I still remember that first time I fucked my mother quite fondly.
I got home a little after midnight, frustrated, carrying a heavy load of blue balls in my jeans. My date, my third date actually, with Bonnie, my current love interest had gone as planned. The movie was forgettable and my arm was still a bit achy from having it across the back of her seat for a couple of hours when we cruised for a half hour before making it to that deserted stretch of road where a line of cars marked the local "Lovers' Lane."
We necked and kissed. I got her blouse open and bra up so I could play with her tits, tiny little teacup titties that I found cute and so different from my usual interest in girls with big boobs. We even played stinkfinger for a while but when I started tugging at her panties she stopped me. No amount of my pleading could release her death grip on those damn panties so, in a bit of a huff I suppose, I drove her home, deposited her a bit earlier than usual, kissed her a quick, almost chaste good night, and headed home.
So I got home, walking in that way I suppose every college freshman with a functioning Y chromosome has done, my balls swollen and an ache deep in my belly that I associated with a prostate gland that was overstimulated.
Mom's car was in the driveway, surprising me. It was Friday night, after all, and Mom rarely made it home on Friday nights. She was young, I had come along when she was only 17 so she was 35, single, and good-looking. She usually had a date and rarely got home before Saturday morning.
But there was her car so when I walked in I called out, doing my best Wally Cleaver imitation, "Hi Mom, I'm home."
I didn't get a reply but didn't think much about it. I figured she was asleep or, more properly I suppose, passed out. So I went through to the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator.
Mom was a vodka drinker, either straight from the bottle or as a screwdriver, but she always kept beer in the refrigerator for me. It was a taste I had acquired young, back when my cousin, recently separated from the Navy, lived with us for a couple of years.
I popped the can open, always enjoying that little "pop/whoosh" sound, and took a big pull. Then I turned on the TV and grinned as professional wrestling came on. Yeah, yeah, I know it's fake, but come on. To do that stuff and NOT kill each other shows athleticism far beyond anything I ever achieved.
So I watched as Hulk Hogan, a good guy for now I was happy to note, I had always been a fan, did his signature leg drop on somebody, I can't say I remember who. Another couple of matches were equally forgettable. I guess I just wasn't into it.
I finished my beer and then went into the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth before I headed to bed.
And there was Mom, on her knees, her cheek against the porcelain of the toilet bowl, her slacks and panties around her knees, her bare ass and pussy on display. She was snoring softly and drooling a little.
It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out what had happened. She got home, alone, her car miraculously unwrecked for the bazillionth time, and came into the bathroom to pee but then got sick, too much alcohol consumed too quickly I would have bet my next month's pay from my part-time gig at the local mechanic's shop. And then she passed out.
The results of her being sick still floated in the toilet bowl and were joined by the matted end of her hair.
"Well, shit," I breathed.
It wasn't my first rodeo. When you're raised by a drunk, scenes like this are, well, not common but not uncommon either (Sorry, Mrs. O'Neil, my seventh-grade grammar teacher, but sometimes the double negative is the BEST way to express things in English).
I started at her shoes. She's a bit of a clothes horse and favored three- and sometimes four-inch pumps. These were bright red with three-inch heels that could have stabbed someone quite effectively. She had knee-high nylons on and I peeled them off too.
I flushed the toilet and between the noise and that spatter you always get, she stirred.
"Come on, Sluterella," I said, chuckling and helping her to move into a more-or-less sitting position, "let's get you cleaned up."
Suddenly her eyes got big and she rolled forward, hanging onto the bowl and throwing up noisily.
And my dick, the hair-triggered thing that any human with a Y chromosome and 18 years on his clock will recognize, got hard looking at her on all fours like that, her full plump labia with their heavy cover of black pubic hair were on display between her thighs as she retched and vomited and they peeked out and retreated with the movement of her body.
I had a moment of self-loathing but didn't look away. Instead, I pulled her hair out of the way and began rubbing her back gently.
I can't say I thought it was, you know, "sexy," but I did think it was terribly erotic, the way her body strained as her stomach emptied. Then she was down to dry heaves, nothing but thick, clear, bitter-smelling bile and saliva hanging in thick strings from her lips as her body kept retching.
By then I was so goddam hard all I could think of was how I wanted to fuck her. Hell, looking at the way her mouth was running, I wanted to kiss her. Okay, I was probably a little crazy right then, but it had been a frustrating night.
"Okay," I said when she finally wound down, "Let's try again."
When she leaned back those thick strings of whatever hanging from her mouth swung down to wet the front of her blouse.
It felt slimy and hot as I started on her buttons, and even that added to the weird eroticism of what I was doing. I unbuttoned the buttons, one at a time, and damn if I didn't get even harder.
My mother is pretty heavy-chested. Not, you know, one of those weird macromastia gals you can find on the porn sites with their 56KK bras and shit like that. But Mom's bras were a legitimate 38D and the cleavage I exposed was pale, her breasts covered with a light tracery of blue veins forming a little roadmap to her areolas and nipples.
Of course the blouse had buttons on the sleeves, and the buttons were slick from the way she had wiped at her mouth while she was being sick. I had to concentrate and work to get them unbuttoned. But I persevered, as any healthy 18-year-old would in that situation, and managed to get the blouse off of her. The bra was easier. It wasn't slick and I had some experience with the wire hooks of a woman's bra. I reached around her and unhooked the bra, dropping it to join the rest of her sodden clothes.
I stood then, smiling, taking her in, naked on her knees on the bathroom floor.
"You're beautiful," I said, and on some level I meant it. Even with the residue of the pukefest on her, dammit, she looked good.
I kicked off my shoes, peeled off my socks, peeled off my T-shirt, and unbuttoned, unzipped, and pushed down my jeans. I left my shorts on, tidy whities if you care. I never got into boxers.
I stepped to the tub, pulled the shower curtain closed, turned on the water, full hot, and pulled the diverter to get the shower going.
When I turned to her, intending to help her up, she was reaching for me in that sort of vague, waving way of the truly drunk. Finally, she managed to get her hands on the waistband of my shorts and started to tug them down.
"You can't shower dressed," she said although to write it properly it would be more like, "Ya cand showuh dreshed." She was slurring her words badly.
"Ohhhhhhh," she said, giggling, when the elastic of the waistband caught, pulling my erection down and then allowing it to jump back to full attention when the waistband cleared the end.
I froze. I suppose that in later years I could have come up with a quip to ease the sudden tension but, well, I was just one year out of high school. I might have been bright, but I was inexperienced.
She reached up, slowly. It was like she was mesmerized or something the way her eyes were locked on my throbbing cock.
I was frozen. I couldn't breathe. I stood, unmoving, throbbing, watching.
She touched it. Just a touch. Right at the
frenular delta
, the little triangle at the bottom of my
