbler to her. She drew out the remainder with a slurp. “Okay,” she sighed. “Let’s get some sleep. I feel much better, so thank you.”
I rose and went to the light.
Casually, Mom said, “Before you go, toss me the sheet and turn the ceiling fan on low.”
Still covering myself and somewhat bent over, I took the sheet with one hand and tossed it over her body.
“Perfect,” she said.
Then, I went to the fan. The chain was a bit too high for me. Behind her, I quit covering my erection, got on my tippy toes, and reached up. Grasping the string, I pulled three times to set her fan to its slowest pace. When I let go, I heard movement. Glancing at Mom, I saw her shift her body away from me and settle into her pillow.
Ten minutes later, I opened my eyes in the darkness of my bedroom. I whispered to the night air, asking, “Was Mom sneaking a peek at my erection when I turned on the fan?”
The question kept me up, as did memories of the things I had done to her bottom.
***
Even though Mom told me she would never mention my erection again, I still felt the need to do some kind of penance. So, when I woke at half-past seven, I went downstairs to the kitchen and tried to make her a hearty breakfast.
Scrambled eggs were easy. When I finished, I kept them on the warmer in the oven. Bacon was trickier–she liked hers just short of crunchy, but still crispy. I tended it on the frying pan very closely, pulling the slices off to rest and dry in intervals that I hoped would yield a few perfect ones. Then, I made pancakes from a mix.
When all was finished, I made her a plate, along with a fresh glass of iced tea, and brought it to her. My knocking woke her, and after a few seconds, she groggily told me I could come in.
Seeing me enter with a small platter, she looked at it curiously. Then, she smelled it and grinned. “Is that for me?”
I nodded. “If you can scoot closer to the edge, I’ll put the tray up there and your glass here where you can reach them both–if you’re willing to eat on your stomach and elbows, that is.”
“I think I can do that,” she said. “Oh, that smells just heavenly!”
Mom crawled to the side, but the tray couldn’t quite fit. “What if,” she asked, “I laid sideways across the bed?”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, that’s even better.”
I helped swing her legs around. She crawled a bit and tugged the sheet so that she would remain covered. Finally settled, I put down the tray. Mom propped up on her elbows and dug in.